A Curious Beginning

Stoker spoke up then, addressing Sir Hugo. “They mean to start a riot. Your men fire on them and who do you think will come pouring out of these buildings to help them? The Irish your lot cleaned out of Piccadilly and pushed into the East End. This is their patch, and they will defend their own.”


Edmund bared his teeth in a smile. “Quite right, my lad. And all it takes is one word to them out there about who she is, and you will unleash hell on earth in the middle of London—and two days before the Jubilee. Do you think you can keep the story quiet then? I know that is what you want, and I can promise you, you will live to fight another day if you let us go.”

Sir Hugo did not respond. I did not give him the chance. I stepped forward. “What makes you think I will go willingly?” I asked my uncle.

He gentled his smile, and I saw a flash then of the potent charm Lily Ashbourne must have wielded. The softest touch of a Kerry accent slipped into his voice. “Because you will be free. What do you think they will do to you, girl, if we don’t take you? You think they will let you go? Nay. They will lock you up and throw away the key, pretend you don’t exist, because you are dangerous. Look at Sir High-and-Mighty Hugo Montgomerie there. Cool as milk to look at, but he is sweating like a pig on the inside. He knows what’s at stake for his royal masters, and he knows it is his neck if he fails them. He’s got no choice, little one. He must kill you to save himself. Do you hear me, child? They will kill you.” He edged a small step forward, pitching his voice low and coaxing. “But we are your family. You are a de Clare, in blood and bone, just as much as you are one of them. Come home to us, come home with us, and let us take care of you.”

I gave him a slow smile. “That was masterfully done, Mr. de Clare. I marvel afresh at the Celtic propensity for persuasion. But you have not persuaded me,” I finished with a cool glance. “I would be no safer with you than I would be in Sir Hugo’s clutches. Tell me, which one of my cousins have you decided shall have me in marriage to breed you a male heir of your own blood?” I asked, nodding towards his compatriots.

He bridled. “Now, hold yourself, there is no call—”

I held up a hand. “You are changeable as a weathercock. I know exactly what you want me for, and it is not to play Happy Families, so spare us the sentimental rubbish. You want a figurehead for your revolution. Well, I shall not play the puppet for you or anyone. I might not approve of everything this Government does,” I added with a reproachful look at Sir Hugo, “but I would rather be a private citizen here than a queen anywhere else.”

“Spoken like a loyal subject of Her Majesty,” Sir Hugo put in silkily. “But I am afraid that will not allay the threat you present. Miss Speedwell, you must see that I have no choice. Irish mob or not,” he said, flicking a distasteful look at my uncle, “I must take you into custody.”

“I understand your predicament, Sir Hugo. You are not working at your own behest, are you? You must have anticipated my misguided uncle would come with reinforcements. And yet you mustered only a dozen men. That seems either monstrously na?ve or very secretive. I am guessing the latter. I think my uncle has the right of it—someone else is pulling your strings, and you cannot risk taking too many men from their regular duties at Scotland Yard or the story would be made public. So your master works behind the scenes—an adviser to the royal family, I surmise. Someone accustomed to using force to get his way, someone ruthless and entirely devoted to the family. If he weren’t already cold in his grave, I would have suspected that wretched Scotsman, Brown. But there is someone. And he is playing the tune to which you dance.”

Sir Hugo did not care for my characterization of himself as puppet. He gave me a thin smile. “You are even more clever than Inspector Mornaday’s report indicated. But your deductions are irrelevant. Whoever has taken an interest in you has the interests of the Crown at heart, and those interests must be paramount.”

“I agree,” I said calmly. “I quite agree that the Crown must not be permitted to be threatened or even embarrassed, particularly not now, when the eyes of the world are upon the queen as she celebrates her Jubilee. It would be unthinkable.”

“I am glad you are prepared to be reasonable,” he remarked.

“The question is, are you?”

Once more I raised the packet. “These are all the papers that are pertinent to my identity. In this packet is my parents’ marriage certificate—a certificate whose witnesses are now all dead. In this packet is the registration of my birth, also witnessed by a man who is dead. Every single person who had direct knowledge of the circumstances of my birth and could give testimony under oath to my parentage is deceased.”

“All except your father,” Edmund de Clare pointed out.