mentioned that Albert was an accomplished sportsman? He formed the habit, in his Coburg youth, of attending
“She could be arrested on the strength of the word alone,” von Stühlen persisted. “But the unfortunate girl Miss Armistead quacked this morning has died of her injuries, and that deepens the magnitude of the crime—to one of murder.”
“
“Of course.”
I caressed the stag. So smooth, the porcelain, it might have been my darling's thigh. “We do not know what you are thinking of, Count,” I said fretfully. “You used the word
“She might indeed talk—and Your Majesty is afraid of what she might say. . . .”
There was a quality in his voice that surprised me—a quality I could not like.
“One of my people searched Miss Armistead's lodgings this morning,” he persisted.
“They had better have been in church,” I returned tartly, “to pray for the repose of Prince Albert's soul.”
“They found a surprising quantity of papers in her study.”
“A
“—Letters of business, and correspondence with men of science. Apparently she even presumed to share her views with
A vise closed around my heart. That firm, sloping hand I had consigned to the flames—the false propriety of her address—the hideous things she had disclosed to my Beloved, and the irreparable damage she had done to his Reason . . . “Impossible! You forget yourself, Count.”
My darling's oldest friend drew a folded sheet of paper from his coat, and commenced to recite.
“Give me that paper at once!” I cried.
He eyed me satirically, the letter firmly in his grasp. Can I ever have committed the mistake of believing him handsome? Of believing him a paragon of our age?
“I am in possession of a number of such
“You can say this,” I faltered, “knowing how that Angelic Being
The dying stag trembled under my hand, and fell to the floor. Quite smashed. The jagged fragments glittered like knives in the firelight. All the knives were drawn out, on every side and by every hand; I kicked them away with my boot.
“My loyalty to Albert was of a different order from yours,” he told me quietly, his visage dreadfully white; “I will not speak of it here. The problem of the letters is otherwise. Let us call it Albert's legacy to his old friend . . . he certainly bequeathed me nothing else . . .”
“I wonder you
“Your Majesty ought to thank Providence that these letters came to
“A true friend would have burned them long since.” I said it with contempt. “That you have failed to do so— that you prefer to tease and bait us—suggests that you are our
“My devotion was to Albert,” he retorted. “But unlike him, I did not abandon my birthright to grovel at the foot of a foreign power. Poor Albert expired, worn out by his
His peculiar emphasis did not escape me. I had long suspected the jeering ridicule of Albert's German coterie—I knew the coarse nature of their remarks.
I strode in a rustle of bombazine to the Red Room door. The blackguard called after me.
“I take it, then, that I may sell these letters to the
I was tempted to tell him, as Wellington once urged a slighted mistress, to
He inclined his head.
He
“I shall offer them to the highest bidder for publication, solely as a last resort—and only then if I am convinced that Your Majesty has no regard for Albert's memory.”
I pressed my back to the door and stared at him. “Very well. And how must I demonstrate my regard, Count?”
“You might reward
My throat constricted with rage and grief. “So little!”
“I have never been an unreasonable man.”
I laughed—and felt immediately overcome by a remorse so profound it almost undid me. That I should
My fingers remained frozen on the door handle. If only my darling were present to advise me! That this man he had loved like a brother should blackmail me in my grief—
Von Stühlen waited, as patient as Death.
Chapter Nineteen
“I must go to St. Giles,” Georgiana said frantically. “Where is my wrap?”
“But you haven't eaten!” Fitzgerald protested. “There's nothing more you can do for Lizzie—she's gone, Georgiana. She's
“I might examine her.” She moved swiftly to the hall. “Certify the death. It's the least I can do—having failed to save her life.”
The bitterness in the words chastened him. “You mustn't blame yourself, lass. She was
Georgie stopped short, her bag in her hands. “Who else am I to blame? Do you seriously imagine that Uncle John ever lost a patient?”