I thought of the promises, made and broken and made again. I had never asked for, never wanted anything more than a moment of my father’s time. I did not crave recognition or money or anything other than the bare acknowledgment from this man that he had taken part in my creation, that he had loved my mother and that I had been born of that love.
Instead, I had endangered myself, risking my own life and Stoker’s on more than one occasion on their behalf. And for no greater reward than a series of hidden meetings conducted in shadows and secrecy. When my own uncle had plotted to overthrow the monarchy on my behalf in a plot of breathtaking melodrama, I had chosen the family that would not own me, without hesitation and without regret. My uncle had offered me a throne, and I had refused it—as much for the sake of my blood family as for the sake of my own inclinations. But still there was no direct word from my father.
A hot streak of anger simmered always, just below the surface, but I did not give vent to it.
“What do you want of us, ma’am?” I asked.
Realizing that an emotional appeal would not serve, she clasped the locket safely back around her neck, snapping the golden door closed upon my half-brother’s face.
“Eddy is in trouble, I think. With a woman.” She broke off and gave an anguished look to Wellie, who supplied the details.
“Her Royal Highness has had a discreet communication from her jeweler. It seems that the prince may have commissioned a jewel for a lady.”
“A jewel?” I inquired. “What sort of jewel?”
“A diamond star. You are too young to remember, but there was a fashion for them in the sixties. All the rage, they were. Empress Eugénie had a particularly lovely collection.”
“Winterhalter liked to paint them,” the princess put in, a small nostalgic smile touching her lips. “Empress Elisabeth of Austria used to fancy them as well.”
“Indeed. I had rather a fine set myself,” Lady Wellie said. “And Her Royal Highness has the most extensive collection in Europe, most notably a set by Garrard. It is they who have contacted her about the prince’s purchase.”
I recognized the name of one of the most esteemed and fashionable jewelers in London. From time to time a member of some royal family or other would be married, and it was traditional to shower the bride with jewels. Sketches of her parures would be published in the newspapers and invariably the name “Garrard” made an appearance, usually attached to the most lavish and extravagant illustrations.
The princess picked up the thread of the narrative. “Because they were fashionable for so long and because so many women have them, it is difficult to tell them apart at first glance. Mine are all marked with an engraving on the back of the Prince of Wales feathers.” She reached into her reticule and withdrew a small velvet pouch. When she opened her palm, it was as if she had offered a handful of light, the faceted diamonds catching the glow of the gaslights and flinging them back again. Wordlessly, she turned it over, showing the back, where the feathers were sharply incised.
The badge of the three white ostrich plumes was recognizable anywhere. Princes of Wales had been engraving, embroidering, painting, gilding, and jewelling the image on anything that belonged to them for the better part of five centuries. I was only surprised none of them had managed to tattoo it upon his person yet.
“From what I am told, the prince commissioned a star patterned upon this one, save for the badge on the reverse. It was embellished only with his initials. AVCE. Albert Victor Christian Edward.” She turned it over again, dazzling us with the dancing light before putting it away, almost reverently.
She took a deep breath. “The jewel can be traced to him. It is imperative that it be retrieved before that happens.”
“Why?” I asked, canting my head.
Her expression softened. “My son is in love, deeply, and the match is a good one.”
“His cousin,” Lady Wellie supplied. “Princess Alix of Hesse and by Rhine.”
I had never heard of her, but that was not surprising. The queen had dozens of grandchildren scattered across the courts of Europe like so much thistledown. I flicked Lady Wellie a glance and she explained.
“The queen’s second daughter, Princess Alice, married the Grand Duke of Hesse. Poor Alice has been dead a decade now from the diphtheria,” she said, the corners of her mouth pulling down. She had been overseeing the royal family with unswerving devotion and all the fury of an avenging angel for the better part of seven decades. I wondered how many losses she had counted in her time.
“Princess Alix is Alice’s youngest daughter. She is sixteen,” the Princess of Wales put in. “She is shy and too young for marriage at present. But my son cherishes the hope that in time she will come to love him as he does her.”
“And you believe his gift of this jewel to another woman would prove an impediment?” Stoker suggested.
The princess’s smile was thin. “No woman likes to know she is not the first in her husband’s affections.” She did not look at me when she spoke, but I felt the thrust of her remark just the same. My father had loved my mother enough to risk an empire for her. The fact that he had given way to his destiny was a testament to the weakness of his character, not the strength of his love.
“Besides,” she went on, “Alix is a devout Lutheran. She has been strictly brought up in a small and conservative court. If she were to discover that my son has conducted himself with anything less than perfect propriety and discretion, she might never entertain him as a suitor.”
“Perhaps she shouldn’t,” I pointed out. “If she does not know the truth, she cannot know his character. She might accept him based upon an imperfect understanding of him, and that never bodes well for a marriage.”
The princess’s expression was pained. “My son is not a bad man, Miss Speedwell. He is twenty-four years old. His character is yet incompletely formed.”
I resisted the urge to look at Stoker. His character had been graven in stone by the time he had run away from home at the age of twelve. He had ever been as he was, solid as the earth and master of his own fate. The fact that the princess still clearly viewed her son as a child would be the least of Alix of Hesse’s worries if she chose to marry him, I reflected.
“What did His Royal Highness say when you questioned him?” I asked.
Her expression was aghast. “I would never discuss this with Eddy.”
“Then, forgive me, ma’am,” Stoker said gently, “how do you know what he did with it?”
Inspector Archibond roused himself from the shadows. “Her Royal Highness asked me to make a few discreet inquiries, but I have reached the limits of my abilities in this matter.” He gave a half shake of the head, as if to warn by the gesture and his clipped tone that he would not provide further details in the presence of the princess.