Improbable Eden (18 page)

He sat in silence for a moment, his eyes wandering toward the Royal Exchange, then he straightened abruptly, one hand gripping his ale mug tightly. “I say, what's that?” He leaned across the table and spoke even more softly than usual. “Max, dear boy, would you consider beating a hasty retreat through the rear door of this tavern?”

Eden and Max both followed Godolphin's surreptitious gaze. A dozen uniformed soldiers with rifles at the ready were marching under the main archway. Casually, Max rearranged his torn shirt, took a drink of ale and spoke over the rim of his mug. “Eden, go see Jack as we planned. That is, if they'll let you in. Tell him about Fenwick. I'm sailing on the next tide.” Without apparent haste he got to his feet as the soldiers continued their precision step across the courtyard.

“
Max,” she breathed, feeling her heart turn to ice, “are you going to Brabant?”

He never heard the question. In a lightning move, he leaped high into the air and grabbed at the carved facade of the building's upper story. In another second he had gained enough leverage to haul himself over the balcony. The stunned soldiers halted on command while their leader boomed out an order for Max to halt. But it was too late. A glance upward revealed only a pair of giggling maids. Max was gone.

T
he day, which had begun with uncertainty, then righted itself with Max's invitation, had deteriorated into catastrophe. Sidney Godolphin accompanied Eden to the Tower, only to be rebuffed by a grim-faced guard, who asserted that fresh troubles in the city made it impossible for prisoners to receive visitors. Assuming that word of the scene at the Royal Exchange had already raced through London, Eden and Godolphin made their weary way home.

With a self-deprecating gesture, Godolphin bade her good-bye in front of the blue door in Clarges Street. Assuring Eden that he would do anything he could to help, the nobleman plodded off toward his house in Piccadilly.

Eden was faced with delivering the bad news to
Vrouw
de Koch and the others. The housekeeper, however, took the announcement of Max's departure with at least a hint of good grace.

“
And so? Is that one not always in some scrape or other?” she said with a huff, over an armful of comforters she was putting away for the summer. “Dueling with Count Rudolf! Those two never got along, not from the cradle! Mark my words, you heard it here!”

Eden was less inclined to dismiss the whole affair, however. While she sensed that
Vrouw
de Koch had spent much of her life watching Max come and go, Eden knew only one thing—Max had gone, but there was no assurance that he'd come back. Even though Eden didn't understand the subtleties of court politics, she recognized that Max was in serious trouble. That his dilemma somehow involved Sir John Fenwick, Count Rudolf, Milord Bentinck and the King was obvious; why he should be persecuted by the likes of his cousin and perhaps the Crown was considerably less clear. But then Eden didn't understand why her father had been subjected to such unfair treatment, either. All she really took in was that without Max, her life seemed suddenly empty.

Nor was she able to unravel the reasons for Max's predicament from
Vrouw
de Koch, who was admittedly mystified. Eden did, however, press the housekeeper about Max's wife. It was no longer possible to restrain her curiosity, and when
Vrouw
de Koch brought up a supper tray with plump chicken and feathery dumplings an hour later, Eden put her query bluntly:

“
What happened to Sophie Dorothea?”

Only the tightening of the housekeeper's jowls betrayed her surprise at the question. “Well, now,” she said, uncovering one of the silver dishes, “it's been a while, some four years.” She ran a hand over the starched white cap that covered her graying hair. “It's simple enough—she died in childbirth. So, alas, did the babe. Prince Max was inconsolable.”

“
That's her picture in the other bedroom, isn't it?” Seeing
Vrouw
de Koch nod, Eden continued quickly. “She was Rudolf's sister, I know that now. Max must have loved her very much.”

“
Oh, he did!” For a brief moment, the housekeeper's round face took on a nostalgic air. “She was so lovely, all pink and white and golden! Graceful as a gazelle, gracious as an empress, pious as a saint! In other words,” she added, sounding more like her usual brusque self, “as unlike her dreadful brother as humanly possible. Still, to give the devil his due, Rudolf was very fond of her, having helped raise her after their parents passed away. He carried on like a wounded bear when she died, and blamed Max for getting her with child. Unreasonable, but that's Count Rudolf, and his grief didn't keep him from trying to take back her dowry, which happened to include Vranes-sur-Ourthe, a pretty place in Brabant. Or at least it was, before everyone got to fighting over it.”

Eden sampled a chicken wing and wiped her fingers with a napkin. Strangely enough, she felt no jealousy toward Sophie Dorothea, only pity for the man she and her child had left behind. Max's tragedies far outweighed the snatches of happiness he'd known. Eden's greatest wish was that she might somehow have the chance to give him a future that would put the past to rest. Yet she knew that hope was impossible. “Then Vranes is the inheritance Max talks about?”

Vrouw
de Koch tipped her head to one side and helped herself to a slice of chicken breast. “Not precisely. Being second cousins, Max and Rudolf somehow got into a squabble over some property left by a great-grandfather. He was one of those German Electors—not Max's grandfather from Saxony, but Frederick of the Palatinate. The land's in Germany. Dillenburg, in fact. Max's grandfather inherited, but was lazy and left the governing up to his sister's husband, a Hohenstaufen who was Rudolf's grandfather. They shared the revenues, most agreeable on both sides, but the arrangement didn't suit Max's father, or Rudolf's, when their time came. They quarreled, there was litigation, the matter was settled in favor of Max's side of the family.”

“
That sounds fair, considering it had gone to Max's ancestor, not Rudolf's,” said Eden, hoping she'd kept the line of inheritance straight.

Vrouw
de Koch nodded, her lacy cap askew. “Everything seemed peaceful, especially after Sophie Dorothea married Max. But even before she died, Rudolf went to war over Vranes, her dower lands. Max didn't take the field—he stayed at Sophie Dorothea's side while she was bearing the babe.”

“
You mean he fought against Max?” Eden paused, a fluffy dumpling speared on her fork.

“
Not so much as he fought for King Louis, who had marched into Brabant.” She gestured at her heavy bosom with her thumb. “Who knows, maybe Rudolf thought he could cast his lot with Louis and get both Vranes
and
Dillenburg. But now the whole war is stalled, Dillenburg barely managed to escape Louis's rampage and Vranes dangles between the allies and the French. Or so I gather. This military intrigue is so much chess to me. I prefer cards.”

“
So do I,” murmured Eden, swallowing the dumpling and wishing she had more appetite. “Well,” she sighed, leaning back on the chaise longue, “at least Max has found love with Lady Harriet.” The glance she shot
Vrouw
de Koch was both anxious and probing.

“
Huh!” huffed the housekeeper, snatching up a chicken wing. “That's not love, that's enterprise! Poor Max, he's never stopped mourning Sophie Dorothea. Why, I'd hardly heard him laugh until ….” She stopped and stared at Eden. “You make him laugh, you know. That's good for him.” Abruptly, she wiped her mouth with a napkin and straightened her apron. “I must be off. Already there have been inquires about Prince Max, and no doubt more to come.” With that familiar listing posture, she bustled toward the door, then paused, her hand on the knob. “Why,” she asked not so much of Eden but of the room, “are men so dense?” As Eden started to respond, the housekeeper wagged a finger. “Never mind,” she admonished, “you
didn't
hear it here!”

The routine must be kept, Eden told herself, for with Max gone and Sidney Godolphin admitting his helplessness, she remained her father's only hope. There was Keppel, of course, and it was possible that he would rally to their side. But so far there had been no word from him, nor was there news of Fenwick. He had apparently vanished somewhere in the vicinity of the Bank of England.

Forcing herself to meet the May morning, Eden was not entirely displeased to learn that Master Banks, her riding instructor, had come down with an unseasonable ague. He had, however, sent instructions through Elsa that Eden should take a brisk canter through Green Park so she would not lose what little skill—as well as confidence—she had thus far acquired.

Without enthusiasm, Eden put on a rust-colored brocade riding jacket over an amber sidesaddle skirt. Within twenty minutes, she and Elsa were walking their mounts through the park. Though her bay mare was so docile as to be almost inert, Eden's manner was timorous, her seat unsure. Elsa, however, rode easily, a skill acquired on her stepfather's farm. Naturally, she was eager to hear more of the momentous events of the past two days, from the King's levee to Max's flight. Eden tried to relay some of the highlights, but her efforts at sign language were hampered by her need to cling to the reins.

“
But the King's wig! It's so amusing!” insisted Elsa, laughing merrily. “Our William, he is not angry, only embarrassed.” She paused as Eden's mare came to a stop. “But Prince Max, that is not amusing. Count Rudolf is not a nice man, and he lies about many things.”

Eden was inclined to wax eloquent about Rudolf's perfidy, but the words would have been wasted. She had already cursed the Count over and over, blaming him for Max's hasty departure. The portrait of Max was being filled in, and Eden was both touched and dismayed by what she saw. Prince or not, his childhood had not been particularly happy, with his parents making rigorous demands and very likely not showering him with much affection. Indeed, she reflected, flicking the riding crop, his upbringing was not so different from her own. It was no wonder that he had fallen hopelessly in love with his pretty cousin, who no doubt returned his feelings with a fervor that was foreign to him. As a young bridegroom, he had his wife's property at Vranes and at least a claim to his inheritance from the Elector of the Palatinate. Max's life must have held the promise of order and security, with an heir on the way to cement the future.

And then Sophie Dorothea and the child had died. Max had suffered Rudolf's recriminations and fought his cousin's greed. War had come to the Low Countries, tainting Max's claim to Vranes and ravaging the land. It was no wonder that Max was moody and distant. What little love he'd known had been brutally snatched away. Nor, Eden supposed, was it so hard to understand why he'd consider marrying a woman like Harriet. At least she was wealthy. And her family influence would be a boon to a pauper prince, especially a foreigner.

But these perceptions didn't make it any easier for Eden to deal with her own emotions. In fact, Max's very vulnerability moved her, making her want to protect him from future hurt. And, Eden knew, life with Harriet would be full of hurt, for it would be devoid of love. Yet he was determined to marry the wretched woman, while Eden set her sights on the King. It was an impossible situation, made far worse by Max's absence.

Eden sighed again and shook her head, grateful that Elsa was riding a few yards in front of her and could not see the doleful expression on her face. Maybe Elsa was right. Maybe King William had actually been amused, but was unable to show it in front of the courtiers. Or was Eden fooling herself as she had when she was a child and had tried to believe that Charles II had not wanted to single her out in front of his courtiers on the road to Tunbridge Wells?

She was still meditating on the problem when she heard a coach rumbling behind them at a perilous speed. The conveyance was traveling far too fast for the leisurely roads in the park, and as Eden turned, she realized it wasn't going to slow down or swerve to avoid them. Knowing that Elsa couldn't hear the ominous thud of hooves or the menacing creak of wheels, Eden steeled herself and guided her horse straight into Elsa's mount. The startled animals reared, throwing both riders. Ignoring the pain, Eden frantically scrambled to the side of die road and was astonished when the black coach ground to a halt just ten feet away.

Staggering to her feet, Eden quickly surveyed Elsa, who was leaning against a gnarled tree, brushing off her clothes. Their horses had fled, and Eden swore softly under her breath.
Heer
Van de Weghe would be displeased.

Just as Eden started toward Elsa, the door of the black coach opened and a plainly dressed man with a blunt face stepped down. He moved purposefully in Eden's direction. Keeping a wary eye on him, she bent to pick up her high-crowned hat but didn't put it on. His apology, she told herself, ought to be most abject.

But the first words out of his mouth were anything but penitent. “You don't belong here,” he growled in a guttural voice that might have been of foreign origin. “Go home, go back to Kent, or find yourself at the bottom of the Thames.”

Eden stood her ground, though the man was so close she could have counted the hairs growing out of the mole on his chin. Elsa cowered by the tree, obviously sensing the man's menace. From somewhere nearby, children's laughter could be heard, and church bells were chiming the noon hour.