The princess threw back her veils. Even without Lady Wellie’s introduction, I knew that face. It had stared out at me from countless shop windows, graced innumerable newspapers and fashion magazines. Our future queen, Alexandra of Denmark, wife to the Prince of Wales, and my stepmother.
Another figure stood behind her in the shadows and I gave a cry of astonishment. “Inspector Archibond!”
The inspector was not a particular friend of mine. Stoker and I had made his acquaintance briefly during a previous investigation,*and none of us had been terribly impressed. He thought us meddlesome and willful and we thought him distinctly humorless and brittle.
He still looked well-groomed and nondescript; nothing about him would make an impression of any duration, but it suddenly occurred to me what a useful quality that might prove in a policeman.
He gave a nod, acknowledging my greeting, but said nothing, looking instead to the princess. It had been a breach of etiquette for any ofus to speak or acknowledge one another before she did, but there was no trace of irritation in her manner. She took a seat and signed for the rest of us to resume ours. The gesture—like everything she did—was graceful. Her expression was composed, but faint purple smudges shadowed her eyes. She sat slightly forwards in her chair, and I remembered that she was a little deaf. She gave me a gentle smile.
“Miss Speedwell, I regret we are meeting under such unusual circumstances.”
I flicked a glance to Lady Wellie before looking again to my stepmother. The princess was modestly dressed in a sober, simple skirt and jacket of navy blue with only the collar and cuffs of a crisp white shirtwaist peeking from the edges. It was, at first glance, the sort of austerity one might expect of any well-bred lady of some forty-odd years. But the skirt was beautifully draped by the hand of a master dressmaker, the hems delicately pinked to resemble petals. Her jewels were discreet, only a heavy locket and her wedding ring, with an enameled watch pinned to her lapel and the gleam of pearls beneath her cuffs. Her hat was a little broader than fashionable, with its thick black veil to conceal her still-beautiful face. It was a face I might have been happy to see at another time and in another place.
“Not at all, Your Royal Highness,” I said tightly. “This is not the first time I have been summoned by a princess who wished to preserve her incognita,” I told her, harking back to a fateful meeting with my father’s younger sister that had ended in bloodshed.*
The princess did not flinch. “Louise,” she murmured. “Yes, she and Lady Wellie have been eloquent on the subject of your abilities.”
I bowed my head but said nothing. After a moment, the princess went on.
“It is on Lady Wellie’s advice that I asked to see you, Miss Speedwell,” she told me. “And you, Mr. Templeton-Vane,” she added with a glance to Stoker. “I know what you have been able to accomplish in the past, and it is my hope that you will be able to help me now.”
“Help you? With what, ma’am?” Stoker asked kindly.
She paused and looked to Lady Wellie, who gave her a firm nod, as if to stiffen her resolve. Inspector Archibond had taken a chair a little distance apart, tucked discreetly in the shadows. Presumably, he had attended in order to preserve the princess’s safety during her incognita in the streets of London. But I knew he was attentive, listening to every word we exchanged.
The princess drew a deep breath. “It is my son, my eldest, Prince Albert Victor. We call him Eddy in the family.” She reached up and unclasped the golden locket, passing it to me as she touched a narrow button on the side. It sprang open to reveal a photograph.
I knew that face as well. Images of the eldest son of the Prince of Wales sold newspapers. He was our future king, after all. He had our father’s heavy-lidded Hanoverian eyes, but his face, long and slender, belonged to his mother. His dark hair waved over his brow, and a pair of elegant moustaches turned up at the ends over a full, sensuous mouth. He might have been handsome but for his chin. It receded slightly, giving him a mildly feckless look, the sort of face that belonged to a man one might not be able to depend upon in times of trouble. But the eyes were kind and the mouth sweet.
I handed the locket back and the princess held it, looking down fondly. Still I did not speak.
“What is the difficulty, ma’am?” Stoker asked.
“Eddy, like most young men, has sown a few wild oats,” she said, her expression a little embarrassed.
“I am the product of a wild oat myself, ma’am,” I told her. “I think we all know what you mean.”
“Veronica,” Lady Wellie murmured. I did not know if Archibond had been made aware of my paternity, but Lady Wellie and the princess would understand my inference.
The princess flushed, a sweep of warm rose heightening the color in her cheeks. A lesser woman might have flounced away at such a provocation. But Alexandra of Denmark was a future queen and empress, and I saw then that she was made of sterner stuff. Her posture stiffened and she regarded me down the length of her nose.
“Miss Speedwell, it does not escape me that the circumstances of our meeting are extraordinary. I hope we may at least be civil to one another, and let it begin with me. I offer you my heartfelt apologies.”
I blinked at her. “For what, ma’am?”
“For the cavalier manner in which you have been treated. You have demonstrated loyalty and honor in your dealings with the family, and for that you should be commended. I regret that you have not been dealt with more kindly.”
I thought of the promises, made and broken and made again. I had never asked for, neverwantedanything more than a moment of my father’s time. I did not crave recognition or money or anything other than the bare acknowledgment from this man that he had taken part in my creation, that he had loved my mother and that I had been born of that love.
Instead, I had endangered myself, risking my own life and Stoker’s on more than one occasion on their behalf. And for no greater reward than a series of hidden meetings conducted in shadows and secrecy. When my own uncle had plotted to overthrow the monarchy on my behalf in a plot of breathtaking melodrama, I had chosen the family that would not own me, without hesitation and without regret. My uncle had offered me a throne, and I had refused it—as much for the sake of my blood family as for the sake of my own inclinations. But still there was no direct word from my father.
A hot streak of anger simmered always, just below the surface, but I did not give vent to it.
“What do you want of us, ma’am?” I asked.
Realizing that an emotional appeal would not serve, she clasped the locket safely back around her neck, snapping the golden door closed upon my half-brother’s face.
“Eddy is in trouble, I think. With a woman.” She broke off and gave an anguished look to Wellie, who supplied the details.
