appropriate questions—but there was no Albert in his eyes.”
Fitzgerald snorted.
“It was an art he perfected, Patrick—a sort of inward flight. How do you think the man endured twenty years in this country else? A foreigner—and from that Germany which so many English despise—a person compelled by social reform and the advancement of science, rather than his own gain. He was inexplicable to most of those he met.”
“But not to you,” he countered. “That was a bond between you, wasn't it—being out of step with your peculiar worlds? You have your own form of inner flight, love.”
“Perhaps. I may say that the Prince was never truly at ease with women.”
“No?” Too much hope in his voice.
“Females made him acutely uncomfortable. He had a horror of impropriety; and he seemed to consider it a woman's disease. I suspect he regarded me as he did his daughters—intelligent, and safe.”
Fitzgerald flushed; he'd caught the echo of regret in her voice. She'd have preferred to be dangerous.
“Patrick—if I thought the correspondence between us should be publicly exposed—and by some mischance
diminish
the Prince's reputation in the eyes of the world—I should . . . I should . . .” Her fists were clenched again, and a storm of futile anger swept over her face.
“It may not be the Prince those thieves thought to strike at, love,” he said wearily. “
You
may be the one they intend to harm.”
She frowned. “What can you mean?”
“Revenge.”
She was very still for a moment. “Von Stühlen. You believe he paid for the ransacking of my house? He
does
hate me. I humiliated him too publicly.”
“You'd have done better to slap him, that morning at Ascot.”
“But to laugh was irresistible.” She began to pace before the fire, her lips working. “My God, Patrick—if von Stühlen should presume to attack Albert publicly—one of the Consort's oldest friends—and at
such
a time—”
He noticed that she cared nothing, in that instant, for her own reputation.
“What else did Albert write, in his bit letters?”
There was a pause; in the silence he caught the soft thud of coals dropping from the grate, and the discreet clink of cutlery from the dining room.
“What was written, was written in confidence—”
“Aye! And now the letters have been stolen, the whole world may soon read them!”
She met his eyes frankly. “He consulted me about his son. Prince Leopold.”
Fitzgerald was about to speak when the front bell rang through the rooms. Both of them froze.
“News of Septimus?”
There was a murmur of conversation from the front passage; then Gibbon appeared at the parlour door.
“A letter for miss,” he said. “Sent round from Russell Square. I've told the man to wait.”
She tore open the flap and read the brief message.
Fitzgerald watched her colour drain.
“Georgie?”
She looked up. “It's that girl in St. Giles.
Lizzie.
She died an hour ago.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I' VE DECIDED THE FUNERAL SHALL be on the twenty-third of December,” Bertie said diffidently, “so as to salvage something of Christmas. Mama does not attend—she goes to Osborne in four days.”
“And I shall have to go with her.” Alice kept her head bent over her needlework, aware of a creeping sense of oppression. “
Christmas!
I have not the heart for it. Mama will shut herself in her rooms, and stare at the sea. There is nothing so wretched as Osborne in winter. You'll return to Cambridge, of course?”
“On Christmas Eve. The funeral party shall be entirely gentlemen. The service here in the Chapel Royal. No public parades, no scenes about the cortege to remind one of Wellington—”
“No. Mama would not have it. She abhors such display.”
“Mama hasn't said a word about the arrangements,” Bertie mused. “She left everything to me—though she refuses to speak directly, or remain in any room I enter. It's almost more than one can bear, her stony looks. Her contempt for
Fitzgerald snorted.
“It was an art he perfected, Patrick—a sort of inward flight. How do you think the man endured twenty years in this country else? A foreigner—and from that Germany which so many English despise—a person compelled by social reform and the advancement of science, rather than his own gain. He was inexplicable to most of those he met.”
“But not to you,” he countered. “That was a bond between you, wasn't it—being out of step with your peculiar worlds? You have your own form of inner flight, love.”
“Perhaps. I may say that the Prince was never truly at ease with women.”
“No?” Too much hope in his voice.
“Females made him acutely uncomfortable. He had a horror of impropriety; and he seemed to consider it a woman's disease. I suspect he regarded me as he did his daughters—intelligent, and safe.”
Fitzgerald flushed; he'd caught the echo of regret in her voice. She'd have preferred to be dangerous.
“Patrick—if I thought the correspondence between us should be publicly exposed—and by some mischance
diminish
the Prince's reputation in the eyes of the world—I should . . . I should . . .” Her fists were clenched again, and a storm of futile anger swept over her face.
“It may not be the Prince those thieves thought to strike at, love,” he said wearily. “
You
may be the one they intend to harm.”
She frowned. “What can you mean?”
“Revenge.”
She was very still for a moment. “Von Stühlen. You believe he paid for the ransacking of my house? He
does
hate me. I humiliated him too publicly.”
“You'd have done better to slap him, that morning at Ascot.”
“But to laugh was irresistible.” She began to pace before the fire, her lips working. “My God, Patrick—if von Stühlen should presume to attack Albert publicly—one of the Consort's oldest friends—and at
such
a time—”
He noticed that she cared nothing, in that instant, for her own reputation.
“What else did Albert write, in his bit letters?”
There was a pause; in the silence he caught the soft thud of coals dropping from the grate, and the discreet clink of cutlery from the dining room.
“What was written, was written in confidence—”
“Aye! And now the letters have been stolen, the whole world may soon read them!”
She met his eyes frankly. “He consulted me about his son. Prince Leopold.”
Fitzgerald was about to speak when the front bell rang through the rooms. Both of them froze.
“News of Septimus?”
There was a murmur of conversation from the front passage; then Gibbon appeared at the parlour door.
“A letter for miss,” he said. “Sent round from Russell Square. I've told the man to wait.”
She tore open the flap and read the brief message.
Fitzgerald watched her colour drain.
“Georgie?”
She looked up. “It's that girl in St. Giles.
Lizzie.
She died an hour ago.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
I' VE DECIDED THE FUNERAL SHALL be on the twenty-third of December,” Bertie said diffidently, “so as to salvage something of Christmas. Mama does not attend—she goes to Osborne in four days.”
“And I shall have to go with her.” Alice kept her head bent over her needlework, aware of a creeping sense of oppression. “
Christmas!
I have not the heart for it. Mama will shut herself in her rooms, and stare at the sea. There is nothing so wretched as Osborne in winter. You'll return to Cambridge, of course?”
“On Christmas Eve. The funeral party shall be entirely gentlemen. The service here in the Chapel Royal. No public parades, no scenes about the cortege to remind one of Wellington—”
“No. Mama would not have it. She abhors such display.”
“Mama hasn't said a word about the arrangements,” Bertie mused. “She left everything to me—though she refuses to speak directly, or remain in any room I enter. It's almost more than one can bear, her stony looks. Her contempt for
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