Page 42 of The Heir (A Young Queen Victoria Mystery #1)

A nother dinner. Another concert. Another night when the ability to simply enjoy the performance—to dream and to soar for the length of the concerto—was denied.

The guest list was familiar and expected—visiting princes, selected lords of Parliament and their wives. A friend of Mama’s. A friend of Sir John’s.

What was different was that Mama was not enjoying herself, either. Usually she was firmly about her business during dinner. She talked, laughed, and expertly directed the chatter and gossip where she wished them to go. She showed off Victoria from all her best angles.

Tonight she was distracted and distant. So much so that Victoria overheard Lady Cowper asking if the duchess was quite well.

Victoria watched, and she wondered about it. Lord Dunham had been to visit earlier but had not waited to say a word to her. The only reason she knew he had come at all was that Lehzen had managed to slip a note into Wordsworth’s poems.

Had he told Mama about the possibility of a separate household for Victoria? Was Mama afraid of being set aside? She had always said Their Majesties hated her. All of Father’s family hated her. Did she think Victoria would not be able to stop her from being left behind?

Does she think I won’t even try to stop that? Because I would. Of course I would. I love her. It’s only that I need to get her away from Sir John.

These thoughts circled round Victoria’s head, drowning out the music and distracting her from other important facts. Like the fact that Aunt Sophia came to the concert and brought Uncle Sussex with her.

Aunt Sophia sat in the corner, as usual, right beside her maid and waiting woman. When the recital was over and everyone was mingling to talk, she ricocheted from group to group, as she always did.

But tonight Uncle Sussex stayed at her elbow. Where Aunt Sophia barged through the crowd, Uncle Sussex tripped lightly. He laughed, told absurd stories, and generally exerted himself to please.

It took almost an hour, but Mama moved away from Victoria’s side to speak privately with Baron Stockmar, who had arrived late.

This gave Victoria space to signal Lady Charlotte from across the room.

Lady Charlotte understood her and went over to her aunt and uncle, who let themselves be steered over to Victoria.

“Hullo, Aunt. I’m glad to see you are feeling better.” Victoria kissed both her cheeks. “Hullo, Uncle. How nice to see you, as well.” She repeated the greeting with him and thought she felt an extra trembling in his shoulders.

“Yes, yes,” sighed Sophia. “My brother has decided I am making too much of a nuisance of myself and must be watched over.” She slapped his arm with her fan.

Uncle Sussex just chuckled. “My sister sees every man as a jailer. I found myself in the mood for a little noise and society for a change. I love my books, but they are very quiet companions!”

“Well, I hope you enjoyed the music,” said Victoria politely. They were being watched, of course. Every guest in the room was glancing in their direction, taking note of how Victoria dealt with her family.

Victoria chose her next words carefully. “I had hoped I might be able to accept your kind invitation soon, Aunt. I tried to come see you the other night, but you were . . . occupied.”

“Oh, yes. Sussex told me you’d arrived. That was some poor planning on my part. This old head of mine!” She sighed and tapped her temple.

“I didn’t know you knew Mr. Rea,” Victoria remarked.

“Oh, yes,” said Aunt Sophia airily. “Keeps the accounts. Has done for years. He and Sir John between them have me on quite the short leash. Probably for the best, eh, brother?”

“It’s not just you, sister.” Uncle Sussex’s smile was meant to be indulgent, but his eyes remained worried. “Managing money has never been one of our family’s strong suits.”

By now Mama had noticed whom Victoria was speaking with, and sailed back to her side.

“Well, well, Sussex and Sophia, how very good to see you both.” Naturally, Mama did not mean a word of it, but they all knew that.

“And you, sister!” boomed Sophia. “So good that I am overwhelmed with feeling. Come, Sussex. Take me back to my rooms. I find I’m quite faint.” She clutched his arm, and he winced but obeyed, steering her slowly through the crowd.

Mama leaned down and whispered sharply in Victoria’s ear. “What did she say to you?”

“She talked about the concert, and how she thought Uncle Sussex was being too managing.”

Victoria was not sure if Mama believed her, but at least she did not ask any more questions.

Now Victoria lay in her bed and waited for Mama to return. She wondered about Aunt Sophia and Uncle Sussex, tucked away in their own wing, where they might as well be on the moon for all she could see or speak with them.

“What did she say to you?” Mama had asked.

Nothing she wanted to. Nothing she hoped to. Why did Uncle Sussex come with her tonight? What was he afraid she was going to do?

She turned these questions over, looking for answers, but to no avail. However, the exercise kept her mind occupied for the time it took for Mama to return, for her to be undressed and settled into bed. For the waiting women to depart to their room, and for the boudoir to finally settle itself.

At last, the sounds of sleep—the slow breathing, the soft rustles, the low snores—rose up around her. Victoria could move now.

The thrill of petty disobedience was unexpectedly heady.

Stop it. You are not a naughty child , Victoria scolded herself.

This is serious business. She made herself picture Gerald Maton and his searching confusion.

She pictured Dr. Maton collapsed, alone, on the green.

She pictured Sir John dealing out his smooth reassurances and confident lies, convincing everyone that he would rule her life, even when she came to rule a kingdom.

The sense of mischief died.

Victoria shoved her covers back and planted her stockinged feet on the carpet.

The room was black. She could see nothing but vague shadows, even though her eyes were well adapted to the dark.

Still, she moved with confidence and practiced silence.

If anyone peeled open an eye and saw her now, they would think she needed to use the commode waiting in its cabinet. Not even Dash stirred in his basket.

Running on her tiptoes, Victoria made for the door.

Her dance master would be pleased at how lightly she crossed the floor.

The door handle turned. Thankfully, Mama had hectored the staff so that the hinges on all these doors were well oiled and did not squeak, as they did elsewhere in the palace.

Victoria slipped from the boudoir into the dressing room, and from there into the sitting room and then into the morning room.

Now the risk set in. There was no reason for her to be here.

No excuse she could offer. If Mama woke and saw she was gone .

. . if Dash woke, uneasy at some sensed movement, and barked .

. . they would discover that she crept out at night, and that she knew how to do so.

Mama would lock all the doors and hide all the keys.

She’d set maids and footmen to stay awake all night to watch.

Don’t think about it. Be quick.

With the door closed behind her, Victoria did not need to be as cautious. She could draw back the curtain. The blurred moonlight fell across the carpet. It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

She’d berated herself several times today for not thinking of searching Sir John’s desk sooner.

Of course a man’s secrets were kept in his desk, and Sir John’s desk was part of her daily life.

He sat there, writing his letters and sending them off with a crisp precision that she assumed came from his days of writing military dispatches.

When his work was finished, his papers vanished.

They went into the hands of various aides and clerks or into these drawers, locked away until their master returned.

Victoria crossed to the cold hearth and put her hand up on the mantel. Her fingers touched metal, and she picked up the key. Phillips had kept his promise.

Sir John’s desk was as square and sturdy as a coffin. It stood in the corner, so Sir John’s back was always to the wall and nothing in the room could escape his searching eye. Victoria slipped between it and the stout wooden chair.

Each side of the desk had three drawers. There was another drawer in the center.

The center drawer would be for immediate business and tools—pens, blotters, fresh paper. She could ignore that. She sat in the chair and pictured Sir John. It was the end of the day. He was satisfied, humming slightly, shuffling his papers, opening . . .

She put the key into the lock of the lower right-hand drawer. The clock’s ticking sounded very loud. Someone might wake up at any moment. Dash might wake and miss her and bark and wake the whole room....

She flinched when the lock clicked, told herself not to be ridiculous, and pulled the drawer open.

Inside, she found files and folios, all neatly labeled. There were bound ledgers, bills of sale tied with ribbons and labeled according to the provider’s name. It was all very tidy, very efficient, entirely impersonal.

The upper right-hand drawer held more of the same. Victoria glanced at the door and at the clock. What was happening in the boudoir? Had Lehzen woken up and decided to check on her? Lehzen wanted her to stop her questioning but would never betray her. Not even now.

But Lady Charlotte would. So would Lady Flora.

Victoria opened the lower left-hand drawer. Here, at last, she found the letters. They were bundled together and tied with ribbons.

They were all from women.

Here were stacks of letters from Princess Lieven, and here was a stack from Lady Cowper, and another from Lady Palmerston, from half a dozen others whose names she did not know.

Why keep personal letters here? In the next heartbeat she had the answer. So Lady Conroy will not find them.

There were—one, two, three, four—stacks from Mama, tied in pink ribbons. Victoria felt the full stomach-roiling strength of temptation. She could take these, sit in the moonlight with them, read them all.

And why shouldn’t I? They don’t tell me the truth. Why shouldn’t I find it out for myself?

But what if they told each other something else? What if all those whispers and meaningful looks and pressed hands were explained in these letters? If she read confirmation of her worst suspicions, she’d never be able to forget it.

And what will I do then?

But something else caught her eye. A much smaller bundle lay at the bottom of the drawer, tied with a blue ribbon. She lifted it out and squinted at the little tag.

Pss. Sophia.

What is Sir John doing writing to Aunt Sophia? Then she remembered what Aunt Sophia had said after the concert about Mr. Rea. About Sir John.

He and Sir John between them have me on quite the short leash. Probably for the best, eh, brother?

It’s not just you, sister. Managing money has never been one of our family’s strong suits.

Sir John had told her as much when he spoke of handling “practical matters” for Aunt Sophia.

But how was this possible? Aunt Sophia was cold, teasing, and deliberately obstreperous whenever Sir John was near.

In return, he was condescending and unctuous.

Mama hated her, and Sir John belittled her for Mama’s sake.

At least, that was what Victoria had always seen.

“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,” Sir John said. “And you will be very glad to make me your man.”

Victoria looked at the stacks of letters from all those women, from Mama, from her aunt.

You will be very glad to make me your man.

Suddenly, all Victoria wanted to do was to run away to some corner where she could be violently ill.

The clock was ticking. She must set aside feeling.

She could do that. She had had years of practice.

She must decide what to do before someone woke to use the commode, before Dash got restless and noticed she was gone, before any of a thousand things happened that would cause somebody to wake up and find her here behind Sir John’s desk with a packet of his letters from Aunt Sophia in her hands.

I’ll read one.

She bit her lip. She closed the desk up carefully, put the key back on the mantel, and crossed to the window.

I can read one. If there’s nothing to the purpose, I’ll put them back and not risk any more . . .

Victoria sat down tailor-fashion on the carpet, awash in moonlight. She pulled one letter from the packet, unfolded it carefully, and began to read.

And when that was done, she read another. And then another.

And then another.

Her neck ached and her eyes blurred and her breath came fast, as if she’d been running.

The curtains stirred, and her head jerked up. There in the shadows stood a tiny woman in a black dress. She scowled at Victoria, and Victoria’s throat closed.

This one was Mary Tudor, Bloody Mary, and she pointed toward the boudoir with one heavily beringed finger.

Victoria scrabbled at the letters, gathering them up, and stuffed them into her night robe. She ran—lightly, silently—back to her bed and dove under the covers.

“Vickelchen?” murmured Mama sleepily.

“I’m here, Mama,” she answered. “Right here.”