“My mother was an actress called Lily Ashbourne,” I began.
“I know her!” Eddy exclaimed. Animation lent a childlike air to his usual languid expression. “I have seen photographs of her—oh, she was a beauty. You do indeed look like her.”
“They met in 1860 in North America, and it was over her that the Prince of Wales quarreled with his father.”
“Yes, I remember that story,” Eddy said excitedly. “Papa had behaved very badly and Grandpapa came to scold him. They went for a long walk in a cold rain and Grandpapa took a chill from which he never recovered.” He dropped his voice confidingly. “Grandmama still blames Papa for that, you know. She has never entirely forgiven him for the love affair.”
“Yes, well, it was not a mere love affair,” I explained. “My parents were married. And it is the fact of that marriage that your grandfather confronted our father with when he came to see him.”
Eddy began to shake his head again, as if the act could tidy his disordered thoughts, bringing them into some sort of sense. “But that cannot be. Grandmama would never give her permission.”
“And so the marriage would not be legal in England,” I agreed. “But they were married in Ireland. By a priest.”
He reared back. “ACatholic?”
“My mother was a member of the Roman Church and it was a clergyman of that faith who joined them in marriage and presided at my christening.”
“Then you are a Catholic as well?” he asked doubtfully.
“Only in the most technical sense,” I replied. “I have never been confirmed and have no desire to be.”
“But you were baptized,” he persisted. “Surely that must count for something.”
I said nothing, giving him a long moment to work out the implications. I began to number the butterflies in the gossamer-wing family, Lycaenidae, starting with the subfamily Curetinae, the sunbeam butterflies.
I had just progressed to the hairstreaks of Theclinae when he gave a sudden sharp intake of breath. “But the throne—your uncle! That is what he meant, the old devil. If you were born in Ireland to parents whose marriage is recognized by the Roman Church, the pope himself could proclaim you queen in Ireland when my father is dead,” he said, his eyes fairly popping from his head.
“That is the essence of his plan,” I admitted. I saw no purpose to explaining the worst of it—that my uncle clearly intended to hedge his bets by taking the actual heir to the throne into his keeping to ensure that he would never wear the crown.
“Your Royal Highness,” I began gently, but Eddy merely raised a hand.
“No more just now,” he said, and it was not a command but a plea. I nodded and he lay down on the narrow bed. He put his hand into his trouser pocket and drew out a small object. When he saw me looking at him, he gave a rueful smile. “I know it’s frightfully childish, but it gives me comfort.”
He opened his palm to show me a tiny grey velvet mouse. “He was a gift from my father upon the occasion of my birth,” he explained. “His name is Chester.”
CHAPTER
14
The prince slept then, or at least pretended to, and Stoker and I, who ought to have applied ourselves to securing our freedom, instead fell suddenly into an uncomfortable doze. I awoke with a jerk, vaguely aware of the passing of time.
“Good,” Stoker said. “I was beginning to think you were going to sleep right through your own escape.”
He wriggled, causing the bonds connecting us to tighten. “Stoker, I do not know what you are about, but I must ask you to refrain from doing calisthenics. It is most vexing.”
“What I am doing is working my way free,” he said, slipping out of the ropes that held us. In one swift motion he came around and knelt in front of me to work the knots at my ankles.
“How on earth did you manage it?”
“Veronica, I spent the better part of two decades either in the circus or Her Majesty’s Navy. There has yet to be invented a knot that I do not know.” To prove his point, he tossed aside the ropes that had bound my ankles and started on my wrists. The dim light fell upon his face and I saw the rivers of dried blood upon his skin, the deep violet of a bruise on his cheekbone, and the unnatural swelling.
“Yes, it is broken, and do not make a fuss,” he instructed. “I am more concerned about what that villain might have done to you.”
“I told you I was fine,” I reminded him. “And you told me you were uninjured as well.”
“No, I didn’t. I said my head hurt,” he told me.
“You lied by omission.”
