Precious days passed as the remaining preparations were made for the Khartoum mission. A ship had been secured, with crew. They would sail out of the port of Taranto, low on the Italian boot, making the voyage to Alexandria as short as possible. No one could say how much longer General Gordon might be able to hold out against the siege, without food and military reinforcements. The few reports that came back from the Sudan were not encouraging.
On the morning of their departure, Henry watched with a mixture of satisfaction and terror as one man after another boarded the cargo-steamer,
Armistice
. Faster even than the fleet clipper ships of his youth, it would speed them across the Mediterranean in record time. They were finally on their way, or would be in a matter of hours. Henry wondered—was he signing his volunteers’ death warrants, or leading them to fame and glory?
The day before, he’d received an official-looking letter from Queen Victoria herself. She’d commended him personally, as well as his international force of mercenaries, for their bravery and dedication to a cause close to her heart. “Where Parliament has failed me,” she wrote, “Henry Battenberg offers himself as my champion.”
It was a formal document, making no mention of his petition for Beatrice’s hand, or her banning him from English soil. But her acknowledgement of his dangerous mission meant she had been, and would continue, thinking about him in positive ways. She might not wish Beatrice to marry, but if her daughter insisted upon it—what better mate for her than a hero of the soon-to-be-famous Khartoum Campaign?
As he paced the docks, trying to calm pre-seasick nerves, keeping a weather-eye on the gritty skies that threatened to blow into a gale, a messenger approached him at a run. “A letter for you, sir. A courier from Calais just arrived with it.”
Calais
? That meant it had come across the channel from England. A good luck message, no doubt, like so many others he’d received in recent weeks as newspapers carried word of
The Second Sons’
adventure.
He had given up expecting letters from Beatrice. Whatever he had done to offend her, whatever he had failed to do that had rendered him wanting in her eyes, he would rectify with this trip. But when he saw the royal seal embedded in red wax his heart leapt.
Miracle of miracles…could it possibly be from Bea?
But no. Closer inspection of the seal revealed the message had come from the Duchess of Argyll, Princess Louise. Of course, it was like her to send a personal note of support. He tucked it inside his jacket. He would save it to share with his men as they sailed across the Mediterranean.
Henry turned back toward the gangplank, leading from the wharf and up to the ship’s deck. The last of the freight, including food, weapons, and ammunition, had been loaded and stored in the ship’s hold. He was about to climb the wooden ramp when a man he recognized as one of their party came shouting down the docks, waving a newspaper high above his head.
“Bloody hell,” Henry muttered. Discipline would need to be the first rule of order. The fellow should have been aboard hours ago; he’d very nearly missed the boat.
As the figure drew closer, Henry began to make out his shouted words. But only three mattered.
“Gordon is slain!” Gasping for breath, the young man stopped in front of Henry and thrust the newspaper at him. “It’s all here. The caliph’s forces took Khartoum two days ago. They’ve killed everyone inside, to the last man, woman and child. Slashed them to pieces. A blood bath.”
Henry gripped the nearby wooden piling to steady himself. “Lord, save their poor souls.”
“What do we do now, sir?”
The men, at least some of them, would demand revenge for the massacre. But what was the point? Gordon and his people were all dead, and the outrage of civilized nations around the world would be brought down on the caliph. Too late by far. But the murderer would pay, one way or another.
“Sir?” the man with the newspaper persisted.
Every last ounce of strength seemed to drain from Henry. He felt sickened by the images in his mind—the cruel slaughter, blood of innocents mixed with that of the illustrious Gordon.
“What now?” Henry repeated, feeling utterly deflated. “We all go home.”
It was as Henry lay in his hotel bed in Taranto that night, sleepless, sick at heart that they hadn’t sailed in time to save Gordon’s people, that he rose from bed to take Louise’s letter from his jacket and began to read. At first, his mind didn’t fully register her words…and then he realized that, of course, she had written before news of the massacre reached England.
Dear Henry,
I hope this finds you well. We hear that you are busy mounting your expedition, and I wish you well. The Queen, at first, seemed surprised but then, in her own inscrutable way, pleased. I hope you are not doing something rash simply to impress my mother. It is such a terrible risk, going into that harsh, hot land. We hear nothing but horrendous stories of wickedness and bloodshed.
I don’t know what will happen to you over there. And I still have no idea why your correspondence with Beatrice has been interrupted. (You wrote to complain that Bea wasn’t answering your letters, but she swears she has been and
you
are the one who has stopped.)But there is another matter of deep concern. It appears that one of the grooms—a Scot named MacAlister—has used trickery, and perhaps even violence, to gain employment in my mother’s staff. He also has won the attention and trust of my sister and, according to the stable master, is becoming a favorite of the queen. I don’t know the nature of his relationship with my sister, but I’m convinced he is up to no good, already having seriously injured a former groom and, we suspect, may have assaulted my sister’s lady-in-waiting.I just wanted you to know that Stephen Byrne and I plan to travel to Osborne House, where the queen and my sister are now, to discover this man’s intent. I have already sent a warning on to Bea. We will leave as soon as Mr. Byrne is free from his duties at Scotland Yard, on behalf of his own government. If I have my way, Mr. MacAlister will be immediately released from the royal staff and arrested. Had you not been engaged in such a brave and serious venture in the Sudan, I’d ask that you come at once to the Isle of Wight, to undo what this most suspicious man has done to interfere with your friendship with my sister.
I hope this reaches you before you sail for Khartoum. Godspeed, Henry.
Your loyal friend,
Louise
Henry reread the letter two more times, shocked by the audacity of the groom. He folded it away and took a deep breath to steady himself, but it was useless. He couldn’t imagine what the fiend intended to gain from his wicked exploitations of his job and relationship with Beatrice. But he sensed that Bea was sure to suffer.
With the expedition rendered useless and cancelled, there was no reason he couldn’t go to her. The Queen might still hold a grudge against him and wish to send him away again. But, by God, he would protect his Beatrice from the scoundrel-interloper and send him packing.
Although it was after midnight, and Henry had gotten precious little sleep for two days, he left his bed, made arrangements with the porter to send most of his luggage back to his father’s house and went in search of the quickest transport to England.
Beatrice crumpled the letter and threw it over the cliff. “The nerve of her!” The wad of mauve writing paper floated for a moment on top of a wave before disappearing beneath the water. She couldn’t believe Louise had taken it upon herself to meddle in her personal life—not again, not after all these years.
When Beatrice was little, Louise had bossed her around. That was to be expected of older sisters. But they were both adults now, and Beatrice saw no reason to listen to Louise’s vaguely hysterical warnings of doom.
What had the letter said?
She was so upset now—her heart pounding away in her breast, her head foggy with irritation—she hardly remembered. Something about Louise and her companion, the American agent, arriving at Osborne House, posthaste. Something about an emergency and needing to speak with her urgently. And what was the nature of this so-called
emergency
?
Louise had written only that her baby sister was not to listen to or spend any time whatsoever, accompanied or alone, with handsome Gregory MacAlister from the queen’s stables. She promised to explain all when she arrived.
How ridiculous was that? Had Louise even mentioned the far more disturbing fact that the stable master himself had roughed up and threatened her poor Marie? No. Not one word of response to her news about the man’s diabolical behavior or about the arrest that Beatrice had assumed would ensue once Louise told Stephen Byrne so that he could pass it along to the Yard. Clearly her sister didn’t listen to a word she said.
That was the trouble with Louise.
She had messed up her own life—thrusting herself into the avant-garde lifestyle of an artist, mixing with commoners if only to infuriate their mother, marrying the
wrong
man—and now she wanted to stick her nose into everyone else’s business.
“Not fair!” she wailed at the sky, fists clenched so hard they hurt.
Beatrice sat down hard on a flat rock well back from the crumbly cliff’s edge. That was the heart of it. Life just wasn’t fair. Here she, the youngest in the family, gave her all to their mother, while Louise tripped gaily around the world. She frequented spas and resorts where (coincidentally?) Stephen Byrne also booked a room. If anyone had asked Beatrice’s opinion, she would have said her sister’s friendship with The Raven was questionable at best. And yet, despite Louise’s dubious lifestyle, Victoria turned a blind eye to her sister’s improprieties.
Well, she wasn’t about to let Louise choose
her
friends for her. She simply had no right!
Henry had abandoned her, evidently having found other interests on the Continent. She’d read about his campaign. All of the newspapers called his grand venture selfless and brave. But he hadn’t bothered to write to her any of the exciting details. Hadn’t bothered to reassure her that he still loved her and intended to return for her. All she could assume was that, like every other man she’d ever met, he had all-too-quickly become bored with her.
Footsteps approached from behind. A man’s, she thought automatically, at the sound of heavy boots striking the gravel leading away from the garden and toward the sea cliffs. She turned to look over her shoulder, expecting to see one of her mother’s guards. But it wasn’t.
Beatrice smiled, pleased that she was about to ignore her sister’s unexplained warning.
“Greg. How are you?”
“Very well. The better for seeing you, Your Royal Highness.” He reached out a hand, offering to help her to her feet. When she swayed ever so slightly in an unexpected gust of wind, his arm closed around her waist to steady her. For just a moment, she looked up into his face and saw a telltale twinkle in his eyes. She drew a sharp breath, felt a sudden warmth tingle through her fingertips.
She had seen a similar look in Henry’s eyes. And now, because of those heady, intimate days spent with the German prince in Darmstadt and, later, in London—she understood exactly what that look meant.
Lust
. It was the way a man looked at a woman when he wanted her, as Henry had said he wanted her.
But he no longer did. That was the bitter truth. And here was another man who—miraculously—welcomed her into his arms. It was almost too much to hope for. To be found attractive not by one man in her lifetime, but by two!
Nevertheless, she slipped out of Gregory’s grip with an embarrassed laugh. Perhaps he was just being a little playful, teasing her. That would be like Greg, as sweetly easygoing as he always behaved when around her. But she turned back to look at him again, she saw a deep longing that told her she wasn’t imagining is intentions. Still, propriety should be observed. Out in the open as they were now, they might be seen.
“Please don’t do that, not here,” she said in as calm a voice as she could manage.
“I’m sorry, Your Highness. I meant no disrespect. You must know I am your loyal servant, as I have been since the first day we met. Do you remember that day?”
She smiled. “You saved my life.”
“Aye, I did, my bonnie princess.” He reached out and clasped her hand in his. “And now I know that was a selfish deed, because I wanted to save you,
for myself
.”
Beatrice felt her cheeks go hot. She took a step back, slipping her fingers free. “Please don’t say such things, Gregory. It’s not right. Not proper. My mother would be horrified.”
Just saying those words of denial did the exact opposite of what she’d intended. They sent a delicious thrill through her. To defy her mother, to do something so totally unexpected that the Court could only imagine Louise doing—such behavior made her feel independent, strong, blissfully free.
But a different emotion blossomed across Gregory’s handsome face—anger. At her? “The queen wouldn’t want me courting her daughter—because I lack a title? Is that what you’re saying? I’m every bit as good a man as her John Brown was.” He thumped his chest with one fist. “Victoria chose Brown as her unofficial body guard. Some say for more than that. Born of the same county in Scotland, we are. But I’m at least the son of a laird. Brown wasn’t even that.”
Beatrice clutched her hands in front of her skirt, held wide by the stiff hoop underneath its many layers. “Please don’t be angry, Greg. You are a wonderful friend. So very kind to me. I do appreciate your loyalty.” She started walking back toward the main house, suddenly feeling uneasy with his volatile emotions.
He strode alongside her, shaking his head, his mouth working as if trying to rid it of a sour taste. When at last he spoke it was with strained urgency. “Of course I am loyal to you. But it’s more than that, these feelings between us. Don’t you sense how drawn we are to each other, lass?”
She felt a flutter in her heart, or was it her stomach? Could this be love again—so soon? She really liked the way his arm felt around her. She wanted to be touched. What woman didn’t ache to be loved? If her first choice for a mate didn’t work out, was it so very wrong to look for love elsewhere? Louise had done it—and found herself a lover. Gregory might be her last chance. Ever!
Louise’s warnings be damned! Her sister wasn’t the one who’d stayed behind to care for their mother all these years. When Victoria’s mourning had extended season after season, with no end in sight, Louise had thrown up her hands and said,
No more!
“You’re an idiot, Baby, for pampering Mama and kowtowing to her every whim.”
But Louise wasn’t the one who spent every day with the woman, witnessing her everlasting sadness. Seeing the overwhelming grief in her eyes whenever she looked at Albert’s desk in her office. Caressing the wedding veil she still kept closeted in her room. How could Louise be so cold-hearted as to withdraw her sympathy from the Queen? And then to encourage her other sisters to do the same, saying that only by no longer humoring the woman would they ever break their mother out of her ridiculous mourning rituals.
Beatrice felt Louise’s measures far too harsh, and so she’d continued to stand by Mama. But now, she wondered if there might be a better alternative. A way she could love and support her mother, but also enjoy the companionship of a man who would be her mate.
She snuck a quick look at Greg, walking along beside her. He was a brawny Scot, terribly good looking, though in a rugged way. No, she didn’t love him yet, but maybe she could grow to love him. People did. She’d heard other women say that they hadn’t been in love with their husbands when they married them. The caring and pleasure in his companionship came later as he proved his devotion and gave her children.
Maybe that’s the way it would be for them? Her and Gregory.
“I would like to learn more about your family, Gregory,” she said as he held open the rear garden gate for her and they passed inside. She barely glanced at the crimson-jacketed guards who stood their silent vigil. “About your growing up in Scotland. And what you hope to make of the rest of your life.”
He looked pleased. “I will tell you my whole story, Princess, whenever you like.”
And with those words, she felt a return of hope. Like a lovely golden globe it rose before her, shining, holding within it the one thing that mattered—
Happiness
. Maybe she didn’t need to live a life of solitude after all.
Her mother had said she liked Gregory and was grateful for his services to both of them. Beatrice knew the queen also appreciated his not being a foreigner like her eldest sisters’ husbands.
Beatrice reached out and shyly touched his sleeve. He gave her a cocky grin.