The Princess Dilemma: A Victorian Royal Romance Read online

  No, this lady was likely a model of moral rectitude and no future playmate for him. Probably for the best.

  As he followed her through a tight corridor, he took closer stock of her gown, noticing a mildly frayed him and evidence of some recent dyeing, as there were a couple of darker splotches on the already dark skirt. Only the black sash looked new. Her family might be illustrious but poor. If so, they might be natural allies for a time.

  “Everyone is gathered in the queen’s sitting room, which was part of the King’s Apartments originally,” she said over her shoulder. “The queen rarely has time to see her mother or aunt now, what with affairs of state, so you are lucky to have this rare opportunity to see the family together.”

  “I am grateful for the opportunity to see my family.” He didn’t even mean it sarcastically. He missed his brothers, who were in Canada, serving in their regiment. But these Palace relatives were more natural enemies than allies.

  The lady half-turned toward him with an ironic lift of a wispy brow. “I am not convinced that any of them really see you as family.”

  He stiffened, all too conscious of the insult. “I am certain you do not mean to involve yourself in my family’s matters, madam.”

  She stared at him for a moment, long enough to see the unusual teak shade of her eyes were rimmed with a darker circle of ebony. “I am Her Majesty’s servant in all things.”

  He wasn’t sure what she meant by that, but she continued down the corridor, so he could do nothing but follow her. Eventually, they reached their destination, after passing through faded luxury, then newly refurbished rooms of great richness. Footmen opened the door to a comfortable, carpeted sitting room. Three ladies sat in a central arrangement of chairs, though others were in the room. Everyone was dressed in unrelieved black except a young King Charles spaniel. Even the dog was more black than white, however.

  The youngest woman in the room, a diminutive figure, patted the chair beside her. “Come, Dash.”

  The dog trotted to her and she picked him up just as she noticed Edward. He bowed as the lady-in-waiting made introductions.

  “Sister,” he said, less than gently reminding the new queen of their connection. “Please accept my condolences on the loss of our uncle.”

  She frowned openly at his greeting, but did nothing more than incline her head.

  He walked over to his aunt then. Smiling, the princess welcomed his kiss on her soft, wrinkled cheek. However, Victoria’s mother, the duchess of Kent, turned away with a sniff and muttered something to a sharp-nosed, thin lady-in-waiting. Politely, he greeted her in her native German. Her nostrils flared but she didn’t respond.

  “You must help us unravel these silks, darling Charlotte,” Victoria said. She patted the chair on her other side, much as she had when she wanted her dog. The young woman who had guided him to the apartments promptly moved to the young queen’s side.

  So, Charlotte was the lady-in-waiting’s name. He’d known a German girl named Charlotte once, during a summer in Aberdeenshire eleven years ago. She’d gone by Charlie. He’d thought he loved her. He frowned, no longer able to remember her face.

  “Come sit next to me, Edward, dear,” Princess Sophia said, patting the seat next to her. “My, you’ve grown so tall and handsome. I have not seen you since you were sixteen.”

  “That is when Linsee bought my commission,” Edward said, sitting next to her on the jewel-tone sofa. “I have not been to England since.”

  “Surely you came home on leave?” the princess asked.

  “No, never,” he said. “I never had the funds.”

  An audible sniff came from his sister.

  “Do you have a cold, ma’am?” Edward inquired.

  Victoria’s slightly protuberant eyes lit upon him for a moment before they turned back to Charlotte beside her.

  “Certainly not. My daughter is always well,” the duchess interjected. “Lady Amy, bring my daughter a handkerchief.”

  The lady-in-waiting standing behind her produced a black square of cloth and handed it to Victoria.

  Edward knew this wasn’t true, for he had heard rumors about how Sir John Conroy had attempted to bodily force Victoria to do his bidding when she was ill. That had been some time ago, and she certainly looked well now, with color in her cheeks and a sheen to her dark hair. No, she wasn’t pretty, but pleasant-looking enough.

  “How long are you in London?” Princess Sophia inquired. She frowned and squinted at her needlework.

  “I am not sure. I had intended to make my way to Linsee Castle, but by the time I arrived in London my mother had already died. Then, I received a curious box with evidence of my legitimacy.”

  “Your poor mother,” his aunt murmured.

  Victoria glanced up at that. “I have not been informed of this evidence,” she said, for the first time directly addressing her half-brother.

  He inclined his head. “I have written to you about it, but I am sure you have a backlog from here to Windsor of correspondence. I need to see the prime minister, if you would oblige me. I understand the awkwardness of the situation, but surely it can do no harm to have the papers examined and the matter settled.”

  “That will do, Colonel,” Victoria said, demonstrating an authority beyond her years. “I have no objection to you visiting Princess Sophia in her own quarters, as I cannot deny some facts of our relationship, but I have not asked you into mine.” She glanced in one direction, then the other. Edward guessed she was hoping for something to distract her, another appointment perhaps, or a footman with a note. She frowned in the direction of Lady Amy when nothing was produced.

  “Madam, if I was not asked here, I would not be here,” Edward said, “but I do not wish to make you uncomfortable.”

  Charlotte tensed her jaw and he wondered why she looked so fierce for a moment.

  Princess Sophia smiled at him in an unfocused way. “You have my late brother’s manly bearing, if not his features.”

  “He looks like a Scot,” said the duchess in her clipped German accent. It wasn’t clear to him if that was praise or insult.

  “I remember Linsee,” the princess said dreamily. “Handsome man. Full head of red curls in his youth. None of that for you, Edward?”

  “No, ma’am,” he said. “I inherited my father’s dark hair.” Indeed, his hair was exactly the same color as Victoria’s. “And his interest in the soldier’s life.” He thought that might intrigue Victoria, but she kept her eyes resolutely on her cross-stitch. Time to excuse himself, for he’d get nowhere with her that day. He pulled a packet of letters from his pocket and placed them on the table in front of her.

  That she noticed. “What is this?” she snapped.

  “Copies of my letters to officials,” he said. “Please help me resolve this as soon as possible. A word in the prime minister’s ear by you would have my affairs settled in days.”

  “How dare you.” The duchess’s voice was guttural. She set aside her own stitching. “You and your lies.”

  “You will not find our court the same as our uncle’s,” Victoria said, with another sniff. “This court will be free of the scandals of the previous eras.”

  “Madam, I am a prince and an officer in our army. I am not a scandal. I will have my say before the Privy Council, as befits my heritage.” He bowed to each of the ladies in turn then followed a footman out of the room, careful to keep his hands unclenched.

  The footman in front of him walked at an unhurried pace, which might have allowed Edward the chance to examine each of the priceless paintings they passed, the elegant curtains, the gilded furniture. But he saw none of it, intent on cataloguing what he’d learned of his sister, her household, and her intriguing lady-in-waiting.

  Princess Sophia could still be his way in. He wasn’t done there, though a scattered, fragile old woman was unlikely to be of much help. Did she have any friends in government? Then again, he wasn’t convinced his sister would receive him again.

  At the top of the ro
om stood a tall man with very full, dark sideburns, though his receding hairline and lined face indicated his age, perhaps fifty. The man frowned as Edward passed by. Suspecting the man was some kind of player in the courtiers’ game, Edward stopped and inclined his head.

  “Colonel Edward FitzPrince.”

  The man nodded. “Sir John Conroy, comptroller of her Royal Highness the Duchess of Kent’s household.”

  The name struck a chord in Edward’s memory. So this was the duchess’s lover. “You served my father.”

  The man’s finely arched brows lifted. “You must be Lady Margot’s son?”

  “The eldest, yes.”

  Conroy nodded thoughtfully. “Has Her Majesty been willing to see you?”

  “I just met her for the first time,” Edward replied, not willing to share any details until he knew more about the man. His face had an arrogant cast, but he could see the gentleman had once been a soldier.

  The man nodded again. “It is rare for her to find time for family during these difficult days. She is an arrogant creature, more controlled by the prime minister than she realizes.”

  Funny that Sir John used the word “arrogant.” Edward could agree that it fit both the lady and this gentleman.

  “Our dear Princess Sophia?” the man continued. “Did you find her well?”

  “Not especially, but considering her age I suppose she is well enough. I haven’t seen her in many years.”

  “I am her comptroller as well,” Sir John said. “A most generous woman and a good friend.”

  “I see.” Edward nodded. “Good day, Sir John.” He caught the footman’s eye and the man began to move at a snail’s pace again. Edward could feel Sir John’s eyes on him as they left the chamber.

  ~

  Charlotte excused herself from the room as soon as possible, afraid she would become ill. Her pale face must have persuaded Victoria to let her go, because she broke off complaining about her half-brother with a sudden squeal and told her she was excused.

  Once in the corridor, Charlotte found that she couldn’t walk straight. She had to trail her hand along on the wall to remain upright as she moved in a stupor toward her room. Once she had reached it, she collapsed onto her lumpy bed.

  When the room finally stopped spinning, she reached into nearby drawer and pulled out her Bible. The first page of the New Testament was marked by an old, yellowed piece of lace, all that remained of the dress she’d worn on that fateful summer day eleven years before. She lifted the lace to her lips.

  Edward FitzPrince had spent at least half an hour in her presence and he didn’t even recognize her face. His own wife.

  Chapter Two

  Edward took careful notes over the next few days, ruminating over what he had learned. No correspondence came from his half-sister, despite the letters he had given her. He had not expected any. Lack of response from the Privy Council was ultimately more troubling. He needed legal support, but could not afford it.

  By Friday, he knew he needed to act again. That morning he left his rooms, resolving to walk to the Palace. He’d begun to recognize some of the faces in the street where he had moved Quintin and himself, after realizing he would need to stay in London for a time. His rooms were above a tailor’s shop, and the location afforded him the opportunity to observe the activities in the area. On the stairs, he saw one of the apprentices and they exchanged nods. A baker’s wife, blond and buxom, fluttered her eyelashes at him as he crossed the street. His next-door neighbor’s maid-of-all-work stared at her shoes as she shuffled down the street with a basket tucked into her elbow. The shoemaker who lived a few doors down had a blackened eye. The man was known to have a taste for drink and a right hook that came into action at the pub when he had extra shillings.

  Edward had mostly stayed out of the action of the street. If he had the funds he’d have joined a gentlemen’s club, but he didn’t. Would Princess Sophia give him a loan? It sounded as if Sir John Conroy made free with her money, given that he termed her generous. He hated to be the kind of man who borrowed guineas from old ladies, but unless he appealed to his cousin Murdo, which he would prefer to avoid, he was out of funds.

  Could he learn as much about the inhabitants of Kensington Palace by observing and listening? He didn’t have an invitation today, but he thought he could at least walk the garden and see if he found any acquaintances. Only one came to mind, though—Charlotte of the golden hair and neat waist.

  About halfway through his journey he stopped off at a bookshop that was often staffed by Lemuel Bone, the owner’s son, a bored youth some eight or ten years younger than Edward. Not being able to afford books himself but enjoying seeing what was available, he’d eventually struck up an acquaintance on the lad, even buying him a beverage when he spotted him in the window of a local coffeehouse.

  Lemuel stood behind the counter of the bookshop, fingers stained by the fresh inks of a newssheet he held. The newspapers of the day were pinned on the wall behind him and the other three walls were covered by bookshelves full of books.

  “Colonel,” Lemuel greeted him. He picked up a strawberry tart from a dish and took a large bite. A drip of juice dropped onto the newspaper, smudging a photograph.

  “Hullo, Bone,” Edward said in his most affable manner.

  “Come to buy a paper?”

  Edward budgeted this as a necessary expense twice a week. “Not today. I had a question for you. Do any of the Members of the Privy Council come in here?”

  Lemuel took another enormous bite of tart. The fruit pulled away from the shortbread crust. The boy tossed the crust over his shoulder. Edward winced as it hit a fresh newspaper before plopping wetly into a waste barrel. “Why does the likes of you care?”

  “Likes of me?”

  “You haven’t got any money. Your clothes are out of date. You talk like a Scotsman, or nearly so.”

  Edward didn’t know if he wanted to storm out of the shop or grab the boy by his dandified collar and shake him. Dismissing violence, he chose honesty. “I haven’t been in London for eleven years. I’m going to be out of date.”

  “You have a lot to learn,” the boy said, picking up another tart. Drips of juice fell onto a copy of The Spectator, smudging an advertisement for the serialized story “Oliver Twist,” a new episode of which was appearing in Bentley’s Miscellany today.

  Edward wished he could buy the newspaper, just to get it away from the boy’s mismanagement. Or a copy of Bentley’s Miscellany so he could read the new novel, though he hadn’t yet caught up with Boz’s “Pickwick Papers.” Reading was the only pastime that relaxed him. “Look, just tell me what you know.”

  The boy sniffed as an unshaved gentleman with worn-down-at-the-heel boots came in just then and bought a copy of the magazine Edward coveted.

  “What?” Edward persisted after the man left.

  “Wife left him last week for a butcher,” Lemuel said with a smirk.

  Edward shrugged. He wanted governmental gossip, not bookshop gossip. “Privy Council, Lemuel?”

  The younger man pushed his plate of tarts aside. “Who do you want specifically?”

  “I need someone ambitious, with time to listen to me.”

  Lemuel shrugged. “I’ll think about it.”

  “How about royals? Ever see any of them?”

  “I’ve seen Prince George about. We don’t want him marrying the queen, right?”

  Edward shook his head. “I don’t know anything about him.”

  “His father’s a blackguard, right? Killed his servant?”

  “I think it’s been disproven, but the story never seems to die.”

  “If you get in with them government gentlemen, you’ll keep me informed, right? About the royal marriage?”

  “What will you do for me in return?”

  “I’ll let you know what I learn about anyone you may be interested in.”

  Edward nodded. The boy held out his hand, his fingers wet and stained. Edward sighed and took it. The conversation h
ad an air of seriousness, for all its idiocy.

  The truth was, palace and government intrigue was ever such, and he, Edward FitzPrince, wanted to be a player in the game.

  Since King William had made Kensington Palace Gardens almost a public park during his reign, Edward had no difficulty accessing the grounds once he had finished talking to Lemuel. He would have liked nothing better than to sit under a shady chestnut tree, perhaps reading the first episode of “Oliver Twist,” but he would have to content himself when he returned to his rooms with rereading the hilarious second episode of “Pickwick,” wherein the explorers are caught in a grand military review and are shot at by weapons that turn out to be loaded with blanks.

  That was the life he understood, and again, he wondered why his grandfather had trained him as a military man instead of a political one. Why hadn’t the man been ambitious enough to fight for the throne for his daughter’s sons? Could “A Friend” be his grandfather’s agent, told to act only if Edward ever returned to England?

  He strolled down the shady lanes of the gardens, making eye contact with as many people as possible. He’d dressed in his best civilian clothes, mindful that he would be as watched as anyone else. Notwithstanding Lemuel’s abuse, he thought he looked well enough. His coat might not be as tightly cinched at the waist as many of the fashionable men on the streets, but his shoulders were as broad as the current coat fashion warranted. He wore a dark cravat and light trousers, as many did. Perhaps his waistcoat was the wrong shade of blue for London? The cloth was good and his black silk top hat was new. His brothers had pooled their funds to buy him a sparse new wardrobe. Edward knew his brother Spencer had won most of his contribution playing cards. He suspected James had charmed his guineas out of a fortyish widow who was smitten with him.