Airborne - The Hanover Restoration (23 page)

The day swept by on a whirlwind of recovery, revised plans, and a constant fight against exhaustion. There was something more than a little debilitating, I discovered, about being in fear for one’s life. Lack of sleep didn’t help.

The tunnel remained undisturbed, Julian reported. The attackers had come in through the west door to the cellar workshop, a door that had been barred as well as locked.

Without doubt, a traitor lived among us.

The attackers had completely ignored
Aurora
. Their target, the ladies inside the house. Which meant they were after Lexa.

Julian supervised the return of the airship to its mooring in the park, but his face only deviated from grim when his temper exploded into fury as some unfortunate minion mishandled his precious invention. Since I was once again watching from the west windows, I scribbled a hasty note and had Tillie deliver it.
Remember, your men didn’t sleep last night either.

Julian read my note, glared up at me. A sharp flip of his hand in my direction, and he turned back to what he’d been doing when Tillie interrupted him. My shoulders slumped, I heaved a sigh. But the next time someone’s hand slipped, he didn’t yell.

All in all, not the best day at the Abbey.

Late that evening, Tillie was brushing my hair when the dressing room door clicked open. Julian stepped into my bedchamber, closed the door behind him, and simply stood there. Tillie lowered the brush to the dressing table, bobbed a curtsey, and scurried from the room.

He leaned back against the door, his face leached of color. As I’m sure mine was. Obviously, we hoped never to repeat the last twenty-four hours.

“I failed you.”

“You married me for my brain. I used it.”

My inner voice, my common sense, and Papa all screamed, “
Minta!
” at the same moment. Fine. I know I should have been more conciliatory, but Rochefort wasn’t the only one who was exhausted.

Oddly enough, my abrupt retort didn’t seem to offend. Not looking the least bit annoyed, Julian pushed himself off the door and crossed to the dressing table. I managed a rueful smile. “We both look like something the cat dragged in,” I offered.

“Worse.”

“But we’re alive,” I pointed out. “The mob could have overrun the house. The sneak attackers might have burned us out. We could be dead, Julian. Lexa, dead. The monarchy, dead.
Aurora
destroyed. And yet we’re all here, and Lexa may still be queen.” I reached out and clasped his hand. “Are you not the one who told me we had to be married immediately, that you needed me for your plot to succeed?”

Julian pulled me to my feet, held me tight to his chest. “If not a complete failure,” he murmured against my hair, “I am certainly a fool. For I forgot we were a team. Partners. But believe me, Minta, I never anticipated you would be so actively caught up in this plot. I didn’t anticipate the danger.”

I widened my eyes at him. “
This
, from the man who insists on considering ‘worst case.’”

Julian groaned. “So wifely, my dear. You twist the knife with dexterity.”

I rose on tiptoes and kissed him. “Come to bed. Forgive the platitude, but the world always looks better after a good night’s sleep.”

“I doubt the morning sun will wipe away assassins and the Lord Protector’s troops. Or put our Miss Smythe on Britain’s throne.”

“Hush.” I put my fingers to his lips. “Dawn offers fresh insight into our problems, not miracles. And in our present condition we are worthless, to others and to ourselves.” I tugged him toward the bed and tucked him in, pulling the bedcoverings up to his chin. Crawling in from the opposite side of the bed, I nestled spoon-like beside him. ‘Tomorrow’ is a beautiful word,” I whispered in his ear.

A soft snort. “If I don’t spill a load of evangelicals on top of the Anglican cathedral.”

“Julian!”

His only answer was a snore.

Astonishingly, the sun rose bright and clear, with scarcely a stray cloud on the horizon. A promise of better days ahead? I could only hope. The Abbey ladies, including myself, continued our recuperation, quietly re-stoking our wells of courage, which had been sadly drained by those long, crowded hours in the lift. Julian and Matt, naturally, had to inspect every inch of the airship, followed by long hours examining every machine in the Abbey workshop to make certain our unwelcome visitors had not tampered with them.

The day after that, when we were all beginning to recover some spring to our step, Julian fulfilled his promise to make evangelicals fly. With a London agitator or two undoubtedly tucked up in the delegation of eight chosen men. Fortunately, it went well, for how could anyone, no matter how curmudgeonly, resist the joy of soaring over the treetops, villages, rolling farms, and pastureland of Hertfordshire?

And when the chief agitators brought their tale of an airship capable of controlled flight back to London?

From the windowseat in the west wing, I watched the airship return, the scramble to moor her securely. Watched as each man shook Julian’s hand as they descended from the ship. Watched each smile, hearty or feigned. My brain recognized what my heart did not want to see. The flight’s success confirmed the threat to whoever was behind these attacks. The airship worked, therefore it was dangerous.

“My lady, my lady!”

Tillie’s raised voice sent shivers through me. What now?

“Soames sent me to find you, my lady. A grand carriage is coming up the drive. With a crest on the side. Soames couldn’t quite make it out, but he thinks it looks
royal
.”

“Royal?” I echoed. “But we don’t have royalty any more, Tillie.”

“Aye, my lady, but that’s what Mr. Soames said.”

Fortunately, thinking I might encounter some of the delegation from the village, I had donned one of my better mourning gowns, the one that was lightened by a white fichu at the neck. Royalty? Impossible. And yet . . .

“Send a footman for Lord Rochefort,” I told her. “But first make sure Lexa stays in her suite. The other ladies as well. They’re not to come out until I say it’s safe.”

Tillie dashed off. I drew a deep breath and hastened toward the staircase.

When I reached the front hall, Soames was standing there gawping, looking as if he’d fade into the woodwork if he could. A young man stepped through the door, resplendent in his scarlet officer’s uniform. A captain, if I read his insignia correctly.

“I beg your pardon for the lack of ceremony,” I burbled. “I am Lady Rochefort. My husband will be here directly. The young officer glanced about the hall. Failing to find a butler, major d’omo, or anyone but the cowering Soames, he drew himself up to his considerable height of six feet or more and announced in stentorian tones: “His Highness, Colonel Prince George William Frederick Charles.”

I gulped and dropped into my deepest curtsey as an elaborately uniformed young man the same age as Lexa and myself strode through the door, his shako tucked under his arm.

Chapter 18

I was
barely
ten when Wellington, hero of the long battle with Napoleon, seized the government. Frankly, the fate of the King George III’s surviving sons held little interest for me, even less the fate of the king’s grandsons. I knew that the eldest surviving son, Prince Ernest Augustus, Duke of Cumberland, had settled for being King of Hanover. I knew his son George, born three days before Lexa, was blind. But I knew nothing about George III’s youngest son, the Duke of Cambridge, or his son, who was now bowing over my hand. If asked, I would have guessed the duke and his family were living quietly in the country somewhere, or even in exile. That the erstwhile Prince George was a colonel in the British army was more than a bit of a surprise.

Nor did the irony escape me. The three cousins—two Georges and Lexa—were born within two months of each other, as George III’s sons attempted to produce a future monarch after the shocking death of Charlotte, the Princess Royal, in childbirth. The result—three baby Hanovers born the year before the old king died, with Alexandrina Victoria taking precedence over her male cousins because her father, the Duke of Kent, was born before Cumberland
and
Cambridge.

Yet standing before me now was the son of the Duke of Cambridge, youngest of the many sons of George III. A young man, older than Lexa by two months, with royalty writ large across his solid form.

I gaped, like some country bumpkin at a
magic
show. Three potential candidates for the British throne, and two of them were under the Abbey roof,
my
roof, at this very moment.

“You appear astonished, my lady.”

“I–I beg your pardon, Your Highness. Not only is your visit unexpected, but I had not expected to see you in uniform.”

The young man in front of me, so obviously built to the model of his Hanoverian uncles, would undoubtedly go to flesh as he aged, but at the moment his body was lithe, his smile quick, if rueful, his eyes revealing both intelligence and wry humor. “Our Lord Protector is nothing if not an extraordinary strategist, my lady. He has undoubtedly read Sun Tzu, who said, ‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

Devil take it, I liked him. But was he, too, practicing Sun Tzu’s advice?

In vain I listened for Julian’s quick steps on the tiled floor between the hall and the lift. “Please come into the drawing room, Your Highness. I have sent for Rochefort and am certain he will be here shortly.” As I turned, I cocked an eyebrow at Soames, who hastened off to check on my laggard husband. “And, Jacob,” I said to one of the hovering footmen, “please ask Lady Thistlewaite to join us in the drawing room.”

A call for help, I admit it. One of the few times when I would appreciate the presence of my formidable mother-in law, for clearly our contretemps of two nights ago was producing repercussions already. Was Prince George here on his own business, or had he been sent by our Lord Protector to whom he clearly owed his livelihood?

A colonel at twenty-one—payment for his loyalty? Or was his advancement merely a sop to the monarchist movement, a casually tossed bone to keep him quiet?

Impossible to tell.

Interestingly, Prince George’s aides stationed themselves in the hall, standing stiffly upright in full military attention. A point in the prince’s favor, for he must have ordered them to allow him to venture in the dangers of the Abbey drawing room without escort.

Lady Thistlewaite had barely made her curtsey when Julian came charging through the door, as if he feared the prince might be holding
a
sword to our throats. Alas, my husband was still wearing his work clothes, his hair mussed, his workboots scuffed. He skidded to a halt and stared. Bowed. “I beg your pardon, Your Highness, but I was occupied in my workshop. If I had known you were coming . . .” Having made his point, he left the sentence hanging.

“My apologies, Rochefort. When I heard what happened here two nights ago, I felt the matter was of some urgency. May we talk?”

Julian waved the prince back to his seat and settled into a chair, facing him. “You may speak before my wife and my mother, Highness. What brings you to the Abbey
ventre à terre
?”

The prince’s rueful smile was back. If he hadn’t been so well trained, I suspected he might have squirmed in his seat. “You are correct, Rochefort. I came here with a sense of great urgency, but I failed to prepare the words that need to be said. I open my mouth and realize that almost anything I say could be treasonous or, at best, suspected of inciting treason.” He sighed. We waited, not daring to encourage him one way or the other.

Prince George’s gaze flicked over the entrances to the drawing room. Someone had thoughtfully closed both doors. He nodded. “Then let us have no roundaboutation,” he said at last. “I am here on behalf of my father, Cambridge, and for myself. Let us simply say that we wish to deliver a message to the monarchists and hope you may be able to direct that message where it belongs.”

Lady Thistlewaite could not quite stifle a gasp. As for myself, I felt doom closing in. We had known, after all, that agitators sent down from London could only mean the monarchist plot was known. And then there was the assassination attempt, whose target was still a mite uncertain.

His face grim, Julian offered no more than a tiny nod, encouraging the prince to continue. Shouldn’t he be denying any knowledge of monarchist conspirators?

“My father and I wish the monarchists to know we have no ambition for the throne. Even if the monarchy still existed, I would be fifth in line, after Kent’s girl—and, yes, we’re quite certain Alexandrina Victoria lives—and Hanover, his son George, and my own father. And I assure you, to rise to general in the British Army is my sole thought for the future.”

Even Julian was tongue-tied. To accept the message was treason. An admission that we were in contact with the monarchist conspiracy.

Contact? We
were
the monarchist conspiracy.

And young George had known exactly where to come.

The whole thing could be a trap.