Traitor and the Tunnel (26 page)

Mary obeyed.

Twenty-six

She arrived at Prince Bertie’s apartments in a state that couldn’t have been less appropriate for a tryst.

Trembling from her near escape. Undeniably sweaty. Hair perfunctorily tidied. Skirt torn. And, above al , in a rage. She would never see justice between these wal s – would never hear an apology or see that equerry shamed and stripped of his privilege. But more than justice, in this moment she wanted to kil him with her bare hands. None of this boded wel for her encounter with the Prince, for which she was so unprepared.

She dal ied as long as she dared, pacing the hal and trying to calm herself. She succeeded, to a certain extent. But pain shot through her shoulder whenever she tried to move it, and the bitterness of fear and anger was strong at the back of her mouth.

If he tried to kiss her, she’d probably punch him in the throat. Perhaps she ought to return to her room, wash her face and wait a quarter-hour. Yes. It was only wise, and she doubted the equerry would inform the Prince of what had happened in the meantime.

As she turned to go, the door to Prince Bertie’s apartments clicked open and she heard his querulous voice: “Is that you, Mary?”

Damn and blast. She dredged up the closest thing she had to a mild expression and turned. “Yes, sir.”

He wore a smoking jacket – peculiar, at this time of day – and a smal frown that made him look near-sighted. “Why were you going away?”

“I – I was afraid, sir.”

“Of me?” He blinked. “Oh – because of who I am?”

She twisted her hands, relaxing into the role of timid ingénue. “Yes, sir.”

“You mustn’t think of that. Come in.”

Mary al owed herself to be led into the Prince’s sitting room and given a glass of wine. She sipped it cautiously. “It’s very nice, sir.”

His smile was patronizing. “Of course; it’s a good French claret.” They sipped in silence for an awkward few minutes before he spoke again. “You must know, by now, how very much I admire you, Mary. I fear I haven’t been subtle in showing it.”

“Mrs Shaw warned me against immorality, sir.”

“Pooh! Pure jealousy, on her part. Mrs Shaw never set a male heart speeding in her life. I suppose she said you’d be ruined.”

“She did, sir.”

“Wel , you needn’t worry about that; I’l take care of you. And you needn’t cal me ‘sir’, either. Not when we’re here, like this.” He edged his chair nearer to hers, so that their knees were touching.

Mary battled a wave of nausea. She’d avoided thinking about the physical details of this encounter, until now. That had been an error. “Wh-what shal I cal you?”

“Cal me Edward.”

“Not Prince Bertie?”

He pul ed a face. “My mother cal s me Bertie.

When she’s not cal ing me Albert Edward Wettin.”

“I see.” And she did. This seduction was an attempt to balance his feelings of childish impotence.

It

was

ham-fisted

and

grossly

thoughtless, but it might serve to help him feel like an adult.

“Drink your wine, Mary.”

Her glass was very nearly ful . “I don’t want it to go to my head, sir.”

He smiled. “Ah, but I do.”

Mary battled another queasy tremor. Dipped her head and drank. What was she doing? Was there anything on earth she could say to extricate herself while preserving her cordial relations with the Prince? In al her far-from-sheltered life, she’d never imagined losing her virginity this way.

“That’s better,” he purred, as she lowered the half-empty glass.

But when he reached to take the goblet from her, she clutched it tighter. “Mayn’t I finish it, sir? It’s a pity to waste such a fine wine.”

His smile was half impatient, half indulgent. “Of course. You’l be more at ease, then.”

Did he real y believe so? She took a smal sip of claret, seeking her habitual discipline, mental and physical. It hadn’t entirely vanished. She stil had choices: she could fight and flee, jettisoning al chance of completing this case. Or she could comply with Bertie’s desires and preserve her cover a bit longer. In the first scenario, she would sabotage her first case as a ful y-fledged member of the Agency and create doubt about her suitability as an operative. In the second, she would sacrifice her very body – the only thing that was truly hers – for the Agency’s sake. Was it worth the price? She’d not heard from Anne or Felicity on any of the subjects she’d asked about; had had no contact since that mysterious Sunday summons.

Resentment flared within her, and with it panic.

They’d as good as left her alone, operating without support or context. Did they deserve the sacrifice of her womanly self-respect as wel ? The answer came swiftly, although she’d have preferred not to acknowledge it: it was only thanks to the Agency that she had dignity at al . They had found her. Rescued her. Made her who she was. She owed them everything.

Mary drew a deep breath. She could do this. It was al a matter of discipline, and she had plenty of that. She had no expectations of her own, anyway.

No beau, no plans for marriage. The only risk was to herself. The last mouthful of wine had a bitter flavour but she summoned a shaky smile. “Wel . Edward.”

His name was strange to utter – this felt like an enormous game of make-believe. Which it was, she reminded herself. It was al a charade.

He smiled. “You’re very unusual-looking. Rather beautiful. Have you Italian blood?”

“No, sir. My mother was Irish, though.”

“That accounts for the dark hair and eyes, then.”

He touched her cheek gently and she tried not to flinch. Her skin prickled and she fought the urge to scrape her face clean. It was a poor effort, but again he seemed not to notice. “Would you like another glass of wine?”

“I had better not, sir.”

“Edward.”

“Edward.”

“Wel , then—” He removed the glass from her reluctant fingers. Here, however, his polished seduction scene halted. He stared at her for a moment with an expression of frank, almost tortured longing. Then, without further preliminaries, launched himself towards her.

She toppled back into the chair with a startled gasp. His lips were surprisingly cool and not entirely unpleasant. They tasted of claret and tobacco. His moustache was a surprise: she couldn’t help but think of James Easton, the only other man she’d kissed, who was clean-shaven. Instantly, she regretted the comparison.

Bertie drew back for a moment to look at her.

“Your first kiss,” he said with pleasure. “I can tel .” He reapplied himself, now folding her into his arms, pressing forward. She stayed stil and passive, hands by her sides, stil trying to persuade herself that this would be al right. It was remarkable how the same acts – a kiss, a caress – could feel so different. There was nothing technical y wrong with Bertie: he didn’t smel bad or cause her physical pain. And yet her skin crawled at his touch, her stomach roiled in protest.

She focused on peripheral details – the steady ticking of a clock in the background, the soft swel of the chair-cushion behind her shoulder blades. But try as she might, the squeamish reality of what she was doing reasserted itself: Bertie’s lip-smacking technique, the pressure of his knee against her thigh, the scent of his pomade suddenly made so intimate.

“You taste so sweet,” he murmured. It was as though he was reading aloud from a script for the first time.

Mary said nothing, kept her gaze anywhere but on his face.

He removed her maid’s cap and dropped it on the floor. “That’s better.” He kissed her again, apparently unconcerned by her total lack of response.

She was doing wel . Even when Bertie grasped her injured shoulder, she managed not to flinch.

When his hand closed over her calf, she tensed only slightly, although even through thick, unglamorous wool en stockings, her skin prickled with revulsion.

He didn’t seem to notice, however, and instead began to delve into her skirts, rucking them up, muttering something incoherent. His breathing was faster, heavier, and Mary wondered if she could safely count on this being a short encounter.

But when his fingers met the bare flesh of her thigh, her brittle self-control snapped. “No!” She pushed his hand away with a force that surprised both of them and sprang to her feet. “I’m very sorry, Your Highness. I – I can’t.”

He’d tumbled backwards and landed on his bottom, and now stared up at her with shock and hurt. “What did you say?”

She scarcely believed it herself. “I thought I could do this to please you. But now I find that I can’t.”

“Why? What’s wrong with me?”

“Nothing in the world, Your Highness.” She wished he would stand up, instead of gaping up at her from the carpet.

“I thought you liked me.”

She drew a deep breath. “I think you’re a very kind gentleman.”

He pul ed a face. “‘Very kind’. Hel ’s bel s.” Then, suddenly angry, he scrambled to his feet. “But you came here. You drank wine with me. You let me kiss you!”

“I – I was honoured by your attentions, sir.” If he was apparently blind to the complexities of refusing the heir apparent, she was not the person to explain them to him.

“Then you can continue to be honoured, damn it!”

He seized her by the elbows and kissed her again, a kiss that was both angry and desperate.

Mary pushed him away firmly. “I’m sorry, sir, but no.” She tasted blood on her lower lip. “I apologize most humbly for having given you the wrong idea. I didn’t mean to change my mind; I thought I could –

go through with it, to please you. But I can’t.”

Bertie glared at her for a long minute. She stayed perfectly stil , wondering if he would try to force her, as his equerry had done. He was a smal er, softer man than his attendant; she could hurt him badly enough to make him stop, if she fought without reservation. But how could she possibly do that to the Prince of Wales? If she did, she’d be lucky to escape gaol. Yet she knew herself incapable of doing anything other than refusing him.

The moments stretched long, parlour-maid and Prince staring at each other in furious tension. Then, quite suddenly, Bertie seemed to buckle. He staggered back, face crumpling like that of a smal child, and fel into his armchair, emitting a high animal shriek. It took Mary a second to recognize it as a sob.

She stood over him, feeling distinctly foolish. What was the proper etiquette for comforting a Prince one had just rejected and made cry? Could she offer him a clean apron to blow his nose?

“Y-you – felt – sorry for me?” Bertie gasped, between sobs.

“Er – wel , I wouldn’t put it quite like that. I wanted to try to please you.”

“Why?”

“Wel … because you’re the Prince of Wales. And you seemed keen.”

“So it was pity!”

Mary watched with horror as he col apsed into huge, shuddering sobs and curled himself into a bal .

It didn’t help that he was correct. Pity hadn’t been her main incentive in agreeing to prostitute herself, but it had certainly helped make the prospect of doing so a shade less loathsome. There was nothing she could say now to improve the situation. It might be wiser to leave, before he recovered and was doubly furious with her – first for changing her mind, and then for witnessing his breakdown.

Yet she balked at simply running away. It was true that he’d be ashamed afterwards. He would resent her al the more for having seen him bawl. But he was appal ingly vulnerable, just now. The back of his neck – the only skin visible to her in his bal ed-up position – was pink with emotion. There was nobody to ring for: he’d not thank her for bringing the Queen or another servant or an equerry to the scene. And so Mary waited.

Twenty-seven

As the minutes dragged on, however, she became increasingly concerned: rather than crying himself out, Bertie’s histrionic grief seemed only to intensify.

Indeed, after ten minutes or so it seemed to pass from sobbing into a sort of frenzy. Most physicians believed hysteria to be an exclusively female ailment, but it was the closest description Mary could find for the Prince’s condition.

She stepped closer and said, quite loudly, “Your Highness.”

No break in the keening.

“Edward.” No, that was no good: he’d only adopted that name for his grown-up charade.

“Bertie!” Her tone was loud and forceful, but caused only the slightest hitch in his pattern of wails. The merest touch caused him to rol into an even tighter bal – like a hedgehog, she thought, protecting its tender bel y. It was a disrespectful analogy, but a distressingly apt one as wel : the hedgehog had no other defences. The young man before her was the future King of England – and the hedgehog defence was stil al he could manage.

Damn Ralph Beaulieu-Buckworth, she thought angrily. Bertie had enough work to do with ordinary growing up. Who knew how far the trauma of seeing his friend stabbed to death might have set him back? It occurred to her that she ought to curse Lang Jin Hai more, but she pushed that thought away with ruthless injustice. She approached Bertie, gripped his shoulder firmly and delivered a resounding slap across his left cheek.

He flailed wildly, arms churning the air until he clipped her solidly under the chin.

Her neck snapped back. Ears rang. A bright flash of light blocked out vision for a moment. And then she saw him cradling his hand, stil wailing, stil beyond himself. “No!” he screamed, eyes dilated in panic. “I did nothing! Wasn’t me!” Bertie’s eyes were fixed with horror on a spot some two feet from Mary.