The Perfect Princess (20 page)

Her glass of sherry, untouched, was still in her hand. She took a sip, then another, but she did it to please him. She was reflecting on how her view of things had been turned upside down in the space of a few days, and how, now that she believed in his innocence, everything he said made perfect sense.

“Why the little half smile?” he asked, breaking into her train of thought.

She looked up at him. “I remember thinking, when I read about your trial in the papers, that you were as guilty as sin.”

The corners of his mouth lifted a little. “What changed your mind?”

She said lightly, “You took good care of the horses.”

“Praise indeed.”

“And”—she dimpled—“you didn’t hurt me. You’re not unlike my father. He roars as well. It’s quite intimidating to people who don’t know him.”

His tone was dry. “I shall remember that.”

After a moment, she said, “What happened, Richard? I mean, I read about your trial in the papers, but I want to hear your side of the story. What happened with Lucy?”

“You know what happened. The papers carried my version of events as well. The trouble was, nobody believed me.”

“Well, I believe you, and I’m listening, so tell me again.” When he stared at her, she gave a tiny shrug. “You never know. I’m coming to it fresh. I may see something you’ve overlooked.”

He came close to smiling, but something in her expression must have made him change his mind, for he merely said, “Fair enough, but top up my sherry glass first, then I’ll tell you.” When this was done he settled back in his chair, and began to speak.

Lieutenant Alex Rider, he said, was Lucy’s father, and had served with him in the Spanish Campaign. Their paths had diverged for a time, then crossed again at Waterloo.

“And that’s where Rider died. As his commanding officer, I wrote to Lucy informing her of her father’s death. After the war was over, I returned to England and met her, quite by chance, in the George and Dragon, where she worked. This was almost a year ago. I dined there frequently because it’s only a five-minute walk from my rooms. I always left her a substantial gratuity—for her father’s sake and because she’d fallen on hard times—and that’s all our relationship amounted to.”

He shot her a look, but when she didn’t respond to the challenge, he took a moment to gather his thoughts before continuing. As he described the events leading
up to the night of Lucy’s murder, things she’d forgotten came back to her.

In that last month, Lucy changed, he said. She needed advice; she wanted to borrow money. She made excuses to see him more often.

“The night Lucy died, I had an appointment to see her. She wanted me to help her draft a letter to some lady or other who had advertised for a parlor maid. I was glad to do it. This would be a great improvement on her present situation. So, all unsuspecting, I went to the George and Dragon.”

“And the boy?” she prompted when he fell silent.

He took a long swallow from his glass before he answered. “That boy, more than anything in this sordid business, makes me shudder with revulsion. He knew what he was doing. He was in it up to his neck. I shall never forget how he smiled at me when I realized Lucy was dead.” He took another long swallow, then went on, “He was waiting for me at the top of the stairs. I thought he was a bootboy or a page. I really didn’t think about it at all. ‘Lucy is expecting you,’ he said, and I followed him into the room. I see now that he was meant to distract me.”

He shifted and she could see the tension etch deep lines on his brow and cheeks. “There was a candle on the dresser. She was on the bed—asleep, I thought. The boy stood at the edge of the bed, staring down at her.” He shook his head. “I don’t know what made me reach for my gun, but I did. Then everything happened at once.” He closed his eyes. “I saw the blood. I looked at the boy. Someone put an arm around my throat from behind. I struggled and he stabbed me in the chest. I dropped my gun. Then I was pushed into a chair and my assailant and the boy left.” He opened his eyes wide. “I don’t know how long I sat there, but it came to me that if I didn’t get help soon, I would bleed to death.”

“Your pistol,” she said, remembering that a shot had been fired.

“Yes. It had fallen between the mattress and the footboard. I finally got off a shot, and that brought people running. I was arrested the next day, after they found the knife that killed Lucy on the ground right under the window of her room. You know the rest.”

The rest was that the boy and Richard’s attacker had vanished into thin air, and no one believed that they existed. Then the nightmare began: the trial, the witnesses, the conviction, and finally the sentence of death.

Just thinking about it made her skin chill by several degrees. The task of clearing his name seemed hopeless.

“So,” he said, his eyes glinting, “give me the benefit of a fresh perspective. Who is out to destroy me, Rosamund?”

She answered him seriously. “Someone who wants an eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth; someone who wants you to suffer as he has suffered, and only when you have lost everything that matters to you, your good name, your position at Special Branch, and your friends, will he be satisfied to see you go to the gallows.

“Or maybe not. I think this person is so obsessed with you that he’d be happy to see you a fugitive for the rest of your life. But what if you outlive him? No, that won’t do. You have to die, but only when he is finished with you.” She looked directly into his eyes. “And I don’t think he’s finished with you yet.”

“I’m willing to accept that the motive for my downfall is revenge, but let’s not embroider the facts.”

“Do you play chess?”

“I—What?”

“Do you play chess?”

“A little.”

“A little? What does that mean? You either play or you don’t.”

“All right! I play chess! What has that to do with anything?”

“This man plays chess, or if he doesn’t, he ought to. He doesn’t think of one move at a time. He sets up the board, makes his opening gambit, and sees in his mind’s eye every possible move his adversary can make and the countermoves he will make, till he has won the game.”

“I think,” he said, “the sherry has gone to your head.”

She was too caught up in her own thoughts to respond to this aside. In her mind’s eye, she could see how it had played out. “Everything between you and Lucy Rider was innocent until Mr. Sinister appeared on the scene. The game really began that last month. The first thing he did was make Lucy his pawn. No. His queen. From that moment on, she had you hopping from square to square, and you never realized your danger. But Lucy was dispensable, and when the time came, he didn’t hesitate to sacrifice her. In fact, he’d planned this move before play started.

“Now let’s think of the trial. He has you just where he wants you. Look around the board. You’re standing alone with no knight, rook, or bishop to help you, not even a pawn.”

His eyes were brimming with amusement. “You’re forgetting Harper and Hugh Templar.”

“Hugh Templar? I thought he deserted you when you went to trial.”

“No. He was helping Harper set things up for my escape.”

Her eyes shone. “Then that was a brilliant move on your part.”

“And then there’s you,” he added softly.

She took him seriously. “Yes, but that was luck. You can’t depend on luck in this game.”

“I’m a great believer in luck.”

She looked up, saw the laughter in his eyes, and
smiled with him. “You may mock me, but chess is logical, and if you look far enough ahead, you can see where your opponent is going.”

“Who’s mocking? To tell the truth, I’m fascinated. Tell me more. I’m all alone on the board. What about Mr. Sinister?”

“Oh, he’s marshaled every piece he possesses to gather for the kill—the witnesses against you, the prosecutor, the reporters, and, sad to say, public opinion. But the game will end only when they hang you.”

A thought occurred to her and her gray eyes sparkled. “Oh, I wish I could hear his thoughts right now! He’ll be gnashing his teeth because you outmaneuvered him when you escaped from Newgate! That’s one move he couldn’t have anticipated. No one ever escapes from Newgate.”

“Did I hear right?” He put his hand to his ear. “Are you giving me credit for something?”

She put her head back and laughed. “I think Mr. Sinister may be wakening up to the fact that he has met his match. But don’t underestimate him. The law is on his side, and he’s bound to have accomplices. Lucy is gone, of course. But the boy was never found. There may be others.”

He drank the last of his sherry. “What I don’t understand,” he said, “is how he persuaded Lucy to become involved.”

“You liked her, didn’t you?”

“Very much. She was only a girl, really, an orphan, but she never complained about her lot. I still find it hard to believe that she was part of the plot against me, but there’s no other explanation for the lies she told.”

“I think she must have been in love with him.” When he made a face, she smiled. “I know, it sounds farfetched, but some women will do anything for love. And we can’t know what tale he spun, only that Lucy took the bait.”

She gazed at him earnestly. “If we could only work out who, in your past, believes he was unjustly punished because of you, we would know who he is. He must have lost everything that mattered to him, just as you had to lose everything, too.”

“There isn’t anyone. I’ve never sent a man to trial without irrefutable evidence of his guilt.” He paused. “Damn!”

“Yes,” she said. “Isn’t that what happened to you?”

“It doesn’t help. I don’t know who this person can be.”

“There must be someone,” she said hopelessly.

“There isn’t.”

“Don’t be so quick to make up your mind! Think about it! Really think about it!”

He was silent for a long time. Finally, he gave his head a little shake, as if he couldn’t accept the answer that came to him.

“What?” she asked.

“The only person who fits that description is myself. It happened years ago, and it was my character that was damn near destroyed. So that episode can have nothing to do with this.”

“What happened?”

“It’s not relevant.”

His refusal to confide in her now, after she’d demonstrated her complete faith in him, was like a slap in the face. She felt the color rise in her cheeks, and she half rose from her chair.

“Sit down, Rosamund,” he said.

She sat, but she stared at the fire.

After a moment he sighed, then began to speak quietly and slowly. “It happened during my third term at Cambridge. I was only seventeen and was determined to make the most of my good fortune. Cambridge was like a dream come true, one of the best universities in all of Britain. My father could never have afforded to send me there. But I had benefactors, Andrew Dunsmoor and his
wife. They spent part of every year in Scotland visiting her family. We were distant relations. They were very kind, very generous, and took a great interest in me. They had no children of their own, you see.

“When I turned sixteen, they invited me to come and live with them here, which I did, with my parents’ blessing. They, my parents, could see all the advantages in this arrangement and none of the drawbacks. At any rate, the following year, when Dunsmoor enrolled me in Cambridge, my father was ecstatic. And so was I.”

He gave a dry laugh. “It wasn’t anything like I expected. I’d been raised all my life to strive for excellence. My father had always taught me that an education was the key to advancement for people in our position. I felt I owed it to my parents and the Dunsmoors to do well. However, the young men I met at Cambridge lived by a different creed. They were there to enjoy themselves, and enjoy themselves they did—wine, women, gaming, and all sorts of high jinks. They didn’t care if they were sent down, and many of them were. They had money to fall back on, family connections, that sort of thing. I was an outsider. To be perfectly honest, I was my own worst enemy. I behaved like a monumental prig.”

He’d left gaps in his story that were easy to fill in. A young man from a modest background had been thrown in with a set of young men who took their wealth and privilege for granted. He would have felt like an outsider right from the beginning, and when he refused to join in the high jinks he mentioned, he would have been relegated to the outer edges of the fraternity, where his own pride would have isolated him. The young men he referred to would be like her own brothers. They would not have been deliberately cruel, merely indifferent, and that was the worst cruelty of all.

He was staring at his glass, as though it were a crystal ball, not seeing into the future but taking him back to
the past. He said, “But as wild as these boys were—and that’s all we were, boys—they had a highly developed sense of honor. Anyone who broke that code was considered beneath contempt, and treated accordingly.”

“And you broke that code?” she asked softly.

“No, but they thought I had. Things began to go missing—small sums of money, a jeweled pin, I can’t remember what. One of the boys, Middler, took it upon himself to set a trap, without telling anyone, and I and another boy were caught in it. We’d both gone into Middler’s room, right after each other, both knowing that Middler had cashed a large bank draft from his father. Needless to say, the money was missing. And of course, the thief had to be me or the other boy.”

“What were you doing in Middler’s room?”

“I’d loaned him a book at the beginning of term and I wanted it back. As for the other boy, Frank Stapleton, he and Middler were always in and out of each other’s rooms. They were friends.”

She made a small inarticulate sound, knowing what he would say next.

“I don’t have to tell you,” he said, “whose story they believed. As I said, I was an outsider. So I was the one who had to be punished.”

“They beat you?”

“Oh, no, nothing so uncivilized. They told me to leave Cambridge at once and never set foot in it again. To which I replied that I’d leave it in my own good time and not before. So they punished me with silence.”

“Oh, God.”

“It didn’t last long. I knew Frank Stapleton must be the thief, so I set about finding the evidence to prove it. You might say it was my first case.” When she didn’t return his smile, he shrugged. “At any rate, he’d pawned the jeweled pin and other small articles he’d stolen. To cut a long story short, the pawnbroker identified him and exonerated me.”