The Prince in the Tower (5 page)

So saying, he handed his jacket to Meg, his
parasol to Simon, and turned a perfect somersault on the worn Aubusson carpet.

“No
w,” he shook out his ruffled shirt sleeves.  “Those whose sister has shamefully neglected their circus training may follow me to the lawn and learn correct cartwheel technique.  Those who have been asked to leave this house by the master,” he nodded to Bertie, “would be wise to do so.”

All
glances swiveled to Lucy, who looked as though she didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.  So she did neither.  Recovering swiftly, she cleared her throat, put her hand on Mr. Weilmunster’s arm, and led him to the marble foyer.  If he’d actually had a chin, now would have been the time to thrust it into the air.  There was a brief exchange of murmurs, than the distinct sound of a door being shut with exquisite care.  Lucy passed by the arched doorway to the drawing room and ran up the stairs, a muffled sob in her wake.  Lucy, the sweetest of sisters, was broken-hearted over that maworm of a Weilmunster.

As
much as Kate longed to join the others on the lawn, where Mr. Dalrymple was indeed turning admirable cartwheels, she nevertheless made her way painfully up to Lucy’s room.  Outside the closed door, she paused.  Wishing to heaven that their aunt, who always seemed to know the precise words to alleviate hurt or soothe ruffled feathers would magically appear, she took a deep breath and knocked on her sister’s door.  There was no reply, so she turned the knob, opening it slightly.

“Lu?  May I come in?”  There was still no answer.  Kate pushed the door open and peeked in.  Lucy was sitting in the window seat staring unseeing out the window.  In the distance bright
splashes of yellow, gold, bronze and scarlet made the autumn landscape stunningly beautiful. 

Quietly, Kate went to stand by her sister.  The deep red curls, so unlike her own stick-straight
, orangey mop, shone like the maple tree outside in the autumn sunlight.  Without any idea what to say, she raised her hand, stroking Lucy’s hair as her mother had comforted her when she’d cried.

Lucy sat stiff and
silent.  Then, with a sudden, wrenching sob, she turned to Kate.

“How
could you do that to me?  To him?  It's all your fault.”

Kate, stunned by the attack, was momentarily at a loss for words.

“
My
fault?”  Innocent for once, she stood, open-mouthed, as her sweet sister gave her a tongue lashing like she’d never had before.

“Yes, your fault
!”  Tears of anger continued to roll down Lucy's face.  “He’s never this way unless you’re around.  You bring out all that is worst in him, egging him on to say such horrible things.”

Hot with anger, Kate gave back as good as she got.

“I couldn’t bring out the worst in him if there was no worst to be found.  And furthermore, how can you stand there and defend him after he said such things about your family?  And not for the first time, I might add.”

“You just don’t understand.”

“No, I certainly don’t,” Kate snapped.

“A
dam is wise and knowing, and he truly wants only the best for those around him --”

“Is that why he continues to criticize you, me, your brothers and sisters?  Why he has so little sense of the rudiments of courtesy to trample on their feelings and dictate their behavior?”

“He’s actually quite kind --”

Kate cut her off ruthlessly.  “If his display just
now was an example of his kindness, I pity whomever arouses his anger.”

“You make fun of his beliefs. 
Adam truly wants to make the world a better place.  And I want to be by his side to help.”

Kate just shook her head, speechless. 

“Lucy, you are not well.  Let me call Dr. Doggett --” Truly concerned, Kate reached out to feel her sister's forehead.

Lucy shied a
way from Kate’s hand.  “I’m not feverish!  Just because I don’t like to be made fun of as one of those wild Thoreaus?  Because I don’t like being pointed at and talked about behind my back?  I’m not like you, Kate.  I just want peace and quiet and to do good things.  Adam can give me that.”

“Do you really believe that?”

“Yes.  Adam going to take holy orders.”

“Well, you are wrong,” Kate raged. 
“And you will only marry Adam Weilmunster over my dead body.”

She slammed the door as she left.  Behind her, she heard the crash as something shattered the mirror.  Lucy burst into tears.

“You did not handle that at all well.”

Kate shrieked.  Mr. Dalrymple grabbed her hand, pulling her into the alcove off the landing.

“How long have you been standing there eavesdropping?”

He grinned and rocked back on his silver-tasseled boots. 
“Not long.”

“You should be ashamed of yourself.”

“Trust me.  I have two sisters.  If I’m not mistaken, Lady Lucy had already begun to get over her attachment to our delightful Mr. Weilmunster at the assembly the other evening.  But now that you’re raging at him, trying to break them apart, she feels guilty at having thought about ending the engagement.”

“Why in heaven’s name would she feel guilty about getting rid of such a smarmy little man?”

Mr. Dalrymple raised his eyebrows.  “It’s called compassion.  A quality some people have.”

Kate set her jaw.  “I have compassion.”

“You, my dear girl,” he crossed his arms, leaning casually against the wall, “have many fine qualities.”

Kate stared, a blush sweeping over her face. 
A certain something shimmered, unspoken in the air between them.  Her breath came quicker and she couldn’t tear her gaze from his.

“What you should have done,” Mr. Dalrymple began, breaking the spell.  Kate cleared her throat and looked away, faintly embarrassed.  “Is give her permission to marry the blighter.  Once your opposition is gone, Juliet will find her passion for Romeo has disappeared.”

Kate frowned.  “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Why, thank you.”

“It might work.”  She turned to go back to Lucy’s bedchamber, but Mr. Dalrymple dodged in her way.  Placing his hand on the wall behind her, he leaned down, closer and closer.  Kate nervously licked her lips.  He grinned. 

“Let it wait for a few days.  It would look suspicious if you barged in now to give your permission.”

“I don’t barge.”

Mr. Dalrymple grinned and leaned closer.  Kate held her breath.

Bong!
  A booming gong reverberated up the stairs. 

“What the devil is that?” 

“Dinner is served,” intoned Curtis.

The meal that evening was a r
ather merry affair, if one was able to overlook the exquisite politeness between Lucy and Kate.  If Lucy’s smile was a shade less serene, and Kate’s brow more thunderous than the occasion called for, they all pretended not to notice.  The children pelted Mr. Dalrymple with questions.  The adults cast anxious looks at the sisters. 

Mr. Dalrymple, Kate noticed, threw off his dandified airs, answering the questions with aplomb.  Yes, he had been to
Astley’s often.  No, he couldn’t ride standing on a horse’s back.  Yes, he had to admit he was the best cartwheeler in England.  Simon, much to Kate’s consternation, asked if he was truly the Grey Cavalier, but Mr. Dalrymple was truthfully able to deny this.

“But you are going to play him in the pageant,” he stated as a matter of course.

“I beg your pardon?”  Mr. Dalrymple raised his eyebrows.  At the end of the table, he caught Kate shake her head ever so slightly at her brother.  The instincts of a cornered man kicked in and he knew a moment of apprehension.

“A
untie Alice said you were picked to be the Cavalier.”  Meg’s eyes were shining that her new hero had been given such an honor.

“No
, really--”

“I can’t wait!” said Bertie enthusiastically.  “Katie said we’ll get to shoot cannon and fight with real swords!”

Lady Alice, and Mr. Dalrymple looked disapprovingly at Kate.  “No, that’s not precisely what I--”

“Yes, you did, Katie.  You said we’d have a real coach robbery and soldiers galloping through the town.”

Once more the spectacle took shape in her mind.  “It’s going to be wonderful!  Except not real swords or real cannons.”  Bertie looked disappointed, so Kate compromised.  “Alright, real cannons, but no cannon balls.”

“Powder blanks,” supplied Edmund
.  The moment he opened his mouth he wished he hadn’t, for once more little Meg was beaming up at him and Simon looked as if he expected him to walk on water any moment.  “No.  Really.  I cannot be in the pageant.  But I promise I shall come and cheer for you all.”

Edmund tried a reassuring smile, but
he’d seriously underestimated the persuasive power of youngsters and, surprisingly, Lady Alice.  Not for nothing had she survived, humor intact, the escapades of her family and the shenanigans of the Ladies Aid Society, under the iron fist of the Countess of Malford.  Kate sat back, not uttering a word.  She didn’t have to.  Edmund found he was helpless in front of Lady Alice’s reasoned arguments and the pleading of the worshipful youngsters.

In less than five minutes he was flushed out, shot, and bagged.

“Good,” Lady Alice said briskly.  “We shall see you at rehearsal, then.  Nine of the clock, isn’t that correct, Katherine?”

Kate smirked.  “Yes, it is,
Aunt.  Would you care for more cherry tart, Mr. Dalrymple?”

“Thank
you, no.”  Under his breath, he hissed, “May I have a word with you, Lady Katherine?”

“No
, you may not, Lord Granville,” she murmured back.

Lady
Alice rose.  “Perhaps we shall leave Mr. Dalrymple to his port.”

Edmund rose as they began to troop out.  Bertie lingered
uncertainly behind.

“Won’t you join me, Bertie?  It’s dull work finishing this tart alone.”

Bertie’s chest swelled.  “Certainly, sir.”

The smile that Kate threw him as she left the dining room was so unaffectedly warm it took his breath away.

As he sat down, he shook his head.  Two levelers in less than a minute.

“Women,
Bertie, can be the very devil.”

“I know, sir,” he agreed fervently.

And they busied themselves with the more important task of finishing Cook’s excellent cherry tart.

***

“No, no, no!  First the Roundheads rush in,
then
the Royalists.”

From behind the
Rectory, Edmund could hear Kate as she directed the first rehearsal of the pageant.  Ordinarily, his chivalrous instincts might nudge him to help a lady in distress, but it was clear at first glance that Kate was in her element, bossing people around, in complete authority, even over the Countess of Malford.  In a village containing such characters as Oaksley, that was a feat indeed.

He himself, on the other hand, was taking full advantage of everyone’s preoccupation with the pageant.  Though it was high noon,
half the village was milling about the square.  Edmund had no worries about getting caught snooping.  Father Flannery was safely, if haplessly, at a makeshift desk on the green, a moth-eaten wig on his head, rehearsing his role as the heartless judge who sentenced Harry to have his neck stretched.  Those who were not actively involved in the pageant were either touring the village or indulging in a light nuncheon on the green in order to better watch the excitement.  The landlord and his wife rushed back and forth to serve their
al fresco
guests.  Jasper Jackson had set up an easel on the green, rapidly sketching portraits of those who wanted a keepsake of their visit to Captain Harrison’s lair.  On the far side of the pond, the antics of Oscar, The Amazing Prancing Pig delighted a group of children and adults.

In his pocket, Edmund had the small glass bead he’d found in the cavern. 
It was not that the bead itself would be proof positive enough to hang and convict the man, woman, or priest for counterfeiting and high treason.  It could just as easily have come from a woman’s gown.  However, Edmund had not been first cousin to Alphonse, a dandy of such fame that his Christian name sufficed, without knowing a thing or two about accoutrements to a fop’s wardrobe.  If this wasn’t contraband blue glass directly from Venice he’d eat his parasol.  It was a rare and fine rich turquoise color, never duplicated anywhere else.  It was highly prized by the truly fashionable, and virtually impossible to come by during this war.  Without a doubt it had been smuggled in, and Edmund was so certain he’d seen such beads on one of the hassocks favored by the priest, he was willing to risk publicly accusing a man of the cloth of felonious behavior of the highest order.

Edmund slipped through the back door of the
Rectory.  At the top of the kitchen stairs, he listened for movement, then spied the Flannery’s housekeeper having her portrait drawn in front of the stocks.  Closing the door behind him, he slipped across the hall to the stairs, bending almost double so he wouldn’t be seen from the windows.