A Curious Beginning

I looked to Stoker and his expression was unfathomable. “Show him,” he said, his voice suddenly rough.

“Sir Rupert, I will preface this by explaining that I am an orphan, or so I believed.” I sketched briefly for him my upbringing by the Harbottle sisters and the discovery that I was the daughter of the actress Lily Ashbourne. I related the few facts we knew regarding her lover’s marriage and her subsequent death.

I paused then, not entirely certain of how to proceed. “But Stoker and I have also come into possession of documents which reveal my father’s identity.”

Without another word I handed them over. He skimmed them quickly with a practiced and professional gaze, one hand cradling his cup of tea. When he came to the marriage certificate, he dropped the cup with an almighty crash and jumped to his feet.

“Do you have any idea what this means?” he demanded. He turned swiftly to Stoker. “I knew you hated me, but I thought even you would balk at attempting to destroy my career.”

Stoker held up a hand. “Quiet or the clerks will hear you.”

“Quiet! You expect me to be quiet when you have just unleashed seven devils upon me?”

“Sir Rupert,” I said softly. “Please, calm yourself. No one ever need know that you advised us. I will promise that to you, and Stoker will as well. Stoker?” I nudged.

He waited, longer than I would have liked, but eventually he gave a curt nod. “I promise.”

Somewhat mollified, Sir Rupert picked up the papers. “I cannot believe this,” he breathed, looking at them as if they were holy relics. “The Prince of Wales, married to an actress and father of a child. A legitimate child.”

“Yes,” I said, attempting to draw him back to the present. “You have struck directly at the heart of the matter. That is the question for which we require an answer. Am I legitimate?”

He considered, furrowing his brow for a long moment. Then he rose and went to his books, selecting a weighty volume bound in dark calf. He applied himself to this book, and seven others, reading with his brows knit firmly together as we drank our tea and finished off the cakes. Finally, he sat back and made his pronouncement.

“I do not know,” he admitted.

Stoker glowered. “Dammit, Rupert, the one time I come to you—”

His brother held up a hand. “I am not attempting to be obstructionist, I assure you. The trouble is that there are complicated precedents.” He turned to me. “In the first place, the Royal Marriages Act of 1772 outlaws any marriage of a member of the royal family to which the sovereign has not given specific consent. Since Her Majesty most certainly did not consent to this marriage, it is null and void. Furthermore, the priest who conducted it and Miss Ashbourne both committed serious crimes in attempting it.”

I felt suddenly buoyant, light as air, almost dizzy with relief. “It is finished, then.”

Sir Rupert held up a hand. “Not quite so fast, Miss Speedwell. I am afraid there is an additional complication. The Act of Settlement in 1701 prohibits any person in the line of succession from marrying a Roman Catholic.”

“Yet another reason why my parents’ marriage was invalid. Surely that is good news,” I pointed out.

“So one might think. But Miss Ashbourne was Roman Catholic and married in the Catholic Church by a priest of good standing. Her marriage would not have been recognized by the Church of England or the law of the land, but it would have been valid in the eyes of the Catholic Church.”

“But surely that does not matter,” I protested.

“Oh, but I am afraid it very much does,” he countered. “When King George IV was Prince Regent, he married Maria Fitzherbert, a Roman Catholic, in her church’s rites. The pope himself declared the marriage valid.”

“But that was decades ago and it created no trouble.”

“Yes, because Mrs. Fitzherbert did not press the issue, nor did she present the prince with a child. There was no rival claimant for the throne and no succession crisis ensued. This,” he said with a jab of his finger to my papers, “is a cat of a very different color.”

I gave a short, mirthless laugh. “You do not know me, Sir Rupert, but I beg you will believe I have no interest in pressing a claim to the English throne.”

“It is not about what you would press, Miss Speedwell,” he said gently. “It is about what you would represent. In the eyes of any Catholic, you would be their rightful heiress. The Prince of Wales has married bigamously in their interpretation. His children by Princess Alexandra are, canonically, bastards and unable to succeed. That leaves you as the only legitimate child of the heir to the throne in the hearts of every Catholic subject in Her Majesty’s empire. It is enough to start a revolution—in one place in particular,” he said meaningfully.