Betrayal at Lisson Grove (Treason at Lisson Grove)

NARRAWAY WAS INTENSELY RELIEVED to see the familiar coast of Ireland slip away over the horizon with no coast guard or police boat in pursuit of them. At least for a few hours he could turn his attention to what he should do once he arrived at Holyhead. The obvious thing would be to catch the next train to London. Would it be so obvious a move that he might be apprehended? On the other hand, a delay might give anyone still bent on catching him a better chance to cross the Irish Sea in a lighter, perhaps faster boat, and arrest him before he could get any help.

He was standing on the deck gazing westward. Charlotte was beside him. She looked weary, and the marks of fear were still drawn deep into her face. Even so, he found her beautiful. He had long ago grown tired of unspoiled perfection. If that was what one hungered for—the color, the proportion, the smooth skin, the perfect balance of feature—there were works of art all over the world to stare at. Even the poorest man could find a copy for himself.

A real woman had warmth, vulnerability, fears, and blemishes of her own—or else how could she have any gentleness toward those of her mate? Without experience, one was a cup waiting to be filled—well crafted perhaps, but empty. And to a soul of any courage or passion, experience also meant a degree of pain, false starts, occasional bad judgments, a knowledge of loss. Young women were charming for a short while, but very soon they bored him.

He was used to loneliness, but there were times when its burden ached so deeply he could never be unaware of it. Standing on the deck with Charlotte, watching the wind unravel her hair and blow it across her face, was one such time.

She had already told him what she had learned of Talulla, of John Tyrone and the money, and of Fiachra McDaid. It was complicated. Some of the situation he had guessed from what O’Casey had told him, but he had not understood Talulla’s place in it. Had Fiachra not convinced her that her parents were innocent, she would not have blamed Cormac. She would still have blamed Narraway, of course, but that was fair. Kate’s death was as much his fault as anyone’s, insofar as it was foreseeable. He had known how Sean felt about her.

What did Talulla imagine Cormac could have done to save Sean? Sean was a rebel whose wife gave him up to the English. Was that betrayal treason to the spirit of Ireland, or just a practical decision to avoid more pointless, heartbreaking bloodshed? How many people were still alive who would not have been if it had happened? Perhaps half the people she knew.

But of course she wouldn’t see it that way. She couldn’t afford to. She needed her anger, and it was justified only if her parents were the victims.

And Fiachra? Narraway winced at his own blindness. How desperately he had misread him! He had concealed the passion of his Irish nationalism inside what had seemed to be a concern for the disenfranchised of all nations. The more Narraway thought about it, the more it made sense. Odd how often a sweeping love for all could be willing to sacrifice the one, or the ten, or the score, almost with indifference. Fiachra would see the glory of greater social justice, freedom for Ireland—and the price would slip through his fingers uncounted. He was a dreamer who stepped over the corpses without even seeing them. Under the charm there was ice—and by God he was clever. In law he had committed no crime. If justice ever reached him, it would be for some other reason, at another time.

Narraway looked at Charlotte again. She became aware of his gaze and turned to him.

“There’s no one anywhere on the whole sea,” she said with a slightly rueful smile. “I think we’re safe.”

The inclusion of herself in his escape gave him a sort of warmth that he was aware was ridiculous. He was behaving like a man of twenty.

“So far,” he agreed. “But when we get on the train at Holyhead you would be safer in a different carriage. I doubt there will be anyone looking for me, but it’s not impossible.”

“Who?” she said, as if dismissing the idea. “No one could have gotten here ahead of us.” Before he could answer she went on. “And don’t tell me they anticipated your escape. If they had, they’d have prevented it. Don’t be naïve, Victor. They wanted you hanged. It would be the perfect revenge for Sean.”

He winced. “You’re very blunt.”

“I suppose you just noticed that!” She gave a tiny, twisted smile.

“No, of course not. But that was unusual, even for you.”

“This is an unusual situation,” she said. “At least for me. Should I be trite if I asked you if you do it often?”

“Ah, Charlotte!” He brushed his hand through his heavy hair and turned away, needing to hide the emotion in his face from her. He needed it to be private, but—far more than that—he knew that it would embarrass her to realize how intense were his feelings for her.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly.

Hell, he swore to himself. He had not been quick enough.

“I know it’s serious,” she went on, apparently meaning something quite different.

A wave of relief swept over him, and, perversely, of disappointment. Did some part of him want her to know? If so, it must be suppressed. It would create a difficulty between them that could never be forgotten.

“Yes,” he agreed.

“Will you go to Lisson Grove?” Now she sounded anxious.

“No. I’d rather they didn’t even know I was back in England, and certainly not where.” He saw the relief in her face. “There’s only one person I dare trust totally, and that is Vespasia Cumming-Gould. I shall get off the train one or two stops before London and find a telephone. If I’m lucky I’ll be able to get hold of her straightaway. It’ll be long after dark by then. If not, I’ll find rooms and wait there until I can.”

His voice dropped to a more urgent note. “You should go home. You won’t be in any danger. Or else you could go to Vespasia’s house, if you prefer. Perhaps you should wait and see what she says.” He realized as he spoke that he had no idea what had happened to Pitt, even if he was safe. To send Charlotte back to a house with no one there but a strange maid was possibly a cruel thing to do. She had said before that her sister Emily was away somewhere, similarly her mother. God! What a mess. But if anything had happened to Pitt, no one would be able to comfort her. He could not bear to think of that.

Please heaven whoever was behind this did not think Pitt a sufficient danger to have done anything drastic to him. “We’ll get off a couple of stops before London,” he repeated. “And call Vespasia.”

“Good idea,” she agreed, turning back to watch the gulls circling over the white wake of the ship. The two of them stood side by side in silence, oddly comforted by the endless, rhythmic moving of the water and the pale wings of the birds echoing the curved line of it.

NARRAWAY WAS CONNECTED WITH Vespasia immediately. Only when he heard the sound of her voice, which was thin and a little crackly over the line, did he realize how overwhelmingly glad he was to speak with her.

“Victor! Where on earth are you?” she demanded. Then an instant later: “No. Do not tell me. Are you safe? Is Charlotte safe?”

“Yes, we are both safe,” he answered her. She was the only woman since his childhood who had ever made him feel as if he were accountable to her. “We are not far away, but I thought it better to speak to you before coming the rest of the journey.”

“Don’t,” she said simply. “It would be far better if you were to find some suitable place, which we shall not name, and we shall meet there. A very great deal has happened since you left, but there is far more that is about to happen. I do not know what that is, except that it is of profound importance, and it may be tragically violent. But I daresay you have deduced that for yourself. I rather fear that your whole trip to Ireland was designed to take you away from London. Everything else was incidental.”

“Who’s in charge now?” he asked, the chill seeping into him, even though he was standing in a very comfortable hotel hallway, looking from left to right every few moments to make sure he was still alone and not overheard. “Charles Austwick?”

“No,” she answered, and there was a heaviness in her voice, even over the wires. “That was only temporary. Thomas is back from France. That trip was entirely abortive. He has replaced Austwick, and is now in your office, and hating it.”

Narraway was so stunned for a moment he could think of no words adequate to his emotions—certainly none that he could repeat in front of Vespasia, or Charlotte, were she close enough to hear.

“Victor!” Vespasia said sharply.

“Yes … I’m here. What … what is going on?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I have a great fear that he has been placed there precisely because he cannot possibly cope with whatever atrocity is being planned. He has no experience in this kind of leadership. He has not the deviousness nor the subtlety of judgment to make the necessary unpleasant decisions. And there is no one there whom he can trust, which at least he knows. I am afraid he is quite appallingly alone, exactly as someone has designed he should be. His remarkable record of success as a policeman, and as a solver of crimes within Special Branch jurisdiction, will justify his being placed in your position. No one will be held to blame for choosing him …”

“You mean he’s there to take the blame when this storm breaks,” Narraway said bitterly.

“Precisely.” Her voice cracked a little. “Victor, we must beat this, and I have very little idea how. I don’t even know what it is they plan, but it is something very, very wrong indeed.”

She was brave; no one he knew had ever had more courage; she was clever and still beautiful … but she was also growing old and at times very much alone. Suddenly he was aware of her vulnerability: of the friends, and even the loves she had cared for passionately, and lost. She was perhaps a decade or so older than he. Suddenly he thought of her not as a force of society, or of nature, but as a woman, as capable of loneliness as he was himself.

“Do you remember the hostelry where we met Somerset Carlisle about eight years ago? We had the most excellent lobster for luncheon?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said unhesitatingly.

“We should meet there as soon as possible,” he told her. “Bring Pitt … please.”

“I shall be there by midnight,” she replied.

He was startled. “Midnight?”

“For heaven’s sake, Victor!” she said tartly. “What do you want to do, wait until breakfast? Don’t be absurd. You had better reserve us three rooms, in case there is any of the night left for sleeping.” Then she hesitated.

He wondered why. “Lady Vespasia?”

She gave a little sigh. “I dislike being offensive, but since I assume that you escaped from … where you were, you have little money, and I daresay are in less than your usually elegant state. You had better give my name, as if you were booking it for me, and tell them that I shall settle when I arrive. Better if you do not give anyone else’s name, your own, or Thomas’s.”

“Actually Charlotte had the foresight to pack my case for me, so I have all the respectable attire I shall need,” he replied with the first flash of amusement he had felt for some time.

“She did what?” Vespasia said coolly.

“She was obliged to leave the lodgings,” he exclaimed, still with a smile. “She did not wish to abandon my luggage, so she took it with her. If you don’t know me better than that, you should at least know her!”

“Quite so,” she said more gently. “I apologize. Indeed, I also know you. I shall see you as close to midnight as I am able to make it. I am very glad you are safe, Victor.”

That meant more to him than he had expected, so much more that he found himself suddenly unable to answer. He replaced the receiver on its hook in silence.

PITT WAS AT HOME, sitting at the kitchen table beginning his supper when Minnie Maude came into the room. Her face was pink, her eyes frightened, her usually untamed hair pulled even looser and badly pinned up at one side.

“What’s the matter?” Pitt said, instantly worried as well.

Minnie Maude took a deep breath and let it out shakily. “There’s a lady ’ere ter see yer, sir. I mean a real lady, like a duchess, or summink. Wot shall I do wif’ ’er, sir?”

“Oh.” Pitt felt a wave of relief wash over him, like warmth from a fire on cold flesh. “Show her in here, and then put the kettle on again.”

Minnie Maude held her guard. “No, sir, I mean a real lady, not jus’ some nice person, like.”

“Tall and slender, and very beautiful, despite the fact that she isn’t young anymore,” Pitt agreed. “And eyes that could freeze you at twenty paces, if you step out of line. Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould. Please ask her to come into the kitchen. She has been in here before. Then make her a cup of tea. We have some Earl Grey. We keep it for her.”

Minnie Maude stared at him as if he had lost his wits.

“Please,” he added.

“Yer’ll pardon me, sir,” Minnie Maude said shakily. “But yer look like yer bin dragged through an ’edge backward.”

Pitt pushed his hand through his hair. “She wouldn’t recognize me if I didn’t. Don’t leave her standing in the hall. Bring her here.”

“She in’t in the ’all, sir. She’s in the parlor,” Minnie Maude told him with disgust at his imagining she would do anything less.

“I apologize. Of course she is. Bring her here anyway.”

Defeated, she went to obey.

Pitt ate the last mouthful of his supper and cleared the table as Vespasia arrived in the doorway.

“I always liked this room,” she observed. “Thank you, Minnie Maude. Good evening, Thomas. I am sorry to have interrupted your dinner, but it is unavoidable.”

Behind him Minnie Maude skirted her and put the kettle onto the hob. Then she began to wash out the teapot in which Pitt’s tea had been, and prepare it to make a different brew for Vespasia. Her back was very straight, and her hands shook just a little.

Pitt did not interrupt Vespasia. He held one of the hard-backed kitchen chairs for her to be seated. She declined to take off her cape.

“I have just heard from Victor,” she told him. “On the telephone, from a railway station not far from the city. Charlotte was with him, and perfectly well. You have no need to concern yourself about her health, or anything else. However there are other matters of very great concern indeed. Matters that require your immediate and total attention.”

“Narraway?” His mind raced. She was being discreet, no doubt aware that Minnie Maude could hear all they said. It would be cruel, pointless, and possibly even dangerous to frighten her unnecessarily. Certainly she did not deserve it, apart from the very practical matter that he needed her common sense to care for his household and, most important, his children—at least until Charlotte returned. And, he admitted, he rather liked her. She was good-natured and not without spirit. There was something about her not totally unlike Gracie.

“Indeed.” Vespasia turned to Minnie Maude. “When you have made the tea, will you please go and pack a small case for your master, with what he will need for one night away from home. Clean personal linen and a clean shirt, and his customary toiletries. When you have it, bring it downstairs and leave it in the hall by the bottom step.”

Minnie Maude’s eyes widened. She blinked, as if wondering whether she dare confirm the orders with Pitt, or if she should simply obey them. Who was in charge?

They were giving the poor girl a great deal to become accustomed to in a very short while. He smiled at her. “Please do that, Minnie Maude. It appears I shall have to leave you. But also, I shall return before too long.”

“You may be extremely busy for some time,” Vespasia corrected him. “It is a very good thing that Minnie Maude is a responsible girl. You will need her. Now let us have tea and prepare to leave.”

As soon as the tea was poured and Minnie Maude was out of the room Pitt turned to Vespasia. The look on his face demanded she explain.

“It is a conclusion no longer avoidable that both you and Victor were drawn away from London for a very specific purpose,” she said, sipping delicately at her tea. “Victor was put out of office, with an attempt to have him at least imprisoned in Ireland, possibly hanged. You were lured away from London before that, so you, as the only person at Lisson Grove with an unquestionable personal loyalty to him, and the courage to fight for him, would not be there. He would be friendless, as indeed he was.”

Pitt would have interrupted Narraway to ask why, but he would not dare interrupt Vespasia.

“It appears that Charles Austwick is involved,” she continued. “To what degree, and for what purpose, we do not yet know, but the plot is widespread, dangerous, and probably violent.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “I think I can rely on Stoker, but so far as I can see, at the moment, he is the only one. There will be more, but I don’t know who they are, and I can’t afford any mistakes. Even one could be fatal. What I don’t understand is why Austwick made so little fuss at being removed from the leadership. It makes me fear that there is someone else who knows every move I make and who is reporting to him.”

She set her cup down. “The answer is uglier than that, my dear,” she said very quietly. “I think that what is planned is so wide and so final in its result that they wish you to be there to take the blame for Special Branch’s failure to prevent it. Then the branch can be recreated from the beginning with none of the experienced men who are there now, and be completely in the control of those who are behind this. Or alternatively, it might be disbanded altogether, as a force that has served its purpose in the past but is now manifestly no longer needed.”

The thought was so devastating that it took him several moments to grasp the full import of it. He was not promoted for merit, but as someone completely dispensable, a Judas goat to be sacrificed when Special Branch took the blame for failing to prevent some disaster. He should have been furiously angry, and he would be, eventually, when he absorbed the enormity of it and had time to think of himself. Now all he could deal with was the nature of the plot, and who was involved. How could they ever begin to fight against it?

He looked at Vespasia. He was startled to see the gentleness in her face, a deep and hurting compassion.

He forced himself to smile at her. In the same circumstances she would never have spent time pitying herself. He would not let her down by doing so.

“I’m trying to think what I would have been working on had I not gone to St. Malo,” he said aloud. “I don’t know if poor West was actually going to tell me anything that mattered, such as that Gower was a traitor, or if he was killed only to get me chasing Wrexham to France. I thought it was the former, but perhaps it wasn’t. Certainly that was the end of my involvement over here.”

“If you had been here you might have prevented Victor from having been removed from office,” she concluded. “On the other hand, you might have been implicated in the same thing, and removed also …” She stopped.

He shrugged. “Or killed.” He said what he knew she was thinking. “Sending me to France was better, much less obvious. Also, it seems they wanted me here now, to take the blame for this failure that is about to descend on us. I’ve been trying to think what cases we were most concerned with, what we may have learned had we had time.”

“We will consider it in my carriage on the way to our appointment,” she said, finishing her tea. “Minnie Maude will have your case packed any moment, and we should be on our way.”

He rose and went to say good night and—for the very immediate future—good-bye to his children. He gave Minnie Maude last instructions, and a little more money to ascertain that she had sufficient provisions. Then he collected his case and went outside to Vespasia’s carriage where it was waiting in the street. Within seconds they were moving briskly.

“I’ve already looked over everything that happened shortly before I left, and in Austwick’s notes since,” he began. “And in the reports from other people. I did it with Stoker. We saw something that I don’t yet understand, but it is very alarming.”

“What is it?” she asked quickly.

He told her about the violent men who had been seen in several different parts of England, and watched her face grow pale and very grave as he told her how old enemies had been seen together, as if they had a common cause.

“This is very serious,” she agreed. “There is something I also have heard whispers of while you have been away. I dismissed it at first as being the usual idealistic talk that has always been around among dreamers, always totally impractical. For example, certain social reformers seem to be creating plans as if they could get them through the House of Commons without difficulty. Some of the reforms were radical, and yet I admit there is a certain justice to them. I assumed they were simply naïve, but perhaps there is some major element that I have missed.”

They rode in silence for the length of Woburn Place toward Euston Road, then turned right with the stream of traffic and continued north until it became the Pentonville Road.

“I fear I know what element you have missed,” Pitt said at last.

“Violence?” she asked. “I cannot think of any one man, or even group of men, who would pass some of the legislation they are proposing. It would be pointless anyway. It would be sent back by the House of Lords, and then they would have to begin again. By that time the opposition would have collected its wits, and its arguments. They must know that.”

“Of course they do,” he agreed. “But if there were no House of Lords …”

The street lamps outside seemed harsh, the rattle of the carriage wheels unnaturally loud. “Another gunpowder plot?” she asked. “The country would be outraged. We hung, drew, and quartered Guy Fawkes and his conspirators. We might not be quite so barbaric this time, but I wouldn’t risk all I valued on it.” Her face was momentarily in the shadows as a higher, longer carriage passed between them and the nearest street lamps.

Nearly an hour later they arrived at the hostelry Narraway had chosen, tired, chilly, and uncomfortable. They greeted one another briefly, with intense emotion, then allowed the landlord to show them to the rooms they would occupy for the night. Then they were offered a private lounge where they might have whatever refreshments they wished, and be otherwise uninterrupted.

Pitt was filled with emotion to see Charlotte; joy just at the sight of her face, anxiety that she looked so tired. He was relieved that she was safe when she so easily might not have been; frustrated that he had no opportunity to be alone with her, even for a moment; and angry that she had been in such danger. She had acted recklessly and with no reference to his opinion or feelings. He felt painfully excluded. Narraway had been there and he had not. His reaction was childish; he was ashamed of it, but that did nothing to lessen its sharpness.

Then he looked at Narraway, and despite himself his anger melted. The man was exhausted. The lines in his face seemed more deeply cut than they had been just a week or two before; his dark eyes were bruised around the sockets, and he brushed his hair back impatiently with his thin, strong hands as if it were in his way.

They glanced at each other, no one knowing who was in command. Narraway had led Special Branch for years, but it was Pitt’s job now. And yet neither of them would preempt Vespasia’s seniority.

Vespasia smiled. “For heaven’s sake, Thomas, don’t sit there like a schoolboy waiting for permission to speak. You are the commander of Special Branch. What is your judgment of the situation? We will add to it, should we have something to offer.”

Pitt cleared his throat. He felt as if he were usurping Narraway’s place. Yet he was also aware that Narraway was weary and beaten, betrayed in ways that he had not foreseen, and accused of crimes where he could not prove his innocence. The situation was harsh; a little gentleness was needed in the few places where it was possible.

Carefully he repeated for Narraway what had happened from the time he and Gower had seen West murdered until he and Stoker had put together as many of the pieces as they could. He was aware that he was speaking of professional secrets in front of both Vespasia and Charlotte. It was something he had not done before, but the gravity of the situation allowed no luxury of exclusion. If they failed to restore justice, it would all become desperately public in a very short time anyway. How short a time he could only guess.

When he had finished he looked at Narraway.

“The House of Lords would be the obvious and most relevant target,” Narraway said slowly. “It would be the beginning of a revolution in our lives, a very dramatic one. God only knows what might follow. The French throne is already gone. The Austro-Hungarian is shaking, especially after that wretched business at Mayerling.” He glanced at Charlotte and saw the puzzlement in her face. “Six years ago, in ’89,” he explained, “Crown Prince Rudolf and his mistress shot themselves in a hunting lodge. All very messy and never really understood.” He leaned forward a little, his face resuming its gravity. “The other thrones of Europe are less secure than they used to be, and Russia is careering toward chaos if they don’t institute some sweeping reforms, very soon. Which is almost as likely as daffodils in November. They’re all hanging on with their fingers.”

“Not us,” Pitt argued. “The queen went through a shaky spell a few years ago, but her popularity’s returning.”

“Which is why if they struck here, at our hereditary privilege, the rest of Europe would have nothing with which to fight back,” Narraway responded. “Think about it, Pitt. If you were a passionate socialist and you wanted to sweep away the rights of a privileged class to rule over the rest of us, where would you strike? France has no ruling nobility. Spain isn’t going to affect the rest of us anymore. They used to be related to half Europe in Hapsburg times, but not now. Austria? They’re crumbling anyway. Germany? Bismarck is the real power. All the great royal houses of Europe are related to Victoria, one way or the other. If Victoria gets rid of her House of Lords, then it will be the beginning of the end for privilege by birth.”

“One cannot inherit honor or morality, Victor,” Vespasia said softly. “But one can learn from the cradle a sense of the past, and gratitude for its gifts. One can learn a responsibility toward the future, to guard and perhaps improve on what one has been given, and leave it whole for those who follow.”

His face pinched as he looked at her. “I am speaking their words, not my own, Lady Vespasia.” He bit his lip. “If we are to defeat them, we must know what they believe, and what they intend to do. If they can gain the power they will sweep away the good with the bad, because they don’t understand what it is to answer only to your conscience rather than to the voice of the people, which comes regardless whether or not they have the faintest idea what they are talking about.”

“I’m sorry,” she said very quietly. “I think perhaps I am frightened. Hysteria appals me.”

“It should,” he assured her. “The day there is no one left to fear it we are all lost.” He turned to Pitt. “Have you any idea as to what specific plans anyone has?”

“Very little,” Pitt admitted. “But I know who the enemy is.” He relayed to Narraway what he had told Vespasia about the different violent men who loathed one another, and yet appeared to have found a common cause.

“Where is Her Majesty now?” Narraway asked.

“Osborne,” Pitt replied. He felt his heart beating faster, harder. Other notes he had seen from various people came to mind: movements of men that were small and discreet, but those men’s names should have given pause to whoever was reading the reports. Narraway would have seen it. “I believe that’s where they’ll strike. It’s the most vulnerable and most immediate place.”

Narraway paled even further. “The queen?” He gave no exclamation, no word of anger or surprise; his emotion was too consuming. The thought of attacking Victoria herself was so shocking that all words were inadequate.

Pitt’s mind raced to the army, the police on the Isle of Wight, all the men he himself could call from other duties. Then another thought came to him: Was this what they were supposed to think? What if he responded by concentrating all his resources on Osborne House, and the actual attack came somewhere else?

“Be careful,” Narraway said quietly. “If we cause public alarm it could do all the damage they need.”

“I know.” Pitt was aware of Charlotte and Vespasia watching him as well. “I know that. I also know that they have probably a large space of time in which to strike. They could wait us out, then move as soon as we have relaxed.”

“I doubt it.” Narraway shook his head. “They know I escaped and they know you are back from France. I think it’s urgent, even immediate. And the men you named here in England, together, won’t wait. You should go back to Lisson Grove and—”

“I’m going to Osborne,” Pitt said, cutting across him. “I don’t have anyone else I can send, and if you’re right, we could already be late.”

“You’re going to Lisson Grove,” Narraway repeated. “You are head of Special Branch, not a foot soldier to be going into battle. What happens to the operation if you are shot, captured, or simply where no one can reach you? Stop thinking like an adventurer and think like a leader. You need to find out exactly whom you can trust, and you need to do it by the end of tomorrow.” He glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantel. “Today,” he corrected. “I’ll go to Osborne. I can at least warn them, perhaps find a way of holding off whatever attack there is until you can send men to relieve us.”

“You may not be let in,” Vespasia pointed out to him. “You have no standing now.”

Narraway winced. Clearly he had forgotten that aspect of his loss of office.

“I’ll come with you,” Vespasia said, not as an offer but as a statement. “I am known there. Unless I am very unfortunate, they will admit me, at least to the house. If I explain what has happened, and the danger, the butler will give me audience with the queen. I still have to decide what to tell her once I am in her company.”

Pitt did not argue. The logic of it was only too clear. He rose to his feet. “Then we had better return and begin. Charlotte, you will come with me as far as Keppel Street. Narraway and Aunt Vespasia had better take the carriage and set out for the Isle of Wight.”

Vespasia looked at Pitt, then at Narraway. “I think a couple of hours’ sleep would be wise,” she said firmly. “And then breakfast before we begin. We are going to make some very serious judgments, and perhaps fight some hard battles. We will not do it well if we are mentally or physically so much less than our best.”

Pitt wanted to argue with her, but he was exhausted. If it was in any way acceptable he would like to lie down for an hour or two and allow his mind to let go of everything. He couldn’t remember when he had last relaxed totally, let alone had the inner peace of knowing that Charlotte was beside him, that she was safe.

He looked at Narraway.

Narraway gave a bleak smile. “It’s good advice. We’ll get up at four, and leave at five.” He glanced toward Vespasia to see that it met with her agreement.

She nodded.

“I’m coming with you,” Charlotte said. There was no question in her voice, just a simple statement. She turned to Pitt. “I’m sorry. It is not a question of not wanting to be left out, or of any idea that I am indispensable. But I can’t let Aunt Vespasia travel alone. It would be remarked on, for a start. Surely the servants at Osborne would consider it very odd?”

Of course she was right. Pitt should have thought of it himself. It was a large omission on his part that he had not. “Of course,” he agreed. “Now let’s retire while we still have a couple of hours left.”

When they were upstairs and the door closed Charlotte looked at him with gentleness and intense apology. “I’m sorry …,” she began.

“Be quiet,” he answered. “Let’s just be together, while we can.”

She walked into his arms and held him close. He was so tired that he was almost asleep on his feet. Moments later, when they lay down, he was dimly aware that she was still holding him.

IN THE MORNING PITT left to return to Lisson Grove. Charlotte, Vespasia, and Narraway took the coach south along the main road to the nearest railway station to catch the next train to Southampton, and from there the ferry to the Isle of Wight.

“If nothing is happening yet we may have a little trouble in gaining an audience with the queen,” Narraway said when they were sitting in a private compartment in the train. The soothing rattle of the wheels over the rails rhythmically clattered at every joint. “But if the enemy are there already, we will have to think of a better way of getting inside.”

“Can we purchase a black Gladstone bag in Southampton?” Charlotte suggested. “With a few bottles and powders from an apothecary, Victor could pose as a doctor. I shall be his nurse.” She glanced at Vespasia. “Or your lady’s maid. I have no skills in either, but am sufficiently plainly dressed to pass, at least briefly.”

Vespasia considered for only a moment. “An excellent idea,” she agreed. “But we should get you a plainer gown, and an apron. A good white one, without ornament, should serve for either calling. I think Victor’s nurse would be better. The staff will be very familiar with lady’s maids; nurses they might know less. Do you agree, Victor?”

There was a flash of amusement in his eyes. “Of course. We will arrange it all as soon as we arrive at the station.”

“You think we are late already, don’t you?” Charlotte said to him.

He made no pretense. “Yes. If I were they, I would have acted by now.”

An hour and a half later they approached the spacious, comfortable house in which Queen Victoria had chosen to spend so many years of her life, particularly since the death of Prince Albert. Osborne seemed to offer her a comfort she found nowhere else in the more magnificent castles and palaces that were also hers.

The house looked totally at peace in the fitful spring sun. Most of the trees were in leaf, in a clean, almost gleaming translucency. The grass was vivid green. There was blossom on the blackthorn, and the hawthorn was in heavy bud.

Osborne was set in the gently rolling parkland that one would expect of any family mansion of the extremely wealthy. Much of the land was wooded, but there were also wide, well-kept sweeps of grass that gave it a feeling of great space and light. The house had been designed by Prince Albert himself, who had clearly much admired the opulent elegance of the Italian villas. It had two magnificent square towers, which were flat-topped and had tall windows on all sides. The main building copied the same squared lines, and the sunlight seemed to reflect on glass in every aspect. One could only imagine the beauty of the inside.

Their carriage pulled up and they alighted, thanking the driver and paying him.

“You’ll be wanting me to wait,” the cabbie said with a nod. “You can look, but that’s all. Her Majesty’s in residence. You don’t get no closer than this.”

Vespasia paid him generously. “No thank you. You may leave us.”

He shrugged and obeyed, turning his vehicle around and muttering to the horse about tourists with no sense.

“There is nothing for us to wait for either,” Narraway said ruefully. “I can’t tell anything from the outside, can you? It all looks just as I imagine it should. There’s even a gardener at work over there.” He did not point but inclined his head.

Charlotte glanced in the direction he indicated and saw a man bent over a hoe, his attention apparently on the ground. The scene looked rural and pleasantly domestic. Some of her anxiety eased. Perhaps they had been more frightened than necessary. They were in time. Now they must avoid looking foolish, not only for the sake of pride, but so that when they gave the warning the royal household staff would take them seriously. Anyway, it would not be long before Pitt would send reinforcements who were trained for just this sort of duty, and the danger would be past.

Unless, of course, they were mistaken, and the blow would strike somewhere else. Was this yet another brilliant diversion? Narraway forced himself to smile in the sunlight. “I feel a trifle ridiculous carrying this case now.”

“Hold on to it as if it were highly valuable to you,” Vespasia said very quietly. “You will need it. That man is no more a gardener than you are. He doesn’t know a weed from a flower. Don’t look at him, or he will become alarmed. Doctors called out to the queen are not concerned with men hoeing the heads off petunias.”

Charlotte felt the sun burn in her eyes. The huge house in front of them seemed to blur and go fuzzy in her vision. Ahead of her, Vespasia’s back was ruler-straight. Her head with its fashionable hat was as high and level as if she were sailing into a garden party as an honored guest.

They were met at the door by a butler whose white hair was scraped back from the high dome of his forehead as if he had run his hands through it almost hard enough to pull it out. He recognized Vespasia immediately.

“Good afternoon, Lady Vespasia,” he said, his voice shaking. “I am afraid Her Majesty is a little unwell today, and is not receiving any callers whatever. I’m so sorry we didn’t know in time to advise you. I would invite you in, but one of our housemaids has a fever that we would not wish anyone else to catch. I’m so sorry.”

“Most unpleasant for the poor girl,” Vespasia sympathized. “And for all the rest of you also. You are quite correct to take it seriously, of course. Fortunately I have brought Dr. Narraway with me and I’m sure he would be happy to see the girl and do whatever can be done for her. Sometimes a little tincture of quinine helps greatly. It might be wise for Her Majesty’s sake as well. It would be dreadful if she were to catch such a thing.”

The butler was lost for words. He drew in his breath, started to speak, and stopped again. The sweat stood out on his brow and his eyes blinked rapidly.

“I can see that you are distressed for her.” Vespasia spoke as reassuringly as she could, although her voice wavered a trifle also. “Perhaps in humanity, as well as wisdom, we should have Dr. Narraway look at her. If all your staff became infected you will be in a serious and most unpleasant situation.”

“Lady Vespasia, I cannot …”

Before he could finish, another, younger man appeared, also dressed as a servant. He was dark-haired, perhaps in his mid-thirties, and heavier set.

“Sir,” he said to the butler. “I think perhaps the lady is right. I just had word poor Mollie is getting worse. You’d better accept their offer and have them in.”

The butler looked at the man with loathing, but after one desperate glance at Vespasia, he surrendered.

“Thank you.” Vespasia stepped across the threshold; Charlotte and Narraway followed her.

The moment they were inside and the front door closed, it was apparent that they were prisoners. There were other men at the foot of the sweeping staircase and at the entrance to the kitchens and servants’ quarters.

“You didn’t have to do that!” the butler accused the other man.

“Oh, decidedly, we did,” the other contradicted. “They’d ’ave gone away knowing there was something wrong. Best we keep all this quiet. Don’t want the old lady upset.”

“No you don’t,” Vespasia agreed tartly. “If she has an attack and dies, you will be guilty not only of murder but of regicide. Do you imagine there is anywhere in the world that you could hide from that? Not that you would escape. We may have many ideas about the liberty or equality that we aspire to, even fight for, but no one will countenance the murder of the queen who has been on our throne longer than the lifetime of most of her subjects around the face of the earth. You would be torn apart, although I daresay that matters less to you than the complete discrediting of all your ideas.”

“Lady, keep a still tongue in yer head, or I’ll still it for yer. Whatever people feel about the queen, no one cares a jot if yer survive this or not,” the man said sharply. “Yer pushed yer way in here. Yer’ve no one but yerself to blame if it turns bad for yer.”

“This is …,” the butler began. Then, realizing he was only offering another hostage to fate, he bit off his words.

“Is anyone sick?” Vespasia inquired of no one in particular.

“No,” the butler admitted. “It’s what they told us to say.”

“Good. Then will you please conduct us to Her Majesty. If she is being held with the same courtesy that you are offering us, it might still be as well for Dr. Narraway to be close to her. You don’t want her to suffer any unnecessary ill effects. If she is not alive and well I imagine she will be of little use to you as a hostage.”

“How do I know ye’re a doctor?” the man said suspiciously, looking at Narraway.

“You don’t,” Narraway replied. “But what have you to lose? Do you think I mean her any harm?”

“What?”

“Do you think I mean her any harm?” Narraway repeated impatiently.

“Of course not! What kind of a stupid question is that?”

“The only kind that needs an answer. If I mean her no harm then it would be of less trouble to you to keep us all in the same room rather than use several. This is not so very large a house, for all its importance. I will at least keep her calm. Is that not in your interest?”

“What’s in that bag? Yer could have knives, even gas for all I know.”

“I am a physician, not a surgeon,” Narraway said tartly.

“Who’s she?” the man glanced at Charlotte.

“My nurse. Do you imagine I attend female patients without a chaperone?”

The man took the Gladstone bag from Narraway and opened it up. He saw only the few powders and potions they had bought from the apothecary in Southampton, all labeled. They had been careful, for precisely this reason, not to purchase anything that was an obvious weapon, not even small scissors for the cutting of bandages. Everything was exactly what it purported to be.

The man shut the bag again and turned toward his ally at the foot of the stairs. “Yer might as well take ’em up. We don’t want the old lady passing out on us.”

“Not yet, anyway,” the other man agreed. He jerked his hand toward the flight of stairs. “Come on, then. Yer wanted to meet Her Majesty—this is yer lucky day.”

It was the butler who conducted them up and then across the landing and knocked on the upstairs sitting room door. At the order from inside, he opened it and went in. A moment later he came out again. “Her Majesty will receive you, Lady Vespasia. You may go in.”

“Thank you,” Vespasia accepted, leading the way while Narraway and Charlotte followed a couple of steps behind her.

Victoria was seated in one of the comfortable, homely chairs in the well-used, very domestic living room. Only the height and ornate decoration of the ceiling reminded one that this was the home of the queen. She herself was a small, rather fat, elderly woman with a beaky nose and a very round face. Her hair was screwed back in an unflatteringly severe style. Her large eyes were pale and she was dressed entirely in black, which drained every shred of color from her skin. When she saw Vespasia for a second she blinked, and then she smiled.

“Vespasia. How very agreeable to see you. Come here!”

Vespasia went forward and dropped a graceful curtsy, her head slightly bowed, her back perfectly straight. “Your Majesty.”

“Who are these?” Victoria inquired, looking beyond Vespasia to Narraway and Charlotte. She lowered her voice only slightly. “Your maid, presumably. The man looks like a doctor. I didn’t send for a doctor. There’s nothing the matter with me. Every fool in this household is treating me as if I’m ill. I want to go for a walk in the garden, and I am being prevented. I am empress of a quarter of the world, and my own household won’t let me go for a walk in the garden!” Her voice was petulant. “Vespasia, come for a walk with me.” She made to rise to her feet, but she was too far back in the chair to do so without assistance, and rather too fat to do it with any grace.

“Ma’am, it would be better if you were to remain seated,” Vespasia said gently. “I am afraid I have some very harsh news to tell you …”

“Lady Vespasia!” Narraway warned.

“Be quiet, Victor,” Vespasia told him without turning her eyes away from the queen. “Her Majesty deserves to know the truth.”

“I demand to know it!” Victoria snapped. “What is going on?”

Narraway stepped back, surrendering with as much dignity as possible.

“I regret to say, ma’am,” Vespasia said frankly, “that Osborne House has been surrounded by armed men. Of what number I do not know, but several of them are inside and have taken your household prisoner.”

Victoria stared at her, then glanced past her at Narraway. “And who are you? One of those … traitors?”

“No, ma’am. Until very recently I was head of your Special Branch,” he replied gravely.

“Why are you not still so? Why did you leave your post?”

“I was dismissed, ma’am, by traitors within. But I have come now to be of whatever service I may until help arrives, as it will do. We have seen to it.”

“When?”

“I hope by nightfall, or shortly after,” Narraway replied. “First the new head of the branch must be absolutely certain whom he can trust.”

She sat very still for several moments. The ticking of the longcase clock seemed to fill the room.

“Then we had best wait with some composure,” Victoria said at last. “We will fight if necessary.”

“Before that we may have some chance to attempt escape …,” Narraway began.

Victoria glared at him again. “I am Queen of England and the British Empire, young man. In my reign we have stood our ground and won wars in every corner of the earth. Am I to run away from a group of hooligans in my own house? In Osborne!”

Narraway stood a little more uprightly.

Vespasia held her head high.

Charlotte found her own back ramrod-straight.

“I should think so!” Victoria said, regarding them with a very slight approval. “To quote one of my greatest soldiers, Sir Colin Campbell, who said at the battle of Balaclava, ‘Here we stand, and here we die.’ ” She smiled very slightly. “But since it may be some time, you may sit, if you wish.”