A Curious Beginning (26 page)

“We can speak with this one.”

“You know a barrister? Why in the name of heaven have we been doing this on our own without professional guidance, then?”

“Because I swore to myself I would never speak to him again on this earth.”

“And yet you believe he will help us in a matter as grave as this one?”

“He will.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“He is my brother.”

•   •   •

We arrived at length at Inns of Court and the professional quarters of Sir Rupert Templeton-Vane. Stoker strode in past the protesting clerks and entered his brother's private office without knocking. The gentleman behind the desk must have been surprised, but he recovered swiftly, and as he rose to his full height, I detected a resemblance. There was something alike in the graceful bones of their faces, but Sir Rupert was a muted copy. Where Stoker was a portrait in oils, his brother was a watercolor, with auburn hair and hazel eyes to Stoker's black locks and dark blue eyes. Sir Rupert's complexion was warmer, lacking the Celtic pallor of Stoker's skin, but their expressions were similar, and I thought as I looked at Sir Rupert there was a cool ruthlessness about his mouth that might make him an implacable enemy if one was foolish enough to earn his enmity.

“Revelstoke,” he said, greeting his brother calmly. “But I believe you prefer Stoker, do you not?”

“I see you have been knighted,” Stoker returned. “That must have made his lordship proud.”

Sir Rupert gave him a thin smile.

“Well, I know only the direst of circumstances would prompt you to call upon me, and therefore I must assume that you require my help. Given our last parting, I can further assume you would only do so if the matter were one of life and death.”

“Your last parting?” I asked Stoker.

“I broke his nose,” he explained with characteristic brevity.

Sir Rupert touched that appendage lightly. “It never healed quite as it was. I saw the best doctors in Harley Street, but there is still a very slight bump. Can you see it?” he asked me, turning his face in profile.

“It lends character to an already handsome face,” I told him truthfully.

“How very kind of you. Stoker, are you going to present your companion so I can greet her properly? Or have you come to inform me that I am a brother-in-law again? In which case I can assure you she is a distinct improvement upon the last.”

I could feel Stoker fairly vibrating with rage at his brother's cool detachment. The fellow was playing with him, no doubt taking great pleasure in poking the lion, but I was in no mood for such childish sibling tricks.

“Sir Rupert, I am Veronica Speedwell, and I am not your brother's wife. In fact, I am not entirely certain of who I am.”

The elegant brows rose again. “Miss Speedwell, you intrigue me. Tell me more.”

I looked pointedly at the chairs in front of his desk and his color heightened. “Forgive me. I have been monstrously discourteous. Please, make yourself comfortable, Miss Speedwell, and I will ring for tea. Stoker, sit down. I never did like your trick of looming over me.”

We did as he instructed and in a very few minutes a clerk appeared with a tray of excellent French porcelain and elegant little confections. “I have a weakness for the pastry chef's art,” he admitted to me as he passed a plate of the tiny cakes. I held up a hand.

“Thank you, but no.”

“For Christ's sake, Rip, we did not come here for a tea party. We need help.”

Sir Rupert's nostrils flared delicately. “I never liked that name, and you know it. And there is no reason to dispense with civilities just because you find yourself in a spot of bother.”

“A spot of bother—do you hear the man?” Stoker demanded of me, thrusting his hands into his hair.

“Well, to be fair, we haven't explained ourselves yet,” I pointed out. I held a hand out for the papers. Stoker surrendered them, and I let them rest on the edge of the desk for a moment, just out of Sir Rupert's reach.

“First, I need your word, as a gentleman, a Christian, a professional—whatever you care to swear upon, whatever you hold dear. I need your word that what we show you today will never leave the confines of this office. You will never speak of it, never write of it, never send a message by smoke signal or semaphore flag or any other means to any person of what we are about to tell you.”

Sir Rupert's lightly arch manner dropped away and he leaned forward in his chair. “My dear Miss Speedwell,” he said, in a perfectly earnest voice, “my brother and I may have a relationship that is slightly less cordial than that of Cain and Abel, but I give you my word that I have never betrayed a confidence entrusted to me, and I shall not begin with yours. I swear to this upon everything I hold sacred, and the one thing that Stoker does—our mother's grave.”

I looked to Stoker and his expression was unfathomable. “Show him,” he said, his voice suddenly rough.

“Sir Rupert, I will preface this by explaining that I am an orphan, or so I believed.” I sketched briefly for him my upbringing by the Harbottle sisters and the discovery that I was the daughter of the actress Lily Ashbourne. I related the few facts we knew regarding her lover's marriage and her subsequent death.

I paused then, not entirely certain of how to proceed. “But Stoker and I have also come into possession of documents which reveal my father's identity.”

Without another word I handed them over. He skimmed them quickly with a practiced and professional gaze, one hand cradling his cup of tea. When he came to the marriage certificate, he dropped the cup with an almighty crash and jumped to his feet.

“Do you have any idea what this means?” he demanded. He turned swiftly to Stoker. “I knew you hated me, but I thought even you would balk at attempting to destroy my career.”

Stoker held up a hand. “Quiet or the clerks will hear you.”

“Quiet! You expect me to be quiet when you have just unleashed seven devils upon me?”

“Sir Rupert,” I said softly. “Please, calm yourself. No one ever need know that you advised us. I will promise that to you, and Stoker will as well. Stoker?” I nudged.

He waited, longer than I would have liked, but eventually he gave a curt nod. “I promise.”

Somewhat mollified, Sir Rupert picked up the papers. “I cannot believe this,” he breathed, looking at them as if they were holy relics. “The Prince of Wales, married to an actress and father of a child. A
legitimate
child.”

“Yes,” I said, attempting to draw him back to the present. “You have struck directly at the heart of the matter. That is the question for which we require an answer. Am I legitimate?”

He considered, furrowing his brow for a long moment. Then he rose and went to his books, selecting a weighty volume bound in dark calf. He applied himself to this book, and seven others, reading with his brows knit firmly together as we drank our tea and finished off the cakes. Finally, he sat back and made his pronouncement.

“I do not know,” he admitted.

Stoker glowered. “Dammit, Rupert, the one time I come to you—”

His brother held up a hand. “I am not attempting to be obstructionist, I assure you. The trouble is that there are complicated precedents.” He turned to me. “In the first place, the Royal Marriages Act of 1772 outlaws any marriage of a member of the royal family to which the sovereign has not given specific consent. Since Her Majesty most certainly did not consent to this marriage, it is null and void. Furthermore, the priest who conducted it and Miss Ashbourne both committed serious crimes in attempting it.”

I felt suddenly buoyant, light as air, almost dizzy with relief. “It is finished, then.”

Sir Rupert held up a hand. “Not quite so fast, Miss Speedwell. I am afraid there is an additional complication. The Act of Settlement in 1701 prohibits any person in the line of succession from marrying a Roman Catholic.”

“Yet another reason why my parents' marriage was invalid. Surely that is good news,” I pointed out.

“So one might think. But Miss Ashbourne was Roman Catholic and married in the Catholic Church by a priest of good standing. Her marriage would not have been recognized by the Church of England or the law of the land, but it
would
have been valid in the eyes of the Catholic Church.”

“But surely that does not matter,” I protested.

“Oh, but I am afraid it very much does,” he countered. “When King George IV was Prince Regent, he married Maria Fitzherbert, a Roman Catholic, in her church's rites. The pope himself declared the marriage valid.”

“But that was decades ago and it created no trouble.”

“Yes, because Mrs. Fitzherbert did not press the issue, nor did she present the prince with a child. There was no rival claimant for the throne and no succession crisis ensued. This,” he said with a jab of his finger to my papers, “is a cat of a very different color.”

I gave a short, mirthless laugh. “You do not know me, Sir Rupert, but I beg you will believe I have no interest in pressing a claim to the English throne.”

“It is not about what you would press, Miss Speedwell,” he said gently. “It is about what you would represent. In the eyes of any Catholic, you would be their rightful heiress. The Prince of Wales has married bigamously in their interpretation. His children by Princess Alexandra are, canonically, bastards and unable to succeed. That leaves you as the only legitimate child of the heir to the throne in the hearts of every Catholic subject in Her Majesty's empire. It is enough to start a revolution—in one place in particular,” he said meaningfully.

“Ireland,” Stoker supplied. “And her mother was Irish. Christ and his apostles,” he swore. “The separatists could not have asked for a prettier gift—a legitimately born Catholic alternative to the British royal family—and with Irish blood in her veins no less.”

Sir Rupert looked at me intently. “Miss Speedwell, whether you like it or not, these documents prove that you are, in fact, the most dangerous person in the British Empire.”

A
fter his pronouncement, Sir Rupert collapsed back into his chair. We sat in bewildered silence for a long moment before he swore—something more profane than I had ever heard issue from Stoker's lips, although at least he followed his lapse with an apology—and retrieved a bottle from his desk. He poured a generous measure of excellent whiskey into crystal glasses and handed them to us, taking a double measure for himself.

He swallowed it down in a single go, and Stoker regarded him with something like cautious admiration. “Careful, there. The Templeton-Vane men have always done that a bit too easily.”

Sir Rupert wiped his mouth upon a pristine handkerchief and gave his younger brother a shake of the head. “No. It was Mother who liked a tipple. She could drink Father under the table.”

Stoker bridled. “She did not.”

“Of course she did. Kept the best of Father's single malt in a perfume bottle on her dressing table. She used to bribe the butler for it.”

Stoker stared at him openmouthed, and Sir Rupert gentled his tone. “There is a lot you have yet to learn about our family.”

“The Templeton-Vanes are the very last subject I would wish to discuss with you,” Stoker replied coldly.

Sir Rupert steepled his hands under his chin. “One of these days, you will put aside your childish resentments, Revelstoke. But in light of Miss Speedwell's current predicament, I think we ought to call a truce.”

Emotions warred upon Stoker's face, but his tone was as even as his brother's. “Agreed. From the information you have given us, it should be a simple matter to determine who is best served by removing the threat she represents.”

Sir Rupert nodded. “Indeed. First—”

Stoker rose. “Not you. Us,” he said, putting a hand underneath my elbow and encouraging me to my feet.

Sir Rupert rose with automatic courtesy. “But you cannot possibly do this alone!”

“We will and we must,” Stoker told him. “I am grateful to you, Rupert, really. You have been quite decent, and it is rather refreshing to take my leave of you without either one of us dripping blood upon the carpets. But this is as far as you can come.”

He glanced meaningfully at the photograph resting on a small easel on Sir Rupert's desk. It depicted a woman—sternly pretty with a small mouth and exquisite hands—and three little boys.

“You have a wife,” I said, suddenly understanding Stoker's reluctance to involve his brother further. “And children. You have already declared I am the most dangerous person in the Empire,” I told him with a lightness I did not feel. “I would not have that danger touch you or yours.”

I put out my hand. “Thank you for your assistance, Sir Rupert. I will not forget it. And if it is ever in my power to do you a service, you may be assured I shall.”

He clasped my hand slowly. “In that case, Godspeed, Miss Speedwell.” He gave me a ghost of a smile at the bit of wordplay and released my hand. The brothers did not touch but exchanged nods, and we made as if to leave. At the last moment, Stoker turned back, tossing the
Brief History
onto his brother's desk. “One last thing, old man. I stole that from Wibberley's, the little bookshop in Oxford Street. Oh, and there is a page gone missing. See that it is paid for, will you?”

Sir Rupert gave a short laugh, like the bark of a fox, and we left him then, emerging into Chancery Lane just as the street began to fill with solicitors and barristers and clerks, all bound for their luncheon tables.

Stoker took my arm. “Put down your veil. I don't like how crowded the street has become, and we must have a think.”

I drew the light silk veil over my features. “I have just the spot,” I told him. “Where no one would ever think to look for us.”

•   •   •

An hour later we were in the Tower of London listening to the Yeoman Warder's speech of welcome. We had paid our admission by cobbling together a few coins. Most had gone to fish and chips, fragrantly greasy and eaten straight from the newspaper, with Stoker complaining all the while that respectable ladies did not eat in the street.

“Since when do such trivialities concern you?” I demanded.

“They do not, but they will draw attention to you,” he reminded me. I shrugged and finished every delectable bite of my crispy cod.

“That was sublime,” I told him as we threw away the greasy newspapers and joined the queue to enter the Tower. I listened eagerly to the Yeoman Warder's patter, then quickly assessed our options. With Stoker hard upon my heels, I directed my steps to the squat bulk of St. Thomas's Tower. We emerged at the top to find clouds gathering and a cold river mist rising.

Stoker gave me a quizzical look. “What the devil are we doing here?”

“I have never been to the Tower of London,” I told him simply. “It might be my last chance.”

“Veronica—” he began, but I waved him off.

“I am not prey to martyrdom, Stoker. I have no intention of letting these ruffians abscond with me. But I would be a fool not to take advantage of the opportunity for new experiences, you must agree.”

He gave a gusty sigh. “Very well. But why
here
? It is bloody cold.”

“You have answered your own question. We are not likely to be followed or overheard, and I always find a brisk breeze clears my head. So we shall stand up here and let the wind buffet us while we work it out.”

He peered over the edge of the tower to the swirling green waters of the Thames.

“Traitors' Gate,” I observed. “Just think of all the Tudors who came this way to meet their fates—Anne Boleyn, Catherine Howard, the Countess of Salisbury, poor little Lady Jane Grey. Not a comforting thought.”

“Yes, well, royalty has a history of going to bloodthirsty lengths to retain its hold on power,” he commented dryly. He dropped his head. “Damn me for a fool. I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. You are not wrong. The history of our country is quite forthcoming on the fate of traitors and pretenders. Even unwilling ones,” I said, thinking of the sad little puppet Jane Grey. “But that was a different time. We live in a modern age, Stoker. And in a world with steamships and telegraphs and suspension bridges, I find it difficult to believe anyone would be put to death for the misfortune of having the wrong blood.”

“Are you willing to take that chance?” he asked.

“No.” I took one last shuddering glance at the padlocked gate and turned to Stoker. “So let us begin. Who would have motive to wish me harm?”

“The royal family,” he said promptly.

I considered, then shook my head. “I think not.”

“They have the most to lose if you make your claim,” he pointed out.

“But look at them—
really
look at them. What are they? They may be royal, but they have the values of middle-class Germans. They believe in God and duty and respectability. Granted, my father may have erred against that in his liaison with my mother, but consider what he did. When he believed himself in love for the first time, he did not simply seduce the girl.
He married her.
No one in the whole of the Empire could have known better than he what he was risking in doing so. But he did it. He may have regretted it afterward when he realized the enormity of it all, but he did not simply sin with her and damn the consequences. The Prince of Wales is a romantic.”

Stoker snorted. “Have you paid attention to the newspapers? Your princely father has seduced the wives of half the court. He has been named in divorce proceedings, Veronica. That is hardly the sort of thing one would expect from a romantic.”

“It is precisely the sort of thing I would expect,” I countered. “He thinks with his heart. He is in love with women and the idea of love. He believes himself chivalrous. He married Lily because it was wildly improbable, like something out of myth—or his own family history. Have you forgot Edward IV? He married a widowed nobody and made her Queen of England. No doubt the Prince of Wales thought he could do the same, and somehow, between marrying Lily and announcing his betrothal to Princess Alexandra, he changed his mind. But what?”

Stoker retrieved the page he had torn from the
Brief History
and scrutinized it for a long moment. “He changed his mind—or something changed it for him,” Stoker said slowly. “And I've just realized what it was. The date your parents married—it was the autumn of 1861. By the following year, he became engaged to Princess Alexandra. Do you remember what happened in December of 1861?” he asked, brandishing the page.

“Hardly,” I replied. “I was, you will recall, in utero at the time.”

“In December of 1861, Prince Albert died.”

I stared at him, comprehension turning to certainty as Stoker elaborated. “The Prince Consort fell ill after he visited the Prince of Wales at university. The royal court never addressed the rumors, but they walked together for hours in a chilling rain. What would drive a man of not terribly robust health to take his son for a private walk where no one could overhear them in killing weather?”

“A scandal about to break,” I finished breathlessly. “He had learned of the marriage.”

“Or at least heard something of their liaison. Enough to send him straight down to school to upbraid his son, even though they would have been together in just a few weeks for Christmas.”

“And what a burden that would be for an impressionable, romantic youth,” I went on. “Married in haste to an unsuitable woman, waiting for an opportunity to introduce her to his family and win their blessing, and then his beloved father, the bulwark of the entire family, is dead—because of him, because the shock of the news
killed
him.”

“That impressionable, romantic youth would be devastated,” Stoker said. “He would carry that guilt to the end of his days. And it would poison everything and everyone to do with that marriage.”

“Of course. He wouldn't have been able to bear to look at her after that.” I stopped and did a quick bit of arithmetic. “Lily would have been three months into her pregnancy with me. Surely the Prince of Wales knew about it. Perhaps he even planned to tell them at Christmas during the happy family gathering, brazening the thing out—‘I have wonderful news! I am married and she is expecting an heir!'—but then death comes for his father first, shattering everything. The queen is utterly devastated by grief, destroyed by it, withdrawing almost totally from society. The prince could never have told her then—it surely would have killed her. And he bears the burden of her blame for his father's death.”

“Meanwhile she has been planning his marriage to a beautiful Danish princess,” Stoker said, picking up the thread. “And what choice does he have but to acquiesce? He must agree to the betrothal to atone for killing his father.”

“And so he relinquishes his future with Lily and her child in order to do his duty as his mother, as England, would define it. He gives them up in order to expiate the sin of killing his own father. He breaks all ties with the woman he loves and his child and marries for reasons of state.”

Stoker rubbed his chin. “Plausible. I would go so far as to say probable. But that still does not tell us what his role has been in all of this. Or what your uncle's purpose in seeking you out has been.”

“That depends entirely on whether he knows the identity of Lily's husband,” I pointed out. “I suspect if we were to pry into Edmund de Clare's associates in Ireland we would find separatists among them. He comes from an old Catholic family. It is entirely logical that he would support Home Rule.”

“And men have done quite a lot in order to be the power behind the throne,” he said with a nod towards the surrounding towers. “These stones alone have seen their share of ruthless uncles.”

“Which would also account for why my uncle was so keen to remove you from the scene but without harming me,” I pointed out. “He would want me in good health.”

“With an eye to?”

“Abducting me to Ireland seems the likeliest,” I said finally. “Some Catholic stronghold where he can tuck me away and keep me under his thumb while he presents my claims.”

“Christ,” Stoker said with a grimace, “there are enough islands and hideaways, he could keep you hidden a hundred years or more and no one would find you. And in the meantime, he could be filling your head with tales of family and God and free Ireland.”

“And doubtless marrying me off to a suitable separatist fellow of his choosing,” I said with a shudder.

“You might have a point. If he marries you off and gets you breeding, he could do even more with your child than he could with you. He wouldn't even need you then,” he said in a sepulchral voice.

“If you are trying to frighten me, I assure you, my imagination is every bit as Gothic as yours. I can well imagine the poisoned tea or the slim dagger in the night and the claims that I succumbed to a fever while everyone rallies around my infant,” I said repressively. “But we can agree that dear uncle Edmund has no immediate designs upon my life.”

“But he would have had ample reason for wanting the baron dead,” Stoker pointed out. “De Clare would need more than you in his power—he would need the proofs of your claims. If Max refused to surrender them . . .” His voice trailed off and I gave a shudder. I hated to think that a man—a man I had liked and who had been kind to me—had been killed for me.

“But he is not the only possibility,” Stoker said with some relish. “There is another candidate just as likely.”

I stared at him in dawning comprehension.

“It cannot be Mornaday! He has come too often to our aid.”

Stoker shrugged. “So it seems. But has he been coming to our aid or merely thwarting your uncle's attempts to spirit you out of England? Think of it. Your uncle, aside from having his men lay unfriendly arms upon me, has shown only an inclination to talk to you. That you have refused him has driven him to increasingly more desperate actions—actions which have not harmed so much as a hair upon your head.”