A Curious Beginning

“You’re forgetting the incident at Paddington Station,” I reminded him triumphantly. “I eluded him entirely of my own volition. If I had truly been your captive, why wouldn’t I have seized the opportunity to go with my uncle and escape your clutches?”


“Perhaps he thinks I’ve mesmerized you. Perhaps he thinks I have made dire threats of violence should you attempt to go. Perhaps he thinks you’ve fallen prey to my considerable charms and are in love with me—to your own detriment.”

I pulled a face. “Be serious.”

“I am. We cannot know what your uncle believes the situation to be. We can only hypothesize based upon his actions. And his actions are those of a man who wishes to talk.”

“And Mornaday’s are those of a man who wishes to enact a rescue,” I countered.

“We have only his word for the fact that he is with Scotland Yard,” Stoker said. “We did not ask him to present his credentials.”

“We were half drowned,” I reminded him. “It was an awkward time to insist upon formalities. Besides, if Mornaday had some nefarious purpose, why intervene at all?”

“To prevent your uncle from persuading you to leave the country.”

“Oh, that is preposterous! Mornaday is no more a villain than you are,” I said with a touch of waspishness.

“You cannot discount a theory simply because it does not suit your prejudices,” he reminded me. “That is bad science.”

“And this is not science. It is something entirely different. You still have not explained how Mornaday might be involved if he is not a detective from Scotland Yard. What is his purpose?”

He shrugged. “To get within his power the previously unknown daughter of the Prince of Wales.”

“How does he even know of my existence? For whom does he work?”

“Occam’s razor,” he said. “The simplest explanation is the likeliest. If only a handful of people knew of your existence and most are dead, the one still alive is the most logical person to have told him.”

“My father. You believe my father set Mornaday on my trail? Do you think he had Max killed as well?”

“I don’t know.”

His brow was furrowed and I resisted the urge to throw something at him. “You are seriously considering the possibility that the Prince of Wales, a man devoted to card games and shooting pheasants and genteel debauchery, has orchestrated a plot to murder his father’s oldest friend and run me to ground?”

“His father’s oldest friend,” Stoker said, repeating the words as if tasting them on his tongue. “I hadn’t thought of it in quite that way, but you’re right. It was Max he turned to when he needed a witness for his marriage to Lily. And no doubt Max was the one who paid money—the prince’s money—into the Harbottle accounts for your keep.”

“You see? Would a man really kill the family friend who has done so much for him?” I demanded.

“I should think it would give him all the more reason,” was Stoker’s reply.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN


In due course, the chill breeze off the Thames drove us down from the tower and we walked the Outer Ward, making a slow loop between the inner buildings of the Tower and its surrounding fortifications. There were visitors aplenty that day, and we threaded our way between groups chattering in German and Italian and French, guidebooks in hand as they pointed out the various attractions.

“Pity for them the Menagerie has been emptied out,” Stoker said. “It must have been quite the experience to stand in this place and hear the roaring of lions.”

“They didn’t belong here,” I protested. “They should never have been brought to this country.”

He raised a brow. “You find that different from what we do as naturalists?”

“I do. We preserve the natural dignity of the animal,” I said firmly. “We study them in the name of scientific inquiry. The creatures that were kept here were simply trophies, balm to the royal sense of self-importance.”

“Yes, well, royal senses of self-importance require a lot of balming,” he reminded me. “And we still haven’t finished deciding who is behind the plot against you.”

“Not the royal family, of that I am certain, in spite of your dim view of my father,” I began. “But I will concede that they have handlers, men who are highly placed and willing to turn a blind eye to a bit of bloody work if it will preserve the stability of the monarchy.”

“A courtier, then. Very likely. And how does Mornaday fit into this?”