Page 8 of The Heir (A Young Queen Victoria Mystery #1)

“M iss Conroy?” bleated Betty. “Miss? Where are you going?”

“I want a walk.”

Jane should have left the palace using one of the side doors in the central wing. She should have walked through the clock courtyard and out to the street, and from there made her way between the curious onlookers who always clustered about the gilt and iron gates.

Instead, despite Betty’s protests, Jane had ducked out one of the many back doors and hurried down the garden’s straight central path.

Betty continued to protest, but Jane ignored her. Even so, her heart was in her mouth.

What if I’m seen? What if I’m stopped?

But that was ridiculous, of course. Who cared where Jane Conroy went?

Father would care.

Jane saw him again, towering over her. Saw his hand rise up and the fingers curl into a fist.

I’m a fool. I will be in such trouble.

But she did not turn back, and no one came to stop her.

She left the gravel path and struck off across the green, following roughly the same route that she and the princess had taken on horseback.

Conveniently, it was also the shortest route home, as long as she chose not to worry about ruining her shoes or getting her hems dirty.

Father had taken, or been granted, a house near the palace so that he would be available whenever the duchess chose to call upon him. Or so he said. There were doubtlessly other reasons. With Father, there were always other reasons.

Jane was almost certain that one such reason was that the proximity allowed her to be dispatched home on errands—or dismissed in disgrace—without anyone having to trouble about the carriage.

The grass was damp from the latest burst of rain.

Water puddled in the hollows. Wind grabbed at Jane’s hems and her bonnet ribbons.

The princess’s general restlessness was well known, and therefore, most days Jane was dressed for the possibility of time spent out of doors.

As a result, her boots had low heels and were somewhat sturdy.

Her skirts were plain stuff, and her sleeves narrow cut.

Her corset had been laced to allow for some freedom of movement.

The current fashion was for dramatically ballooned sleeves, a cruelly diminutive waist, and voluminous skirts.

The whole was unrelentingly heavy and cumbersome, requiring as it did all manner of pads and supports to keep the fabric properly puffed.

Pale pinks, blues, and sunny yellows were the colors of the day, and the whole was to be adorned with plenty of ribbons.

Such a dress, and the firmly laced corset it required, would have made it impossible to walk across the grass.

As it was, Jane found herself gasping painfully as she slogged up the ridge, and stars crept into the edge of her vision.

But she kept walking. Behind her, Betty huffed and groaned and threatened to tell.

What am I doing?

Jane had been struck before, of course—slapped by Mother when she wouldn’t behave.

Smacked across the knuckles by Cook with a wooden spoon if she was caught dipping her fingers into the cake batter, or by her governess with a wooden ruler when she did not attend properly to her lessons.

Pinched on the arms and kicked in the ankles by her brother and sister for any reason or no reason at all.

And, of course, Father boxed her ears and slapped her face when he was displeased.

That was simply part of life. But it had never been like this.

She had never been struck so hard that she could taste the blood and feel her loosened teeth.

But it wasn’t the blow itself that left her so broken.

It was the calculation in his eyes as his fist came down, and the disdain as he turned away.

That was what made her burn as she swallowed bitterness and salt. That was what clung to her heels now while she slogged her way across the sodden green.

It was easy to find the spot where the princess had fallen. The gouges in the turf where Prince had reared up showed clearly against the silver green of the damp meadow grass. Jane stood in the middle of the disorder and turned in a slow circle.

She saw the grass and the mud, hoofprints from the horses and footprints from people. A few wildflowers nodded their heads here and there. A cluster of round gray stones waited in a nest of weeds.

And that was all. There was no dead man in a black coat, and no sign that there had ever been such a thing.

Jane was relieved.

Jane was profoundly disappointed.

“Miss!” Betty had not followed her down the slope. She stood at the top of the rise. “I’m done, miss! I’m going straight home, and I will tell your mother what you’ve done!”

Mother would probably not care all that much. But if Betty made enough of a fuss, Mother might be moved to complain to Father. Jane touched her bruised jaw.

“All right, I’m coming!”

As Jane turned, her gaze caught on something—a glint in the mud that was neither a puddle nor raindrops.

Jane bent down and stripped off her glove so she could dig out the object.

It was a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles.

The right lens was cracked, and a filthy black silk ribbon dangled from the frame.

“Now, miss!”

“Yes, Betty. All right.” Jane tucked the spectacles into her bag. Now she saw something else—twin ruts in the mud, as if someone had hauled a cart to this place.

Jane turned her back and trudged up the rise. “Let’s go home, Betty.”