Page 30 of The Heir (A Young Queen Victoria Mystery #1)

V ictoria’s day dragged on. Mama’s temper did not improve.

She found fault with Victoria, of course, but also with each of the ladies in turn—berating them all for being slow, for not attending, for general sloth.

But Victoria was not permitted to so much as go to the other side of the room.

She must sit beside Mama’s chair, so that Mama could watch over her shoulder as she wrote in her journal and read her letters and made her comments on each one.

Dinner was a relief, because at least it gave Mama something different to complain about. Afterward, she was content to let Victoria practice her piano while she sat with her letters. This at least allowed Victoria some occupation for her restless thoughts and feelings.

But Victoria could not help noticing that Sir John did not make his customary appearance.

Is that what’s got you in such a stew, Mama?

So when the door opened, the entire room jumped. But it was not Sir John.

It was Mrs. Bingham, Aunt Sophia’s favorite waiting woman. She handed Lady Flora a paper note.

“A note for Her Highness from Princess Sophia, ma’am,” Lady Flora announced.

Mama held out her hand. Victoria would have liked to object, but it was useless. Of course Mama must read it first.

Mama scanned the lines and muttered something.

“What does she say?”

For a moment, Victoria thought Mama would refuse to tell her. “She asks you to come up and have a glass of that ridiculous cordial with her before bed.”

“May I? She has been so troubled of late. Perhaps I can help soothe her mind.”

Mama sighed. Victoria watched her look for reasons to refuse.

“A half hour,” she said finally. “No more. Lady Flora will go with you.”

Victoria swallowed her protest. What protest could she reasonably make? That she had things to say to her aunt that she did not want Lady Flora to hear?

“Thank you, Mama.” Victoria kissed her cheek and let Mama pat her cheek in return.

“One half hour. You must not be up too late. I want you at your best tomorrow.”

* * *

Victoria knew that Lady Flora did not like the dark. She did not so much walk through the long line of empty rooms as march, as if the deliberate belligerence of her movements would keep any waiting goblins from catching up with her.

She didn’t like Aunt Sophia, either. She regarded her as a pathetic old woman who should have been put out to pasture years ago. Somehow, she managed to ignore the fact that as far as the rest of the court was concerned, being housed in Kensington Palace was being put out to pasture.

But then Victoria could understand how a lady with such a high opinion of herself as Lady Flora might not want to consider that fact too closely.

They had almost reached Aunt Sophia’s private apartments. Lady Flora opened the door to the “queen’s writing room.” But the room was already occupied. Uncle Sussex stood at the mantel, a lamp burning beside him. He had the mantel clock turned around and its back open.

“Ah! Vickelchen and Lady Flora.” He smiled but barely spared them a glance.

“Don’t you mind me. Some fool has forgotten to wind this one.

I’m just setting it to rights.” He fussed with something in the mechanism, and the clock chimed gently.

“There we are!” He closed the back carefully and turned to them.

“Now.” He pulled out an enormous handkerchief to wipe his hands.

“What brings you to these distant domains?” He spread his hands, indicating the tiny, dark room.

“A royal invitation from the Princess Sophia herself,” declared Victoria.

“Truly? Well, well, such an honor. If you will step into my antechamber, I shall go and see if Her Very Royal Highness is receiving.” Uncle Sussex held out his arm.

Victoria giggled at the little game. Uncle Sussex beamed. Lady Flora’s smile said she was tolerating this show, because really, what else could she do?

This side of the room had two doors; Uncle Sussex pushed open the one at his right hand, which led to what had once been a private study. It was an odd choice, but he was smiling so genially, Victoria let herself go along with the game.

But then the other door opened, and through it walked Sir John. He was accompanied by another man. This one wore a clerk’s black coat and stock.

Victoria stared. So did Sir John. So did the man in the black coat.

“What are you doing here?” demanded Sir John. “Ma’am?” he added belatedly.

“Aunt Sophia invited me,” Victoria answered. “What are you doing?” She said this to Sir John, but she kept her attention on the man in the black coat. The man bowed and slipped his gaze sideways to Sir John.

“There was business to attend to,” said Sir John. “I am surprised your mother permitted you to come so near your bedtime. I shall speak with her about it.” He turned to the man beside him. “You may go on now, Rea. We will talk tomorrow.”

Victoria felt her heart thump. This tall, bright-eyed man with his head thrusting forward was Mr. Rea?

He smiled at them all, bobbing his head randomly, as if agreeing with each of them in turn.

Victoria was so busy watching him that she forgot to speak.

Her silence gave Sir John room to usher orders.

“Lady Flora, you may thank Princess Sophia for her invitation but tell her it is too late for the princess to be out of her rooms. Assure her that Her Highness will attend her at some more appropriate time. I will escort Her Highness back to her rooms.” He helped himself to the lamp that Mr. Rea held.

“Aunt Sophia invited me,” protested Victoria. “I want—”

But it was already too late. Lady Flora had curtsied, and Mr. Rea had bowed, and they had all begun to move in the directions Sir John had pointed them. Sir John turned to her and held out his arm.

Victoria looked to her uncle. But Uncle Sussex just shrugged apologetically.

She could call Lady Flora back, give orders, insist she would go to see her aunt, but what good would it do? She could not now see Aunt Sophia alone. Sir John would doubtless insist on coming in with her, whether she wanted him to or not.

She had been checked, and she knew it.

Victoria looked down at Sir John and the arm he held out. She had two choices—take his arm or walk away into the dark on her own and risk making a fool of herself by running into a door or tripping over something unseen.

She took his arm.

They walked down the long straight row of rooms. Sir John led, his long strides forcing Victoria to scurry to keep up and leaving her breathless and awkward.

He does it on purpose.

Well, if he would insist on keeping her close, he could suffer the consequences. “Why were you in Aunt Sophia’s rooms?”

“Logic would suggest I had business with Her Royal Highness.”

“What possible business could you have with my aunt?”

“Ma’am, despite your hurtful resentment of me, I have served your family faithfully for much of my life, and I shall continue to do so as long as I am able.

Your aunt has very few people to whom she can turn for help with practical matters.

Your mother some time ago suggested I should help her, and so I do. ”

“Practical matters? You mean with her money?” Sir John handles Aunt Sophia’s money?

“I assist her, as I assist your mother,” said Sir John. “As I will assist you as your private secretary when your time comes.”

“Whether I want you to or not,” muttered Victoria.

Sir John halted. He faced her, holding the lamp up high over them both. The shadows flickered, sharpening the bones and planes of his long face but turning his eyes to nothing but empty black holes.

“One day,” he breathed, “you will find yourself alone, surrounded entirely by wolves, all eager to tear out that dainty throat of yours. And on that day, you will turn to me, as your mother did, as your aunt does. You will acknowledge that we are bound together, that you need me and you will always need me, because I am the only one you can trust to save you.”

He stepped closer. He was tall and broad. He smelled of sour sweat and old wine. Victoria’s mouth had gone dry. She tried to back away and stumbled, and Sir John smiled.

“You do not believe me, because you are stubborn and childish, but your day will come.” His voice was harsh and muffled. The wooden walls deadened all the echoes. Victoria was suddenly painfully aware of the vast chain of empty rooms around them.

“But don’t worry, child,” said Sir John, his tone a sick imitation of gentleness. “I will be just as faithful to you as your secretary as I have been to the other women who have trusted me to be their champion. And you will be very glad to make me your man.”

She couldn’t breathe. She was afraid. Of what exactly, she could not say—of his touch, of his grin, of the shadows behind him, of the thoughts swirling behind the empty holes of his eyes.

Then, as if that fear were dry kindling, anger burst into flame. She wanted to scream. She wanted to demand he say what he knew about Dr. Maton and about the rumors he helped spread.

Was he your man? Did he carry your tales to the board, to Parliament, and St. James’s? Were you using him to keep me and Mama under your thumb?

She could lash out now, let him know she would not be fooled.

I know what you are. I know what you are doing!

Then, past Sir John’s shoulder, she saw the ghost. It was Elizabeth, the tall and red-haired queen, with her lace ruff, pointed chin, and angry, penetrating gaze.

The regal ghost put one long white finger to her lips. Hush , the gesture said. Keep your secrets.

Sir John was watching. Victoria dragged her feelings back and bundled them up tightly in her chest. She shrank down, made herself small, made herself into the humble, tiny thing he so loved to see.

Made him smile his thin, satisfied smile.

“I should be back with Mama,” she murmured.

“You should.” He gave her his arm again, and she took it and watched the floor all the way back to her rooms.

And all the way back, she knew the ghost followed.