A Flaw in the Blood

want your sympathy, Mr.Fitzgerald! Our doctors assure us there is every cause for hope.”

“There must be,while Prince Albert breathes.”

Her gaze slid away from his face. “He will not fight it as he ought. He has no tenacity for life. If it were I—”

“Your Majesty should have rallied days since.”

Perhaps she had been speaking only to herself. She flashed a look of pure hatred in his direction, as though he had overstepped some boundary.

“Good God, that we should waste our precious moments in this! Mr. Fitzgerald, some two decades ago you inserted yourself in our affairs, on the occasion of an attempt on our life in Green Park. You undertook, during the summer of 1840, to insinuate yourself among those who were not our friends—to purchase scurrilous information—in short, to besmirch the reputation of the Royal Family—with a view to vindicating the wretched creature who would have murdered his Queen.”

She had torn him to shreds in just this way, all those years ago. Then he was an ill-dressed solicitor’s clerk, cap crushed in his hands and heart pounding in his chest. And the dupe, Oxford, had waited to be hanged in Newgate Gaol.

“I was a servant of justice,Your Majesty!”

“You were an uncouth lackey of the Irish rabble,” she retorted. “And your late success has not improved you one whit. I know what you are, Patrick Fitzgerald. I know that you have chosen to insert yourself again in my affairs—that you will not rest until you have toppled this monarchy!”

Angry heat mounted in his cheeks. “That is a lie! Yes—though the Queen herself says it!”

“I would not spare a blackguard such as you one second of notice,” she continued, “were it not for the Angelic Being who lies wasting in the next room! Were it not for the ravings he has uttered—”

She broke off. She closed her eyes, swaying slightly.

“Ravings,” Fitzgerald repeated. “The Prince has ... wandered, in his fever?”

“Oh, God,” she murmured brokenly. “My reason—my reason ... Do you care nothing that I shall go mad?”

She sank heavily against the back of the sopha, her nails raking the silk.

“Majesty ...” He crossed toward her, afraid she would collapse at his feet—but one upraised arm checked his steps.

“Do not even think of touching me.” She said it venomously. “Get Jenner. He will tell you what to do.” 

She puled herself upright. Drew a shuddering breath. And, without glancing again in his direction, left him.

“What is it?” Georgie asked the moment he slid into the forward seat of the coach and the muffled wheels began to turn. “What did she want? What did she ask of you?”

“It doesn’t mater.”

“Tell me! I’ve waited nearly an hour—” Georgie bit her lip. “Please, Patrick.”

“I was ordered to sign a bit of paper,” he answered. “Affirming that every fact I discovered, every witness I deposed, every rumour I substantiated in the summer of 1840, was nothing more than a fabrication of my own treacherous Irish mind. And that, having repented of my calumnies, I hereby swear to lead a better life in allegiance to my Crown, so help me God—”

“No!” Georgie gasped. “But that is ... that is wicked! You did not sign it?”

“I threw it on the fire, lass.”

“Why does it mater? Why should she care about that old business? With the Prince so ill?”

“Lord alone knows. Poor thing was half out of her mind, I think.” He glanced at Georgiana—her luminous skin, her eyes  filled with intelligence and fatal truth. “She talked of conspiracy. Accused me of trying again to topple the monarchy. As though I ever have!”

“There must be some mistake. A misapprehension—”

“The Prince is raving, seemingly. In his fever.”

“And when you refused to recant?”

“Jenner threatened me. Informed me my life has no more purchase than a sparrow’s.” Fitzgerald smiled faintly. “If I’d signed, of course, he’d have made me an honourary Englishman.”

Humour for Georgie’s sake, but she knew Jenner, and she seized on his significance at once.

“He was there—attending to the Prince? Then it is typhoid.” She reached impulsively for the carriage door. “We must go back, Patrick. You know I could prevent the spread of contagion —”

Fitzgerald’s heart twisted. Al her passion in her beautiful eyes.

“Georgie love,” he said gently as the bells of Windsor began to toll, “the Prince is dead.”

Chapter Two

It is true that I was a dab of a girl at twenty,a coquettish young thing on Albert’s arm. I loved the attention of men, the interest and conversation of brilliant blades like William Lamb, Viscount Melbourne, who taught me when I first came to the throne how to think on every subject of importance. I loved Melbourne like a father—the father torn from me too early—and but for the impertinent who dared call me Mrs. Melbourne, might have lived entirely in his pocket, as the saying goes. He was such a droll character, despite a tendency to talk to himself or snore in church—and so clearly handsome at sixty, that I must have been quite overpowered to have met him in his prime. I was, however, not even thought of then—and he was his wife’s devoted slave. Lady Caroline Lamb trampled Melbourne’s character and name in the dirt, offered every possible exhibition of indecency to the wondering eyes of the ton, and destroyed all hope of future happiness by producing an imbecile son almost as recklessly as she seduced Byron—but Melbourne stood by her until her death.

In this, too, Melbourne most truly taught me the meaning of the word gentleman: one who backs his wife to the limit, however grievous the peccadillo or infraction; one who, having loved, can never recant or betray.

I may declare that Melbourne loved me, in his fashion—and had the tides of politics not utterly divided us, might have continued to haunt my Windsor walks until his death. As a woman’s first Prime Minister, he was all that could be desired. And though in later years he resented Albert’s monopoly of my interest, and a coolness fell between us, indeed I am very fortunate to have known him —

But I was speaking of myself, not dear William Lamb, who has been dead now these thirteen years.

I am capable of the most profound and intense love, but must confess that I am capable of loving only one person at a time. As a child, I adored dear Lehzen, my governess, and quite hated Mama; when Albert came, Melbourne was forced to quit my heart. So it has always been. And that is how it happens that I am lying here, with my cheek on Albert’s breast, my hands clenched in the bedclothes Jenner drew, at the last, over his dear face—I must endeavour to explain how love, the purest love, for that Angelic Being, has brought me to this parting.

Perhaps I was a little drunk early in my reign,with my first sips of independence and power—I had banished Mama from my household and thought the credit of a queen equal to even the most daring behaviour. I played favourites; snubbed those I ought to have embraced for political reasons; circulated scandal; laughed at the scoundrels of the press. I loved to dress, too—dearly loved the feel of silks and satins next to my skin, loved jewels and the way they took on the warmth of my full breasts, swelling above the line of my gowns. I was never beautiful, not even at twenty, my features too lumpen and