A Curious Beginning

“I haven’t any money on me. Do not scruple—I will send them the price of it in due course, but our necessity was greater than the bookseller’s, I believe.”


He rifled the pages until he came to the entry he was seeking. “‘HRH, The Prince of Wales, Albert Edward. Date of birth . . .’” He trailed off, then gave an exclamation of triumph. “Here it is, ‘Marriage to HRH Princess Alexandra of Denmark, 10 March 1863.’”

He sat back, the book falling to his lap. “Ten days before my mother died,” I said tonelessly.

“It fits,” he agreed. He took the rest of the documents from his coat pocket. “There is a statement from the priest, signed and witnessed. He presided over your parents’ marriage and your birth as well as your mother’s death. The same priest whose obituary we found in the baron’s study.”

“He was the one person who had been there for everything,” I said.

“Not quite.” He pointed to the names of the witnesses on the marriage certificate. “Baron Maximilian von Stauffenbach and Nan Williams, spinster. Your erstwhile aunt Lucy. No doubt she confided everything to her sister, whom you knew as Nell Harbottle. When Nell and the baron died, those were the last links with this marriage, your birth.”

“Except me.”

“Except you.” He replaced the papers carefully and tucked the book into his coat. “You realize what this means, Veronica.”

“Do not say it,” I warned.

“The Prince of Wales’ marriage to Princess Alexandra is bigamous. Their children, all of them, are therefore illegitimate. You are the only legitimate child of the Prince of Wales.”

I took the book from him and passed a finger down the line of issue to the Prince and Princess of Wales. Albert Victor, born just two years after my own birth. George. Louise. Victoria. Maud. And a poor little mite called Alexander who had died within a day of being born. Five living children, all styled princes and princesses—my half brothers and sisters, and every last one of them illegitimate because their parents had been married ten days before my mother’s death.

“It is not possible,” I protested fiercely. “It cannot be.”

“We have the documents. We have you,” he pointed out.

“But my parents’ marriage cannot possibly be legal.”

“There might be difficulties with the heir to the throne marrying without his sovereign’s consent,” he conceded.

I leaped upon the point. “And if that is the case, then all of this goes away.”

“No, it does not,” he said patiently. “Even if your parents’ marriage could be set aside and you were found to be illegitimate, this is still a scandal that could tarnish the monarchy irreparably. The Prince of Wales has always managed to escape condemnation for his affairs, but this is too much, Veronica. His other liaisons have all been nine days’ wonders because his fixers managed to sweep them under the carpet. But they cannot sweep aside a marriage certificate and a grown daughter. Whether the marriage was legal or not, the prince married Princess Alexandra whilst believing himself married to your mother. He committed bigamy—knowingly.”

He paused to let me absorb the information. I gave him a nod and he went on, still patient as he led me through the mire we had found ourselves in. “The Princess of Wales is the daughter of the Danish king, remember. How do you think her father will feel when her honor is thrown in the gutter? If Denmark supports her—and it most assuredly will—the Germans and Austrians will be right there to oppose them. They have been spoiling for a fight with Denmark since that ridiculous tussle over the Danish succession. And do you really think the Austrian and German empires will take sides without the Russians wading into the conflict? If they get involved, that will draw in the Ottoman Empire. Then Greece and Sweden will come. This one fact—your legitimacy—is the first domino in a series of events that could topple thrones, Veronica. There are people who would give a great deal to keep that from happening.”

“Or take a great deal,” I said, thinking of the baron, dead in his own home by some miscreant’s hand. My uncle’s? My father’s? I thought of the elegant Prince of Wales and pushed that thought aside. I could not believe the bon vivant of the British royal family would stoop so low as to order a man’s murder in cold blood. “But how are we to discover the truth? We cannot simply present these documents to a solicitor and ask.”

“That is exactly what we are going to do,” he said, his face set in grim determination. He tore the entry on the Prince of Wales from the Brief History and stuffed it into his pocket before rising and taking me by the hand.

“Where are we going?”

“Chancery Lane. We are going to Lincoln’s Inn.”

As much of a blow as the morning’s revelations had been, they did not prevent me from arguing against the plan. “Stoker, we cannot simply appear in Lincoln’s Inn to speak to a barrister without an appointment.”