CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX #2
“Lily would have been three months into her pregnancy with me.
Surely the Prince of Wales knew about it.
Perhaps he even planned to tell them at Christmas during the happy family gathering, brazening the thing out—‘I have wonderful news!
I am married and she is expecting an heir!’
—but then death comes for his father first, shattering everything.
The queen is utterly devastated by grief, destroyed by it, withdrawing almost totally from society.
The prince could never have told her then—it surely would have killed her.
And he bears the burden of her blame for his father’s death.”
“Meanwhile she has been planning his marriage to a beautiful Danish princess,” Stoker said, picking up the thread.
“And what choice does he have but to acquiesce?
He must agree to the betrothal to atone for killing his father.”
“And so he relinquishes his future with Lily and her child in order to do his duty as his mother, as England, would define it.
He gives them up in order to expiate the sin of killing his own father.
He breaks all ties with the woman he loves and his child and marries for reasons of state.”
Stoker rubbed his chin.
“Plausible.
I would go so far as to say probable.
But that still does not tell us what his role has been in all of this.
Or what your uncle’s purpose in seeking you out has been.”
“That depends entirely on whether he knows the identity of Lily’s husband,” I pointed out.
“I suspect if we were to pry into Edmund de Clare’s associates in Ireland we would find separatists among them.
He comes from an old Catholic family.
It is entirely logical that he would support Home Rule.”
“And men have done quite a lot in order to be the power behind the throne,” he said with a nod towards the surrounding towers.
“These stones alone have seen their share of ruthless uncles.”
“Which would also account for why my uncle was so keen to remove you from the scene but without harming me,” I pointed out.
“He would want me in good health.”
“With an eye to?”
“Abducting me to Ireland seems the likeliest,” I said finally.
“Some Catholic stronghold where he can tuck me away and keep me under his thumb while he presents my claims.”
“Christ,” Stoker said with a grimace, “there are enough islands and hideaways, he could keep you hidden a hundred years or more and no one would find you.
And in the meantime, he could be filling your head with tales of family and God and free Ireland.”
“And doubtless marrying me off to a suitable separatist fellow of his choosing,” I said with a shudder.
“You might have a point.
If he marries you off and gets you breeding, he could do even more with your child than he could with you.
He wouldn’t even need you then,” he said in a sepulchral voice.
“If you are trying to frighten me, I assure you, my imagination is every bit as Gothic as yours.
I can well imagine the poisoned tea or the slim dagger in the night and the claims that I succumbed to a fever while everyone rallies around my infant,” I said repressively.
“But we can agree that dear uncle Edmund has no immediate designs upon my life.”
“But he would have had ample reason for wanting the baron dead,” Stoker pointed out.
“De Clare would need more than you in his power—he would need the proofs of your claims.
If Max refused to surrender them .
.
.”
His voice trailed off and I gave a shudder.
I hated to think that a man—a man I had liked and who had been kind to me—had been killed for me.
“But he is not the only possibility,” Stoker said with some relish.
“There is another candidate just as likely.”
I stared at him in dawning comprehension.
“It cannot be Mornaday!
He has come too often to our aid.”
Stoker shrugged.
“So it seems.
But has he been coming to our aid or merely thwarting your uncle’s attempts to spirit you out of England?
Think of it.
Your uncle, aside from having his men lay unfriendly arms upon me, has shown only an inclination to talk to you.
That you have refused him has driven him to increasingly more desperate actions—actions which have not harmed so much as a hair upon your head.”
“Bosh!”
I declared.
“He tried to have you drowned in the Thames, in case you have forgot.”
“Only because he thought I was your abductor.
And to an outsider, it would seem as if I had taken you into my power and kept you there.”
“You’re forgetting the incident at Paddington Station,” I reminded him triumphantly.
“I eluded him entirely of my own volition.
If I had truly been your captive, why wouldn’t I have seized the opportunity to go with my uncle and escape your clutches?”
“Perhaps he thinks I’ve mesmerized you.
Perhaps he thinks I have made dire threats of violence should you attempt to go.
Perhaps he thinks you’ve fallen prey to my considerable charms and are in love with me—to your own detriment.”
I pulled a face.
“Be serious.”
“I am.
We cannot know what your uncle believes the situation to be.
We can only hypothesize based upon his actions.
And his actions are those of a man who wishes to talk.”
“And Mornaday’s are those of a man who wishes to enact a rescue,” I countered.
“We have only his word for the fact that he is with Scotland Yard,” Stoker said.
“We did not ask him to present his credentials.”
“We were half drowned,” I reminded him.
“It was an awkward time to insist upon formalities.
Besides, if Mornaday had some nefarious purpose, why intervene at all?”
“To prevent your uncle from persuading you to leave the country.”
“Oh, that is preposterous!
Mornaday is no more a villain than you are,” I said with a touch of waspishness.
“You cannot discount a theory simply because it does not suit your prejudices,” he reminded me.
“That is bad science.”
“And this is not science.
It is something entirely different.
You still have not explained
how Mornaday might be involved if he is not a detective from Scotland Yard.
What is his purpose?”
He shrugged.
“To get within his power the previously unknown daughter of the Prince of Wales.”
“How does he even know of my existence?
For whom does he work?”
“Occam’s razor,” he said.
“The simplest explanation is the likeliest.
If only a handful of people knew of your existence and most are dead, the one still alive is the most logical person to have told him.”
“My father.
You believe
my father set Mornaday on my trail?
Do you think he had Max killed as well?”
“I don’t know.”
His brow was furrowed and I resisted the urge to throw something at him.
“You are seriously considering the possibility that the Prince of Wales, a man devoted to card games and shooting pheasants and genteel debauchery, has orchestrated a plot to murder his father’s oldest friend and run me to ground?”
“His father’s oldest friend,” Stoker said, repeating the words as if tasting them on his tongue.
“I hadn’t thought of it in quite that way, but you’re right.
It was Max he turned to when he needed a witness for his marriage to Lily.
And no doubt Max was the one who paid money—the prince’s money—into the Harbottle accounts for your keep.”
“You see?
Would a man really kill the family friend who has done so much for him?”
I demanded.
“I should think it would give him all the more reason,” was Stoker’s reply.