Leopard in Exile (5 page)

The question is, how desperate will resentful men become? We must discover who our enemies are, and

what plans they entertain for our future. Spain is neutral now, but if she were to indicate that heretics such

as we English are meddling in the affairs of a Catholic nation, she would declare instantly for France, and

once she did, Portugal would join her, out of fear of the Beast if nothing else."

That much was true. Those countries not already under Napoleon's yoke performed a delicate balancing

act of check and countercheck upon one another. Pitt's Catholic Emancipation Act six years before had

been the price of peace with Ireland: nothing must be allowed to disrupt the fragile network of European

alliances, neither ancient feuds nor present grudges. Spain's defection would be nearly as great a disaster

as an Irish—or Colonial—revolt.

"Yet it is only a matter of time before Talleyrand gains something that will accomplish such a trick from

that same informant in our midst who caused Talleyrand to lead little Mr. Fox on with the negotiations for

a treaty he had no intention of making."

Though Wessex spoke of the matter so glibly, there were only three men in England who knew for a fact

that there was a traitor somewhere within the walls of the White Tower. Baron Misbourne had broached

the matter with Wessex over a year ago, but Wessex had already suspected the traitor's existence, and

more—that the turncoat had led his double life for more than twenty years.

When Wessex's father had voyaged to France to rescue the Dauphin, then a child of eight, Andrew,

Duke of Wessex, had vanished without a trace. And the only men who could have betrayed him were

those who had sent him—the White Tower itself.

And so, when Misbourne asked, Wessex had agreed to hunt Misbourne's traitor and his own, using any

means to do so. He had recruited St. Jean to help him because a domestic political—and one who had

not even been a member of the White Tower Group when Andrew, Duke of Wessex, had vanished

fifteen years before—could not possibly be their Judas.

"You have not told me all you came to say," Wessex observed. What he and St Jean had retailed so far

was no more than he already knew—not reason enough for St. Jean's visit, especially today.

"I have heard, from sources outside the Tower that under cover of this wedding, one of the Black Pope's

spy-masters is to come to London to meet with his agent. I have told this to no one now but you. I am to

report to Lord White today—what shall I say to him?" St. Jean's face was troubled.

"Tell him nothing," Wessex said brutally. "I will take responsibility for it, if anyone must."

St. Jean opened his mouth to protest, but at that moment there was a discreet scratching at the door.

"Her Grace, Your Grace," Buckland announced.

The church-spires still cast long blue shadows as the great Ducal coach rumbled heavily along the street.

It was drawn by six heavy-boned Frisians, for like many things in the Duke's vicinity, it was not at all

what it seemed. The lacquered oak panels in the ducal colors of silver and green concealed armor plating

thick enough to stop a round from a Baker rifle. Its axles held retractable blades that could cripple the

horses of an encroaching team, and its interior harbored many secrets, among them a brace of concealed

pistols. Because of these things, among others, it was not a vehicle built for speed. But on this day, speed

was not a matter of concern.

Wessex sat back on the deep green squabs of the bench and regarded his bride. The roof of the coach

was high enough so that her egret-feather headdress was in no danger of being crushed. Her cowled

cloak of deep rose velvet, lined in satin to match the dress, was pooled about her on the seat, while her

dress, stretched and pulled by the archaic hoops, was a quizzical sight.

"We shall make good time, I think, until we enter the City," Wessex observed. "Fortunately, Buckland

was good enough to induce Mrs. Beaton to pack us a hamper, or else we might well perish of hunger

before the wedding breakfast."

Sarah's eyes flashed in the dimness of the coach's interior as she inspected the chronometer set into the

wall of the coach. "Eight-fifteen," she sighed.

Though a notorious early riser—as Wessex, given his preference, was not—the Duchess disliked both

confinement and enforced idleness. The prospect of five hours spent sitting in a coach as it inched its way

along the street was not one she delighted in. "I suppose we couldn't just have walked?" she said

wistfully.

"Indeed we could not," her husband said repressively, though his mouth quirked. "Persons so notoriously

high in the instep as the Duke and Duchess of Wessex could not be seen cavorting about the public street

in the guise of an infantry regiment."

"No doubt you are correct, my lord," his dutiful spouse replied. "Rupert, who was that who called upon

you this morning? I saw a horse standing in the street."

The percipient question brought Wessex's thoughts abruptly back to his distasteful duties. At the wedding

breakfast this afternoon, he must be sure to speak to the representatives of the Colonies—particularly

Catholic Marylandshire, chartered in 1635 and a hotbed not only of the Old Religion, but of those who

still wished to see a Catholic monarch upon the throne of England. The only good thing about the

accession of Napoleon was that the Catholic Jacobites who had favored Charles' brother James over his

son Monmouth could no longer scheme to make common cause with France, now only nominally a

Catholic nation. As for Virginia, Dutch New York, and Quaker Pennsylvania—

"Rupert, you are not attending." Sarah's voice held an edge, perceptible even over the sound of the

wheels.

"I am indeed. I am merely hoping not to be called upon to answer the question," the Duke responded.

"Oh." Sarah's voice went flat with realization. "It is one of
those
acquaintances, then."

Once more Wessex did not answer. Sarah regarded him unhappily. Though she accepted his work, she

hated being shut out of it.

"It is merely a matter of idle political gossip," Wessex said lightly, trying to cheer her mood. "I would be a

poor husband were I to tax your patience with talk of matters as far from your interests as New Albion's

factionalism."

"Far! New Albion is
America
! Rupert, I was
born
there!" Sarah said indignantly.

"But not in this America," Wessex reminded her. Not for the first time, he tried to imagine Sarah's

world—English colonies unthinkably divorced from English rule to become an independent nation without

a king, an ally of Tyrant France. The England she described was even more alien—a land ruled by

upstart German princes, whose slothful rale and cruel taxation had driven her colonies into revolt.

As always, the attempt to envision something so unthinkably alien defeated him. The Stuarts were the true

kings of England. They had ruled wisely and justly since Great Elizabeth had passed the crown to the first

James, through the Great Marriage and their pacts with the Oldest People.

"It cannot be so very different," Sarah said sulkily. She had known very little of her own world's England

before her journey here, and so she had seen very little difference between one England and another.

"Perhaps not," Wessex agreed. "It is certainly little different from Europe—for in your world as in mine,

France and England war, and who can say which shall be the master?"

Westminster Abbey was filled with the massed nobility of England, her colonies, and her allies, as the

work of more than five years of diplomatism came at last to its conclusion—the marriage that would

secure a Protestant princess for England and a Danish ally for the Grande Alliance.

Inside the Abbey the air was stiflingly warm, filled with the scents of perfume and incense. The church

blazed with candles, their flames adding to the heat There was a constant rustling as the standing

spectators shifted position, overheated in their ceremonial silks and jeweled velvets.

James Charles Henry David Robert Stuart, Prince of Wales and Duke of Gloucester, stood before the

Archbishop of Canterbury, awaiting his bride with a good impersonation of impatience. He was dressed

entirely in white satin and silver lace, against which his chestnut hair and grey eyes shone to advantage. A

coronet of rose gold, newly-commissioned for the ceremony, rested upon his perspiring brow.

Supporting him upon this occasion were his four brothers in marriage, for Prince James was the youngest

of five, and the only boy. His four sisters had married, variously, Leopold, a prince of

Saxe-Coburg-Gotha; Duncan, a Scots laird of that country's ancient royal line; Alexander, a Russian

Grand Duke; and Earl Drogheda of the Anglo-Irish nobility. Their marriages, much as Jamie's own, had

been made for political reasons, for the web of kinship among the nobility was a web of expediency, as

well. Three of the groomsmen were in their uniforms, and that was a sore point with Jamie also, for he

had long been denied the chance to serve in Britain's army. Over the past months it had become clear

that soon King Henry must permit his army-mad heir to go to war, or else go himself. The scope of the

conflict expanded every year, and Wessex suspected that in generations to come, a man's measure

would be taken by the list of his triumphs in this great contest.

But at this moment, all matters of battle and empire were forgotten, as Jamie's bride made her

appearance at the head of the aisle.

Princess Stephanie Julianna of Denmark was tall and fair and hoydenish, but today even the most

precious high stickler could find no fault in her appearance or conduct. Her wedding dress was of pale

gold silk, oversewn with pearls and brilliants. Her train was edged with the same lace that made up her

veil, and both stretched for yards behind her. These items were managed by eight of her Ladies in

Waiting in full court dress, among them the Duchess of Wessex.

Today the princess would exchange her Danish tiara for an English crown, and those who had brought

her to this place all breathed a grateful sigh of relief. Up until the very last moment it had been possible

that the princess's madcap sense of humor would lead her to elope once more, leaving her household to

search for her in vain. That would mean the ruin of the treaty, for her brother, Prince Frederick, was a

profoundly humorless man. But in a few short moments the ceremony would be completed, and the

Danish Minister waited in a private chamber within the Abbey itself to present the treaty for the Prince

Regent's seal.

Stephanie reached the altar and stopped. Her ladies in waiting arranged her train and withdrew to the

side.

The Archbishop pronounced the words of the ceremony, and as he did, the air of expectation among the

onlookers grew. Few of them would ever participate in a magic greater than this—the joining of a Prince

of the Blood Royal to his bride.

At last the vows were exchanged, the rings blessed and presented. As Prince Jamie sealed his promise

with a kiss, the word was passed to the waiting citizenry, and the crowds that had been gathering in the

streets since midnight erupted in wild cheering.

And the thing was done.

The Prince and Princess were presented to King Henry, both kneeling to him as his subjects. There was

a moment to sign the book, and then the newlyweds promenaded from the church to be escorted back to

St. James Palace through streets filled with cheering humanity.

The Palace of St. James was located between St. James Park and Green Park, just south of Westminster

and the Houses of Parliament. To its east, Buckingham House had been renovated to house the

household of the Prince and Princess, and would soon play host for the first time to its young master and

mistress. But the seat of government still rested within the red brick walls of St. James, where the

martyred Charles I had spent his last night on earth. His son had defiantly vowed that the Stuarts would

reign there for ever after, and from that day to this the Stuart line had boldly held court within those same

red walls.

Today the whole kingdom was Henry's guest. Pavilions had been set up on the grounds, dispensing wine

and roast meat to all who cared to partake, as well as paper favors printed with the likenesses of the

Prince and Princess. Dancing floors had been laid among the trees, and musicians played for all who

cared to dance.

Within the Palace itself, the King hosted such important men as the Earl of Malhythe, Baron Grenville,

and the Lords-Lieutenant of both New Albion and Ireland, all of whom had come to witness the treaty.

Even Prince Frederick was here, to grudgingly witness his sister's wedding, and to sign the Danish Treaty

into existence.

The Duke of Wessex moved about the edges of the gathering like the wraith at the feast. He had

escorted Sarah here, but for the moment she was attending the Princess, and his place was here, seeking

out information.

But what information? Somewhere in London a French spymaster met with his English agent: was it here?

Wessex gazed at a party of Albionese lords: Jefferson, Jackson, Burr. His general briefing on the

Albionese political situation had only touched on the high points of the web of New World politics, but he

did recognize the three men before him—each of whom, in his way, was important in New Albion