Authors: Alicia Rasley
"Before she takes it into her head that she wants all power to be transferred to the House of Commons or some other wild scheme. The official papers will be signed and the announcement made Friday. The wedding'll be held at Christmas."
Abstracted, Devlyn managed a farewell and left the foreign secretary to congratulate himself. He found Prinny in the overheated card room, sitting near the fire and complaining to his retinue of the cold. He greeted Devlyn with an enthusiastic wave of his plump hand. "Imagine how well my uniform would look on the major there. He would be quite a sight in battle, I'm certain—dazzle those damn Frenchies good. But he insists on remaining in the 16th."
“If I might have a word with you, sir—"
With a nod of his head, Prinny sent his aides and a dozen cardplayers away. "The major has some important war news to share with me. Find somewhere else to take your games."
As the players filed out, some glancing back enviously at Devlyn, he admitted, "It's not war news, although it does have international implications, and I'd rather not discuss it here. May I call at Carlton House in the morning?"
"Afternoon," the regent temporized with a yawn. "After lunch, perhaps. Shall I summon Wellesley and Liverpool also?"
"It would best be kept between us, for it's highly confidential in nature. But I would advise you not to announce your brother's prospective nuptials just yet."
The prince's watery eyes gleamed, for he did love a mystery, and this sounded very mysterious. "You can give me a hint, can't you? Is Christmas a bad time for the wedding? These Russians are ludicrously superstitious, I know—"
"Tomorrow," Deylyn promised, and left the prince in the empty room muttering happily to himself about the suspense of it all.
Devlyn spent the morning begging Horse Guards for another cavalry regiment, though privately he didn't relish training the so-called Hyde Park Hussars, whose only major battles so far had been with debutantes' fathers. He got a grudging "possibly" to that issue and a rather more optimistic "we'll try" to the question of the recruitment of more engineers. You can't squeeze blood from a turnip, he imagined repeating to Wellington in a fortnight or so. Would he be able to pass on that bit of folk wisdom, and to hear the general's no doubt blistering response? Only the Prince Regent could ensure that pleasant exchange took place.
He managed to sit through a lunch in the officers' mess, and even managed not to compare the sumptuous repast in the high-domed hall to the meals on the Peninsula. At half past two, he presented himself at Carlton House and was rewarded with prompt admittance to the prince's private chambers.
Clad in royal purple satin, Prinny sprawled on a chaise in his silk-hung sitting room, helping himself to bonbons held by a footman in full livery. The regent dismissed the servant immediately. "I've been waiting for you to come and solve the mystery for me, Major," he said gaily, waving Devlyn to a rosewood wingchair.
"I'm afraid the solution isn't a happy one, Your Highness." Devlyn sighed, as if overburdened with the weight of the news. He wished Tatiana were here to see his performance; she would never again think of him as honest and upstanding and undramatic. "It's about the Princess Tatiana. How much do you know of her family history?"
"Only that she's a Romanov, a real one, she says, not like that upstart Alexander. Descended from Peter the Great's line."
"No one ever told you about her father, I gather."
"Her father? What of him? Cousin of the Tsar. Son of some minor king. Dead for years. He was of royal blood, that's all that counts." The prince extended the red-flocked candy box, but looked relieved when Devlyn demurred.
"Is it all that counts?" Devlyn recalled Lord Liverpool at his most ponderous, and shook his head in a similarly gloomy manner. "The Prince Nicholas, you see, came to his demise a bit early, for he was sent into exile by his beloved cousin Alexander. Died there in Siberia."
"Exile?" Prinny echoed. "A prince? I thought he was a favorite of the tsar. They don't even let me send my enemies into exile, much less my relations. Though I can name a few I'd like to send somewhere cold and cruel," he finished darkly.
"Prince Nicholas was a favorite. In fact, he admired Alexander so much that he—well, he hastened Alexander's ascension to the throne." When the prince looked confused at the delicate euphemism, Devlyn added, "He participated in the regicide of the previous tsar."
Prinny's jaw dropped open and remained so for a moment or two. "Regicide?" he finally repeated. "I—I don't care much for that, I don't. Why, it's a crime against the state—against God, it is!"
Diplomatically, Devlyn neglected to point out that Britain's own ambassador had probably been party to the plot of a decade earlier. "And the family relationship—for of course Prince Nicholas and several of the other plotters were cousins to Tsar Paul also—makes it especially damning. Think of it. Tsar Paul was nurturing a viper, so close to the throne, and never knew it—until that last moment, perhaps."
Prinny's mind worked slowly at best, but the gears were finally turning. "I recall there was something havey-cavey about Alexander's ascension. Those Russians, you know. Bloodthirsty lot. Ivan the Terrible and all the others," he observed in an unconscious reprise of Tatiana's words. "But I didn't know about this Nicholas. The princess's father, you say? Wellesley didn't tell me anything about it."
"I imagine Wellesley is as blissfully ignorant as can be, for Alexander's hardly going to bruit about. He's the religious sort, you see. Probably thinks he's going to hell for it."
"As he should!" Prinny exclaimed heatedly, fanning himself with his chocolate-stained hand. "Regicide—well, it don't bear thinking of!"
"But, sir, you must think of it, painful as it is. For now Alexander's guilt is your threat. He's sent the princess here so she won't be around to remind him of his sin. But now she's around you." He let the words hang there in the air, as the blood drained out of the regent's face.
"But she's such a nice gel! She likes me, I know it! She'd never—Cumberland wouldn't—"
"It's the combination I worry about," Devlyn put in helpfully. "And, well, the admiration she expresses for her father. Not for his deed, mind you. But last night, I asked her if she found life in the English court more exciting than in the Russian one. She was a bit offended by my implication, I think, and wanted to impress me with the drama of the Winter Palace. So she reported her father's role in this shameful affair," he improvised, rather skillfully he thought, considering that he was in the lamentable habit of telling the truth. "She did not precisely boast. But she did seem to think her father was great guns—forgive me, Your Highness, that was a singularly inapt metaphor."
Prinny took a deep breath, holding his hand to his heart as if even the breathing pained him. And Cumberland—" Of course, he did not go on, but his hand rose to his neck, and he stroked through his glistening neckcloth as if to assure himself his throat was intact. When his hand finally dropped to his lap, it left chocolate streaks behind.
"At least the princess and the royal duke seem compatible," Devlyn said innocently. "Remember how well they got along at your dinner party; thick as thieves, they were." After a moment, he added, "Another inapt metaphor. I am sorry, Your Highness."
Devlyn rose hastily as Prinny hefted himself to his feet. The wedding cannot occur. As you say, the combination, so near the throne… Not that I am worried, but—"
"I understand, Your Highness. You are regent now, and the nation is at war with a ruthless conqueror. Your safety is paramount to England's continued existence." A few more such falsehoods ensured Devlyn's place in the same hell that confined Nicholas Denisov, but the prince was soothed and smoothed and adamant.
"It's best that you came to me now, before the contracts were signed and the marriage announced. I owe you a great debt, Devlyn, and I shan't forget it." The prince's cowardice had not disappeared, however. "But what will Alexander say? Worse, what will Wellesley say?"
"Alexander will just shrug it off, I imagine, and realize we British are not the fools he took us for. With Napoleon on his heels, he can hardly make a fuss about this situation. You could, of course, assure him that this little episode will not have any effect on the great alliance our two nations will share. As for Wellesley, if you like, you may direct him to me. I am to blame, after all, for ruining all his plans."
"Not to blame, Major," Prinny protested weakly. But I would prefer, if you don't mind—"
Devlyn inclined his head graciously. "There remains the problem of the princess, Your Highness."
Prinny sighed. "Such a shame, for I like her very well. She always has a jest for me, loves to see me laugh. And now she's to be jilted. Doesn't seem perfectly fair, for it's not her fault. One can't choose one's parents, after all, as I know so well. But what can I do? Can't send her back, for who knows what horrors will await her in Russia, what with her cousin being disappointed and Bonaparte set to march. But what else can we do?"
"Perhaps you should leave that also up to me, Your Highness. I believe I can find a way to secure her future."
The prince squinted at him then, finally dropping back onto the couch in astonishment. "You? Secure her future?"
"I know I'm no royal, but she's hardly likely to do better, now that Cumberland's out. There's that damned—your pardon, sir—Bourbon, but I don't think she'll have him."
"You? Do you mean—?" Suddenly the prince peered suspiciously at the major. "You aren't bamming me about her father and all, are you?"
"Every word I told you is true," Devlyn said mendaciously, further blotting his heretofore spotless escutcheon. "But I suppose I did neglect to tell you of my own stake in the outcome."
"I should say you did," the prince cried, with mingled amusement and outrage. "And they say I'm a fool with women. I never thought you—well, she's a pretty chit, make no doubt. And a good gel, for all her bad blood. But—but doesn't that blood worry you?"
Inwardly rejoicing, for he sensed he was home free, Devlyn shrugged. "Why? She'd have nothing to gain, after all. I'm no prince. There's no throne for her to nab. And anyway, it's my patriotic duty, to keep her away from the court," he added, wondering if he was doing it up a little brown. But the prince started declaring his great debt again, and Devlyn could only look modest and agree. Somehow he had made it through, and the prince was even thanking him for it. Devlyn, he told himself, you are the luckiest man on earth.
Finally, when the prince's expressions of gratitude wore down, Devlyn returned to more prosaic matters. "In those marriage contracts Alexander sent along, did there happen to be a letter from Princess Tatiana's uncle giving his permission for her marriage?"
Struck by this, the prince sent a courtier for the papers. "Must have been, for she's not of age. What are you going to do with it?"
"Alter it, or copy it, I expect." It was liberating, really, to be so blithe about a capital crime like forgery. "It won't matter once we're married, but just in case the bishop kicks up a fuss, I'll need some document from her guardian."
"You are the most complete hand. Always thinking ahead," the prince said admiringly, then added, as the courtier returned and silently gave him the packet, "Oh, here it is." He spread a sheet out on the inlaid table. "Why, you're in luck. Prince Dmitry wrote it out and signed it, but look—"
Gazing over the royal shoulder, Devlyn saw a blank space where the prince stabbed a stubby finger. "Why didn't he fill in the groom's name?"
The prince frowned in concentration. "I remember now! We'd decided if Cumberland balked, we'd get m'brother Clarence to do it. You know, that might suit, after all. Clarence is a jolly fellow, not like Cumberland. I wouldn't have any worry, even if he did marry the Russian chit."
A chill shot through Devlyn at the thought of Tatiana handed so cavalierly from one prince to another. He seized the quill beside the regent's elbow and scrawled his own name in the blank space, then folded the sheet up and pocketed it.
The prince was startled, but eventually he laughed, his mirth shivering his portly frame. "Devlyn, I like you. You do manage things well. How would you like to be war minister?"
Devlyn was arrested by the thought and almost, as a joke, accepted. But he was a bit ashamed of himself, for the prince was absurdly gullible. So, with only a bit of regret, he demurred. "No, you would dismiss me in a week when I advocated selling the crown jewels to buy boots for the troops. But I should have loved to see Wellington's face when he heard his aide was become his superior."
The prince nodded wistfully. "It would have been worth anything, to see Wellington and Liverpool and Wellesley, too, when they heard a major was to be war minister. I'm sure you'd be a fine one, of course, but the triumph—they'd remember who's the monarch of this land, then, they would indeed." Reluctantly he let go his dream of a major-minister. "Well, I wish you every happiness with the princess. She seems a nice, biddable girl."
"Exactly my impression," Devlyn said gravely, now rather too comfortable with falsehoods. "But I haven't asked her yet. She may refuse me."
The prince's pale eyes focused on Devlyn, and he said with rare intuition, "Oh, I think she will accept you. You have the most impressive way of getting what you want, with whatever means are at hand." He waved his hand in dismissal. "Go, go, make your proposal. Tell her I'll give her away—only right, as I'm her cousin. There's a chapel here in Carlton House—not used much, I wager, but presentable enough."
"You are too kind, Your Highness," Devlyn replied, surprised at his real gratitude. The prince's blessing would make the potentially scandalous wedding legitimate. Now Devlyn did not have to worry about court-martial or cashiering—only Tatiana's response.
"Out, Lancelot, your lady awaits! Oh, I don't think I've had such fun in months. A romance like this—Well, go, lad! And, Devlyn—"
Already at the door, the major turned back to see the prince's hand raised as if in blessing. "Welcome to the family!"