There was a hushed silence.
Then Mr. Palfrey said, “Your Royal Majesty, my lords, my ladies, and gentlemen. This is not the Princess Felicity of Brasnia. This is Felicity Channing, my stepdaughter, who stole my jewels and ran away.”
Miss Barchester laughed. “She is nothing but a paper princess,” she said.
A paper princess! A great hissing and whispering set the feathers nodding and dipping. Queen Charlotte looked at the stricken Felicity with mild curiosity. Then she raised her hand. Two Yeomen of the Guard stepped from behind her throne.
Lord Arthur came to stand beside Felicity and held her hand firmly in his own.
“This is indeed Felicity Channing,” he said, “who is to be my wife. Your Royal Highness, let me tell you her story.”
“Better let me tell it,” said a portly man, waddling forward. “I am Mr. Guy Clough, tobacco planter. I carry on me the late Mrs. Palfrey's last will, which this man'-he pointed at Mr. Palfrey-'tried to destroy.”
“Pray go on,” said the Queen. “We have become interested.”
There were screams and yells from the staircase outside, where the guests who had not yet gained the drawing room, but who had begun to hear garbled whispers of an attempted assassination by a Turk, were beginning to push and shove.
So Mr. Clough told Bessie's story and handed the will to Felicity.
As everyone pressed forward to look over Felicity's shoulder, Mr. Palfrey backed away. The down staircase outside was empty; no one wanted to leave until they had learned every bit of the drama. He darted down it and disappeared into the night.
“Quite like a gothic romance,” sighed one sentimental lady. Ushers moved in to keep the guests in line. But Miss Barchester stood where she was, unable to believe the turn of events in Felicity's favor.
Queen Charlotte looked across at Miss Barchester, and her little monkey face creased in a frown. “That woman,” she said. “Have her removed.”
“It was nothing to do with me,” said Miss Barchester, turning white.
“You are only wearing six feathers,” said the little Queen. “It is an insult to us. We suggest you do not aspire to social circles until you learn to dress.”
– espite her bewilderment and distress, Felicity could find it in her heart to be sorry for the ex-fiancee of Lord Arthur.
Tears of humiliation were running down Miss Barchester's cheeks as she made her way down the grand staircase.
“Let us go,” said Lord Arthur in Felicity's ear.
Clutching her mother's will, Felicity let him escort her down the stairs, past the goggling guests, who were still demanding to know if anyone had seen this murdering Turk.
At his hotel, Mr. Palfrey packed feverishly. He knew that the minute the initial shock of all the revelations had died down, a warrant would be out for his arrest. He was bending over his largest trunk, stuffing in shirts and small-clothes, when he heard the door behind him swing open. His heart gave a jump. But when he turned around, it was only Miss Barchester standing there, still in her court dress and with the despised six feathers standing up on her head.
“You have ruined me,” said Miss Barchester.
“It was you who had the silly idea of challenging her in the middle of the Queen's drawing room,” pointed out Mr. Palfrey acidly. “You had better leave, or they might arrest you as well.”
“I am ashamed. I shall never dare show my face in polite circles again,” said Miss Barchester. “I shall go with you.”
“Charmed, dear lady,” said Mr. Palfrey, still packing. “But may I point out that I have only enough money on me to take me out of the country. What I shall do when I get to the Low Countries to survive is beyond me.”
“Marry me,” said Miss Barchester, “and Papa will give you my dowry.”
“How much?”
“Five thousand pounds.”
“Nearly enough, but not quite.”
“You still hold the Channing estates. Go to the bank in the morning and draw out as much as you can.”
“But the banker will have learned of all the fuss from the newspapers.”
“Then, you must trust to the fact that men of business rarely have time to read their newspapers first thing in the morning. I shall go with you. Perhaps this Channing creature will not want any more fuss and scandal and will not prosecute. So, do not draw out all the money, only enough to keep us comfortably.”
“I must leave this hotel immediately. Where shall I stay the night?”
“With my parents.”
“They will think it most odd.”
“Not them,” said Miss Barchester bitterly, thinking that her father would only see Mr. Palfrey as a further extension to his estate. “Come, I shall help you pack.”
There was something about Miss Barchester's stern, cold face that reminded Mr. Palfrey of his mother. With a weak little smile, he moved over and let her help him.
Chapter Ten
Felicity was roused early the next morning by Spinks, the butler.
“An urgent message from Lord Arthur Bessamy,” he said sonorously. “We are to bar the door, close the shutters, and lock the windows.”
“Good heavens! What has happened? Has Napoleon invaded?”
“Vengeance is mine, sayeth the lord.”
“Pull yourself together, Spinks. Did not my lord explain the reason for his warning?”
“No, Your Royal Highness. But the end is nigh.”
“Don't be silly. Rouse Miss Chubb immediately, and bring me the morning papers.”
“I do not think that is a very good idea.”
“Do as you are told, Spinks,” said Felicity sharply. “And you may now address me as Miss Channing. The masquerade is over.”
“Everything is over,” said Spinks in a hollow voice.
The minute he had left, Felicity jumped from her bed and made a hasty toilet. Miss Chubb came in just as Felicity was finishing dressing.
“What is all this?” asked the governess. “Has Spinks gone mad?”
“Something awful is about to happen or Lord Arthur would not have sent a message.”
There came a scratching at the door, and the tutor, Mr. Silver, came in, carrying the morning papers and with an expression on his face as gloomy as that of the butler.
“Is it war?” asked Felicity nervously. “Have the French come?”
“Worse than that,” said the tutor. He silently handed Felicity the newspapers and told her to look at the social columns.
Each paper carried a full account of the Queen's drawing room, and each damned this upstart, Felicity Channing, who had dared to masquerade as a royal princess and play a trick on “our beloved Queen Charlotte.” There was not a word of Mr. Palfrey's perfidy. Tricking her out of her inheritance and nearly murdering a maid was small beer in the eyes of the press compared to Felicity's audacity in tricking London society. “We had long noted,” said the
PAPER PRINCESS screamed all the other journals. Miss Barchester had had her revenge after all.
“He will not want to marry me after this disgrace,” whispered Felicity. “Lord Arthur's father, the duke, is very powerful and will stop the marriage.”
“Listen!” said Mr. Silver. There were howls and cries outside, growing closer.
They sat staring at one another. Soon an angry mob was below the windows.
