He thrust himself uneasily to his feet with the aid of his walking stick. “You will revisit that decision, Niece, before all is said and done.”
He cast a quick look at the prince, still lying peacefully asleep. “You might want to get to know your brother a little while there is still time.”
With those ominous words, he left us. Quiet Dan closed the door behind him, and I sagged a little against Stoker’s back.
“Well, it appears Uncle de Clare has not relinquished his dream to see you sitting on a throne,” he said dryly.
“He is mad,” I began, but just then I glanced to where Eddy was lying, eyes wide open as he stared at me in astonishment.
CHAPTER
13
The prince sat up slowly, shaking his head from side to side. “Templeton-Vane,” he said, focusing his gaze on Stoker.
“Yes, Your Royal Highness. And Miss Speedwell.”
Eddy blinked several times as he looked at me. “Are you both tied to those chairs?”
“As you are to the bed,” I replied helpfully.
His gaze dropped to the iron cuff at his ankle, securing him to the bed by a length of chain. “Who the devil would have the effrontery to do such a thing?” he demanded, sitting bolt upright.
“It is rather complicated,” I began.
“Try,” he ordered.
“Very well. The man who has taken us captive is an Irishman by the name of Edmund de Clare. He is a relation of mine and it was my abduction he intended to effect.”
Interest kindled in his eyes. “I say, what did you do? Did you steal his money? Run off with an unsuitable man?” He flicked a glance to Stoker and had the grace to blush slightly.
“Oh, I am as unsuitable as they come,” Stoker said blandly, “but de Clare was intent upon abducting Veronica long before she met me.”
I threw him a repressive glance over my shoulder. “That is not helpful.”
He shrugged and I went on. “Nothing like that,” I assured the prince.
“What was all that palaver about you and a throne?” he inquired.
“My uncle is rather strongly in favor of Home Rule. He thinks Ireland should be for the Irish,” I explained.
“Oh, one of those,” Eddy remarked, punctuating his comment with a jaw-cracking yawn. “I say, is there food?”
“Only a little porridge they brought round earlier, but it was thoroughly nasty,” Stoker said.
“Is there any left?” Eddy asked, his nose quivering like a hopeful rabbit’s.
“None,” Stoker replied.
“Are you quite certain—” Eddy began.
“Will you stop talking about the bloody porridge!” I demanded, blazing him to silence. He reared back, clearly astonished.
“No one except my papa ever speaks to me like that,” he said, his tone decidedly sullen.
“It is your papa I mean to talk about,” I said coldly. I took a deep breath and expelled it slowly. “He is my papa as well.”
Eddy looked at me a long moment. “Are you certain? I mean, you’re much better-looking than my other sisters.”
“Quite,” I said, cutting off the word sharply.
His expression softened. “Papa has not been stingy with his affections. I daresay there are more of you born on the wrong side of the blanket than the rest of us know about.”
“I was not born on the wrong side of the blanket, not entirely.”
He blinked rapidly. “Whatever do you mean? Papa cannot take a second wife. Motherdear is his wife and he is not a Mussulman. The Church of England would never allow it.”
From behind me, Stoker’s fingers stole into mine, clasping, warming, lending me his strength and his support. I gripped them back with all the strength of a drowning woman, never more grateful for his presence.
But he said not a word, knowing this tale was mine to tell.
“My mother was an actress called Lily Ashbourne,” I began.
“I know her!” Eddy exclaimed. Animation lent a childlike air to his usual languid expression. “I have seen photographs of her—oh, she was a beauty. You do indeed look like her.”
“They met in 1860 in North America, and it was over her that the Prince of Wales quarreled with his father.”
“Yes, I remember that story,” Eddy said excitedly. “Papa had behaved very badly and Grandpapa came to scold him. They went for a long walk in a cold rain and Grandpapa took a chill from which he never recovered.” He dropped his voice confidingly. “Grandmama still blames Papa for that, you know. She has never entirely forgiven him for the love affair.”
“Yes, well, it was not a mere love affair,” I explained. “My parents were married. And it is the fact of that marriage that your grandfather confronted our father with when he came to see him.”
Eddy began to shake his head again, as if the act could tidy his disordered thoughts, bringing them into some sort of sense. “But that cannot be. Grandmama would never give her permission.”
“And so the marriage would not be legal in England,” I agreed. “But they were married in Ireland. By a priest.”
He reared back. “A Catholic?”
“My mother was a member of the Roman Church and it was a clergyman of that faith who joined them in marriage and presided at my christening.”
“Then you are a Catholic as well?” he asked doubtfully.
“Only in the most technical sense,” I replied. “I have never been confirmed and have no desire to be.”
“But you were baptized,” he persisted. “Surely that must count for something.”
I said nothing, giving him a long moment to work out the implications. I began to number the butterflies in the gossamer-wing family, Lycaenidae, starting with the subfamily Curetinae, the sunbeam butterflies.
I had just progressed to the hairstreaks of Theclinae when he gave a sudden sharp intake of breath. “But the throne—your uncle! That is what he meant, the old devil. If you were born in Ireland to parents whose marriage is recognized by the Roman Church, the pope himself could proclaim you queen in Ireland when my father is dead,” he said, his eyes fairly popping from his head.
“That is the essence of his plan,” I admitted. I saw no purpose to explaining the worst of it—that my uncle clearly intended to hedge his bets by taking the actual heir to the throne into his keeping to ensure that he would never wear the crown.