Authors: Marissa Doyle
Lochinvar’s arm, but he would not release her.
“What are you doing?” he mouthed at her, gesturing. “Come on.”
“No—I have to hear.” A sudden suspicion about the identity of the first speaker had seized her. She
leaned toward the door, dragging Lochinvar and Charles with her.
“I don’t know why I should stay and listen to you, Sir John. Anything you might wish to say to me
can be said in my apartments, in front of Mama and Baroness Lehzen,” said the girl’s voice. It
sounded close to tears, but still strong and clear, like the peal of a silver bell.
Persy stopped the exclamation that nearly escaped her lips. There was only one person that voice
could belong to. “The princess,” she breathed, more to herself than to Lochinvar or Charles. “That’s
Princess Victoria!”
“No,” said Sir John. “This is between the two of us. And as your dear mama already knows and
approves of what I have to say, there is little difference in whether we have our chat here, there, or on
the steps of Westminster. Time is growing short, my dear girl. The—”
“I am not your dear girl. Address me by my proper title, if you please. And I don’t believe you
speak entirely for Mama … though if it weren’t for your meddling, she and I might still be on
speaking terms. Half the time I can’t help wondering if you’ve bewitched her, she’s become so
unpleasant. If it weren’t for my dear Lehzen, I don’t know what I’d do.”
Sir John’s harsh tone turned soothing. “Foolish girl, your mama lives for you. Every waking
moment she has is dedicated to your—”
“She lives for me inheriting the crown.” The silver voice was tarnished with sadness and
resentment.
“Why not? It is what you will do someday.”
“She isn’t my beloved mama anymore. You’ve turned her head so that all she can think about is
what is due her as mother of the future queen—”
“Mother to the future queen who is still nine-tenths a child, for all that she turns eighteen in a few
short weeks. What if—God forbid—the king should die tomorrow? Wouldn’t it be far better to name
your dear mama regent for you until you are twenty-one, and spend the next few years learning how to
be a que—”
“So that you can be her closest advisor, of course,” the princess said scornfully.
“I served your father the duke before you were born. He himself asked me on his deathbed to look
after his dear wife and infant daughter.” Sir John’s grip on his equanimity seemed to slip ever so
slightly. “If the duchess turns to me for advice, should it be wondered at?”
“We have had this discussion more times than I care to recall, Sir John. How many times must I say
it? No regency. I forbid it.” Had the princess stamped her foot?
“You forbid it? You’re not queen yet, my girl. And don’t be so sure of your powers. The king may
yet decide that the country would be better off with a regent until you’re older.”
“The king will do no such thing, and you know it. He and Mama hate each other. He would never
declare her regent.”
Persy remembered Papa’s explanation of the difficult state of affairs between the king and the
princess’s mother. So it wasn’t just gossip.
Sir John was silent. Persy could picture him struggling to maintain his composure. “That may well
be,” he conceded, and his voice once again grew smooth and conspiratorial. “So you become queen.
Can you honestly say that you are ready to bear that burden alone? You will need someone to explain
the complexities of matters of state in terms you can understand—”
“My education has not been neglected. I am quite capable of understanding what my ministers
would wish to discuss with me,” the princess snapped.
“So you might think now. But I know better. You will need a private secretary to help keep up with
it all.”
“Sir John.” The princess’s voice turned from silver to steel. “I said no to you when I was so ill at
Ramsgate and you actually forced a pen into my hand to sign a statement appointing you as my private
secretary. I have said no many times since then. It appears that I will have to say it once more. I will
do so very slowly, just to ensure that you understand me: no. And no. And no again.”
“Your Highness—”
“I have never liked you, sir, and it is your own fault. You have always treated me in a rude and
familiar way and kept me from associating with anyone but your own family. You say you seek only
to serve, and I agree—you seek to serve yourself. What papers will I see slipped into a pile of
routine paperwork if I name you my secretary? A patent of nobility for yourself? A pension or two or
three? A few favors for others, bought and paid for?”
“See here, you miserable chit—”
There was a sharp cry from the princess. “Unhand me, sir!”
“Not until I’ve had my say. I’ve spent the last twenty years of my life in your family’s service, and
it’s high time I got my reward. Now, will you please sign this paper?”
“Never!”
There was a silence. Then Sir John’s voice came again, taut with compressed rage. “Rest assured
that I will be your secretary whether you like it or not. The only difference is in how it happens.”
“What do you mean?” For the first time, the princess sounded uncertain.
“Never mind. Are you quite sure? Do you refuse to sign? Very well.” Footsteps moved toward the
door. “Might I beg Your Highness’s permission to leave?” Sarcasm oozed from Sir John’s voice. The
doorknob turned.
“Blast!” Lochinvar jerked Persy away from the door and yanked her and Charles into a window
embrasure across from where they had been standing. He shrank back against the glass and pulled her
roughly against him. Charles buried his head once more against Lochinvar’s side.
The door opened and Sir John stepped into the hall. He did not look around but slammed the door
behind him and stalked down the hall, back the way they had come.
Persy’s sense of time seemed to stop. She waited for an indignant Sir John to drag them from their
woefully inadequate hiding place, her stomach clenching and toes curling with tension and fright. At
the same time she realized that her head was resting on Lochinvar’s shoulder and her face was
pressed against his crisp white cravat that smelled of starch and lavender water and clean healthy
male. The edge of his jaw was a hair’s breadth from her lips, and if she moved just the tiniest bit she
would be able to brush a kiss there.
“He didn’t see us,” Charles whispered, unburying his head. “He just walked right past us and
didn’t see us.”
“I expect he was rather too angry to notice much of anything,” Lochinvar whispered back.
He dropped his arm, and Persy realized that he had been holding her in an almost suffocating
embrace. Not that it mattered; she’d been unable to breathe anyway. She looked up at him and saw
that he was pale, with a faint sheen of perspiration on his forehead. Was it from fear or from some
other emotion?
Had it felt as wonderful to him as it had to her?
A low sobbing sound interrupted her feverish thoughts. “The princess!” she murmured, and turned
toward the door. That beastly Sir John had left her in tears.
“You can’t!” Lochinvar grabbed her arm. “Come on. Let’s go.” He pulled them out of the window
recess and down the passage to the stairwell.
Persy cast one regretful glance back at the door but obeyed. She couldn’t very well have gone in
and comforted the sobbing girl, much as she would have liked to—not in her boys’ clothes, in a place
she had no right to be.
They made it down the stairs without incident and hurried down the corridor. Persy wasn’t sure
whether she was relieved or disappointed that their adventure was at an end. “There,” she whispered,
pointing to the door they’d entered by. But that didn’t seem to be enough. “I—thank you, Lord Seton.
I’m sorry we dragged you into this.”
Lochinvar held up one hand. “Don’t apologize. It was most, uh, interesting.” He paused, then
smiled crookedly. “You make a very handsome boy, but I think I would rather you stayed a girl.” And
before Persy could answer, he opened the latch on the door and pushed them out.
As Charles retrieved his boat from under the bushes, Persy glanced back at the door. Lochinvar
still stood there, running his hands over the door panels with a slight frown on his face.
“What’s he doing?” she wondered aloud.
Charles was back, thrusting the boat into her arms. “Probably checking the latch to make sure we
don’t sneak in again. Come on, Persy. I’ve had enough for one day. Dressing my sister up in boys’
clothes and breaking into Kensington Palace! Wait till I tell them about that back at school.”
“Don’t you dare!” Distracted from watching Lochinvar, Persy aimed a clout at him.
Though they squabbled companionably all the way home to Mayfair, Persy’s mind was only half
there. They had failed to find Ally, or even any clues as to her whereabouts. But the conversation
between Sir John and the princess—she had heard the princess’s own voice!—was truly shocking.
And as for Lochinvar … something about his frowning examination of the door troubled her, but she
could not say exactly what it was.
A
t their next visit with Princess Sophia a few days later, Persy let Pen do most of the chatting, which
she fortunately seemed happy to do. Her lively accounts of the social events they had recently
attended washed over Persy as she stared with heavylidded eyes into her teacup.
Persy had found it very hard not to tell Pen about their strange visit to Kensington. She desperately
missed talking with her twin, and though Charles was proving to be more of a companion than he ever
had before, it was not the same. And it was hard to endure Pen’s aloofness even though it was her
own fault. She only hoped that Pen wouldn’t launch into another discourse on Lord Carharrick’s
attentions to her while they were here.
“Now, what were the flowers like at the Gordons’ ball?” the princess demanded. “I hear the
duchess spends hundreds of guineas on her greenhouses, which the duke hates because roses make
him sneeze.”
Persy watched the flakes of tea that had escaped the strainer settle at the bottom of the clear brown
liquid in her cup. She’d managed to convince Mama that she was still too ill to attend the Gordons’
ball, and had spent the evening listening to Charles concoct wilder and wilder explanations for what
had occurred at Kensington until she really did have a headache and went to bed early.
She sighed, but quietly. If only she could slip away and go look for Ally while Pen and the princess
chatted. Would asking to use the necessary work? It would be a dreadful breach of etiquette, but she
could plead an emergency. Oh, there had to be some way she could look for Ally while she was here!
The particles of tea swirled round and round in her cup, until she began to feel dizzy watching
them. Ally, oh, Ally …
The princess’s drawing room, the bright afternoon sun on the faded carpet, and the swirling specks
of tea all receded. A sense of anxiety filled her, of foreboding and worry. Then, slowly, a room came
into focus in her cup, a dim room with curtains mostly drawn—to keep out the light, or to prevent
anyone from seeing in?
Close to the narrow slit of light was a small table. A few books, paper and pens, and a half-darned
sock lay scattered on its top. And seated in a chair by the table was Ally. She looked thin and drawn,
as if she had neither eaten nor slept well in many days, and wore an unfamiliar gown of gray linen,
with only a narrow white collar to relieve its plainness. Persy felt as if she could almost reach out to
the beloved figure, and opened her mouth to call to her. But then Ally spoke.
“Here? They’re here, in the palace?” She sounded hoarse, as if she’d grown unused to speaking.
Another figure came into focus. A chill ran through Persy as she recognized the man’s dark auburn
hair and pleasant features. “They’re taking tea with Princess Sophia,” Michael Carrighar confirmed.
“She met them when they made their curtsies to the queen a few weeks ago.”
He was talking about her and Pen! Persy blinked, trying to put it all together—Ally … Mr.
Carrighar …
“My girls …” The raw longing in Ally’s face made Persy want to cry. “Please, Michael, let me see
them! Just for a moment …”
Mr. Carrighar came to stand by Ally. He twitched the curtains open the merest bit farther and
stared outside, as if he couldn’t bear looking at her while he spoke. “I can’t do that,” he said quietly.
“You know I can’t. Not unless you’ve changed your mind. If you have, I would be very happy to—”
“No! How many times must I say it? I will not help you!” Ally exclaimed, her tired eyes flashing.
Then, all at once, her mood seemed to change. She reached up and placed a tentative hand on his
sleeve. “Michael, you know it is wrong. Refuse with me! Surely the two of us together could
withstand him.”