The Mask Revealed (The Jacobite Chronicles Book 2) (22 page)

She smiled, in spite of her irritation.

“Yes, I do,” she said. “What’s that got to do with it?”

“And I love you,” he continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “And as a consequence, although I’ve never met them, I’m inclined towards liking Graeme, and Thomas and Jane, and even your wee stable boy John who’s away tae the militia, and who I’d normally have nae time for, because you like them, and I trust your judgement.”

Beth’s anger fizzled out, and she went over to him, placing one hand on his violet silk shoulder, and with the other smoothing his hair, which was dishevelled from removing his wig.

“So, what do you think of him, then?” Alex asked. “Ye had plenty of time to observe him while we were talking.”

She certainly had, and had taken full advantage of it, sitting quietly while Alex explained the dual purpose of his visit. Charles shared Alex’s delight that the Hanoverian king was paying for his friend to visit him, and it was agreed that Sir Anthony Peters would indeed immediately form a friendly and very public relationship with the prince, which would certainly be reported back to the duke of Newcastle by the various spies who always hung around the Court but were unable to worm their way into the prince’s inner circle. In the meantime, in private, they would come up with some usefully misleading information to pass on to Sir Horace Mann.

Charles had then sent for refreshments, and they had talked for a long time about the other reason for Alex’s visit.

“Of course I must be at the head of any force Louis sends into England,” Charles had cried, after hearing of Angus’s experience in the hothouse. He leapt up from his seat and began to pace the room. “This is what we have been praying for, working towards, for years. Why is Louis keeping us in the dark?” He stopped pacing and turned back to Alex. “Do you think my father knows?”

“I doubt it, Your Highness,” Alex replied. “Surely he would have told you if he did?”

“I’m not so sure,” said Charles, throwing himself down on a chair, before springing immediately up again, unable to be still in his excitement. “He feels I am too impulsive, I think. And sometimes I think he resents that our people are now looking to me to lead them, rather than him. But everything I do, I do to gain the crown for him.”

“He knows that.” Alex hesitated momentarily, then continued. “He worries only for your welfare. As do all your friends. We dinna ken if the rumours of the invasion are true. And if they are, we dinna ken what’s behind them. Louis canna be trusted. You know that, and so does your father.”

“We must find out,” said Charles determinedly. “And we must find this man Henri, and stop him before he can tell the Elector. Can you do this, Alex?”

“Aye, maybe. But it will no’ be easy. Sir Anthony doesna have many connections at the French Court, but I should be able to ingratiate myself. If Henri’s there, I’ll find him. About the invasion plans, I canna promise anything. If even most of Louis’ trusted ministers have no’ been informed, I doubt that an English dandy will be entrusted with Louis’ machinations.”

“Leave that to me,” said Charles. “I will find out soon enough what Louis intends, and if it is to invade my country, make no mistake, I will be there, at the head of the troops, to take the throne for my father.”

They had gone on to plan how the friendship between Sir Anthony and Prince Charles should develop. It was decided that initially the two men should go out together that evening, first to the theatre, and then on to a club, where they would avidly discuss fashion and the latest intrigues, and generally show to the world that the prince shared many of the interests of his new acquaintance.

Then they had left the twenty-three-year-old prince fizzing with excitement at the prospect of a possible French-led Jacobite invasion, and had returned to their apartment for a short rest.

Beth bent to plant a kiss on Alex’s chestnut waves.

“What do I think of him?” she said. “I think he is intelligent and ambitious, and frustrated, and every inch a prince. He exudes energy and enthusiasm, and will stop at nothing to win the throne. He has the youth and determination to do it. He is handsome, too, which helps. Well, no, not handsome exactly, but attractive. Very attractive.” She thought for a moment of the boorish, unpopular George, and his fat and arrogant son. “The Hanoverians are right to be worried about Charles. He’s dangerous. More dangerous than they know.”

“Aye,” said Alex. “And if I have my way, they’ll no’ know it until he’s marching on London at the head of an army. Ye havena said if ye like him, though? Do you?”

“Yes,” she said, after a pause. “I think it would be almost impossible not to. Yes, I like him. But I’m also afraid of him. He has magnetism, as do you, and the ability to charm people into doing anything he wants, against their better judgement, perhaps. Once he has won a man over, he could lead him willingly into the mouth of Hell, if he wished. He knows he has that power, too, and how to wield it, which makes him even more dangerous. It’s only my first impression, of course.”

Alex nodded.

“Ye’ll have plenty more chances to refine your view of him, I’m thinking,” he said. “We canna stay more than a few days, but Prince Charles will be spending most of those wi’ his new friends, Sir Anthony Peters and his wife. Then we’ll have to go straight off to Florence to report to Mann, then on to France to try and find Henri. Up to now he’s behaved exactly as I would have done in his situation, except that I would have checked to make sure the hothouse was empty before discussing secret matters. If he carries on being predictable, he’ll take the time to ensure his information is accurate and then go tae London to present it in person to Lord Carteret or the king. With luck, we’ll catch him before he does. I’m sorry,” he added.

“What for?” asked Beth.

“It’s no’ been much o’ a honeymoon for ye. Ye havena seen any of the tourist sights. We’ve hardly stopped tae breathe.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “You promised me travel, adventure and to meet interesting people, and you’re certainly giving me that. You didn’t promise me time to breathe. I’m not complaining. Most Jacobite ladies would give their right arm to meet the prince, let alone be kissed by him and called a trusted friend.”

“Ah, his magic’s working on you already,” Alex teased, shrugging off his jacket. “I’ll have to watch he doesna steal you from me.”

“Hmm, let me see,” she said. “Queen Elizabeth Stuart. Has a ring to it, doesn’t it?”

“Your ears’ll have a ring to them, and the Jacobite cause’ll be without its leader, an’ he tries anything on wi’ ye,” Alex said placidly, drawing her on to his knee. “So I have magnetism, do I? Ye’d let me lead ye into Hell?” he continued. She thought he’d missed that.

“You know you do,” she replied. “And Angus too.” She looked forward to meeting Duncan, to discovering if charisma was a general family trait, like blue eyes. “No, I wouldn’t let you or Charles lead me into Hell, not if I recognised what you were doing, anyway. But it’s not always easy to see where you’re going, when you’re dazzled.”

“I can see exactly where I’m going right now,” he said, bending his lips to hers. “And it’s no tae Hell, that’s for certain.”

For a while after that neither of them thought of Prince Charles Edward Stuart, or the prospective invasion.

* * *

Three days later, Beth could no longer state that she had not seen the tourist sights, of Rome at least, although she still had had no time to draw breath. Having firmly established his friendship with Sir Anthony during a noisy evening at the theatre, and cemented it with an equally riotous late-night drinking session which sent Alex reeling home to collapse on the bed without removing even his coat, let alone his make-up, the prince now sought to make up for the fact that Beth had seen little of Europe so far, by showing her the whole of Rome in four days. Her arm firmly tucked under his elbow, he whirled her through all the principal attractions, including the Pantheon, the Coliseum, the Castel Sant’ Angelo, St. Peter’s and the Vatican, Sir Anthony trailing servilely in their wake.

Noting her delight at the many fountains in the Vatican gardens, which she had actually had time to notice, having had to pause to remove a stone from her shoe, Charles dragged her immediately off to the Piazza Navona to see Bernini’s elaborate fountain of the four rivers, which was reputed to be the finest in Europe. There at least, they stopped for coffee, and Beth had a little time to contemplate her surroundings while Prince Charles smilingly acknowledged the greetings of the many passers-by who recognised him. Here at least he was treated as the Prince of Wales and heir to the throne of Great Britain, and received the homage of the public with an easy grace, often pausing to exchange a few words, casually scattering his charm far and wide and making no distinction between people of rank, merchants or street vendors.

“Bernini is, of course, also the author of the baldacchino you will have noticed under the dome of St. Peter’s,” Charles said.

Beth, sipping her coffee as slowly as possible, enjoying the respite, cast her mind back to the immense swirling mass of colour and light which was the impression she had gleaned in her whirlwind tour of St. Peter’s. She retained only a vague memory of twisted bronze columns over the tomb of the apostle.

“Yes, of course,” she said, praying he would not ask her to describe it, afraid that she would be hauled back to see it again if she was unable to.

“There was a great outcry at the time of its construction, was there not?” Sir Anthony asked, aware that Charles was, as Beth feared, about to ask her opinion of the details.

“Yes,” replied the prince, always happy to demonstrate his knowledge. “When they dug the foundations for the monument, they had to disturb a lot of the holy graves beneath the pavement. Quite a few of the workmen died in mysterious circumstances, and a lot of others refused to carry on, thinking the project was cursed by God.” He laughed.

“You don’t think it was, then?” Beth asked.

“No, of course not. I am a Catholic, of course, but I think the Church brings many of the criticisms against it on itself, with its outmoded superstition and inordinate reverence of holy relics, the vast majority of which are not genuine. Why, if all the fragments of the true cross were brought together, you could build a whole forest of crosses with them! The Church would do well to bring itself up to date a little. We live in enlightened times.” He looked at Beth’s face. “I am sorry. I have shocked you,” he said.

“Yes,” she replied. “No. I mean, you have surprised rather than shocked me, Your Highness.”

“You have been reading too many pamphlets published by my enemies.” He leaned forward in his chair, his brown eyes earnest. “Neither my father nor myself are the rabid Papists they make us out to be. My father employs many Protestants, and to that end has maintained an Anglican chapel at the palace, in order that his servants may worship as it pleases them. We believe absolutely in toleration. Every Christian should be able to worship as he wishes. I choose to worship in the Roman way; but neither my father nor myself would deny those who choose otherwise the same freedom we will demand for ourselves and all our Catholic subjects, when we come to the throne. Unlike George, we will employ those best suited for the position they are to occupy, regardless of religion.”

This was no attempt at cajolery or political propaganda, she realised; he meant what he was saying.

“But we digress,” he said, sitting back again and relaxing. “The pope held a similar view to myself on this, and ordered that the baldacchino be completed. He even sanctioned the stripping of the bronze from the Pantheon, which caused another outcry. There was no such controversy over the fountain here, although Bernini was not asked to submit a design for it.”

“How did he come to build it, then?” Beth asked.

“He was persuaded to submit a model anyway, and a friend of his placed it in a room where the pope could not fail to see it. Good friends are always worth cultivating. And now,” he said, leaping up, his batteries fully charged by the short break, “let us go to see the
fontana de trevi
, which is almost on your way home. It is not yet completed, of course, but is nevertheless worth viewing. And then I shall send a carriage for you, Sir Anthony, at eight o’ clock.”

***

“Does the man never sleep? Is he always like this?” Beth asked from her supine position on the sofa. She thought she had a zest for life, but the prince positively exuded energy from every pore.

“He does sleep, he just doesn’t need much of it, especially when he’s enjoying himself. And yes, he is nearly always like this. Are you revising your opinion of him?” He massaged her aching feet with his long fingers as he spoke, and Beth sighed contentedly.

“No,” she said. “I think he’ll make a wonderful king one day. He’s almost too good to be true. He genuinely cares about his people, and no one could deny he has the energy to cope with the burdens of ruling. And if he can convince people that he means what he says about religious tolerance, I don’t see how anyone will be able to resist him, once they meet him.”

“Yes, but convincing the people and getting him to Britain to meet them in the first place is not going to be easy,” Alex replied in the crisp English accent which went with his current appearance. “And he’s not perfect, by any means. You’ve not seen the negative side of him yet. He can be very arrogant and moody, and has a terrible temper when roused. He’s used to getting his own way, and when he’s set on something it’s very difficult to get him to change his mind. And he can drink. My God, can he drink. I thought I could hold my liquor, but Charles could drink me under the table any time. I’ve had a hangover for three days.”

“It’s a pity Angus isn’t going out with him tonight then, if he’s as impervious to alcohol as you say he is.”

“He is,” affirmed Alex. “But Charles could give him a run for his money, that’s for sure.”

“It’s a shame that Angus can’t meet him,” Beth said. “I know he’s disappointed, although he won’t admit it.”

Alex considered for a minute, then shook his head.

“It’s too risky,” he said. “The similarity between us doesn’t matter in normal society, where no one pays close attention to servants, and nobody knows Alex MacGregor anyway. But a lot of Charles’s friends know me. They’re not looking for anyone resembling Alex now, but if they see Angus, someone’s bound to notice his remarkable similarity to me and start making connections. Some of them have even met him before. John Murray has, although Angus was only ten or so at the time. I’m sorry for Angus, but it can’t be helped.”