Truth about Leo (2 page)

Julia looked as if she was about to fall over. “Do not tell me…you cannot be thinking…dearest Princess! Reassure me that you are not contemplating such a Fatal Step!”

“I've never heard of anyone dying from being a courtesan,” Dagmar said phlegmatically but added, “although Mama always said that the French Pox could kill if you had it bad enough. But the point is moot, so you can start breathing again, Julia. You're turning quite blue. I have no intention of becoming a courtesan.”

Julia slumped into the one remaining sofa that sat in the nearly empty house. Dagmar knew all too well just how empty it was, since it was she who had sold all but the most essential of furniture. “I thank the Lord for you coming to your senses.”

Dagmar picked up a ratty reticule and reached for the rattier-still straw bonnet, plopping it unceremoniously upon her head. “It has nothing to do with sense and everything to do with the fact that there's not one man in Copenhagen who I could imagine doing intimate things with. I'm going to the palace now. Wish me luck. If Frederick refuses to see me—which I suspect he will—I shall leave off the letter and stop by the kitchen to see what I can bring home for us.”

“Will the crown prince allow you to bring victuals from the palace? He seemed disinclined to have you doing so, even going so far as threatening to have you jailed for sticky bun theft.”

Instantly, Dagmar's mouth watered, and her stomach growled. They had been very good sticky buns, well worth both the effort it took to liberate them and the subsequent scolding she received two days past from Frederick. “There's more than one way to raid a kitchen,” she said with an enigmatic smile.

“Shall I accompany you?” Julia immediately rose to her feet. “I feel that I should go with you. What your mother would say if she knew I let you go out unescorted…”

“I'll be fine. You stay here and…and…” Dagmar searched her mind for something to keep Julia occupied. Left alone, she'd just fret and worry herself—and ultimately Dagmar. It was far kinder to give her a task to keep her mind busy. “Ah! I know. You shall stay here and watch over the drunkard to make sure he doesn't harm the garden.”

Julia blinked. “But you just said that it wasn't likely he would do any damage.”

“I have absolutely no memory of saying that,” Dagmar lied. “Wrap up well and go watch the man for signs of movement. If he regains his senses, lock yourself in the house.”

Catching up a heavy shawl, Dagmar left the dark confines of the run-down mansion that sat on the unfashionable side of town, content to stride along the pitted cobblestones enjoying the weak sunshine and sights of a busy port town.

Copenhagen had been in uproar the last few days following the unexpected attack on the Danes by the British navy. Fortunately, the battle had been short-lived and few civilians suffered by the action, except so far as having one's town filled with sailors in British uniforms. Dagmar didn't know quite how she felt about the attack, other than regretting the loss of Danish life, but upon thought, she decided that attacking a much smaller country was unsporting of the British, and yet she didn't care for the fact that Frederick was looking with favor at Napoleon. She didn't like that particular Frenchman at all. “I pity his mistress a great deal. She must have to put up with the most abominable arrogance…good morning, Jens.”

The guard at the door to Amalienborg Palace bowed low and greeted her. “Good morning, Your Serene Highness.”

“How is your wife doing? Is her cough better?”

“Much better, thank you for asking.”

“And the wee babe? Is he past the worse of his teething?”

“We believe so, Your Highness. My wife told me to thank you for the cure you sent her. She said it was a miracle and that it gave the little fellow the first solid night's sleep he'd had in over a month.”

“My mother always swore by rum and lemon for teething babies,” she said with a smile and entered the palace.

Courtiers and servants moved around the various halls and rooms without any regard to her. She had a suspicion that it was less because of any sympathetic feelings toward her desperate plight, and more because few of them knew who she was. Other than Jens, who had been a footman in her father's household, she didn't know any of the servants at the palace, and knew few of the courtiers who resided or worked within.

A footman with pimples and a shiny face deposited her in a sitting room, where she encountered two other people.

“Good morning,” the man said in stilted Danish, bowing slightly.

“Yes, it is a good morning, if by that you mean it's not raining, and the smoke has cleared from the harbor,” she answered in English, looking the pair over. The man was not very tall but had attractive salt-and-pepper hair that curled back from his brow. He appeared to be in his forties, with lines etched across his forehead, attesting to some great worry. His companion likewise bore lines of unhappiness, but hers were centered between her eyebrows. She was tall, taller than Dagmar, and very thin.

“Oh, you speak English?” the woman asked in obvious relief.

“I do.”

“It's so nice to find someone who understands us,” the woman said, gesturing at the man. “Philip and I haven't heard anything but Danish and French in weeks. Other than three days ago when we saw the ambassador, of course, but even then he seemed inclined to speak in French.”

“Indeed.” Dagmar wondered briefly who the couple were and what business they had with Frederick. They didn't appear to be political personages, or one of Frederick's equerries would have attended to them. To be parked in the sitting room indicated a guest whose presence wasn't expected or possibly desired. Still, they mentioned the ambassador…

The man must have sensed her reticence to converse, because he gave a little embarrassed laugh and said, “You must forgive our lack of manners, ma'am. My sister and I have been away from home for some time, and it's a pleasure to hear our mother tongue spoken. You will permit me to introduce us. I am Dalton, Philip Dalton, and this is my sister Louisa Hayes.”

Dagmar murmured the expected niceties. Being a social person, she wouldn't have minded staying to chat with the couple, but she had an important errand to see to, and the sooner she was allowed into Frederick's presence, the better for her peace of mind.

“And you are?” the woman asked, giving her a pleasant smile.

“Late. Er…my name is Dagmar, but I'm late for a meeting with my cousin. It was a pleasure to meet you, and I hope you enjoy your visit to Copenhagen. If you'll excuse me, I must go find Frederick before he slips out.”

Dagmar left the couple in possession of the small sitting room, feeling that more than enough time had passed to inform Frederick that she wanted to see him. As she headed down the hallway, a group of women emerged from a stateroom. At their head was a slight, willowy figure with dark eyes who paused upon passing.

Dagmar sank into a court curtsy, intoning to the floor, “Your Royal Highness.”

“Princess Dagmar. I trust you are not here to pester the crown prince again. I believe he was most straightforward in his demand that you do not
ever
again
force yourself into his private chambers.”

Dagmar had the grace to blush slightly at the reminder, but she'd never been intimidated by her cousin's wife, Marie, and she wasn't about to start now. “Only cowards lock themselves away in their closets.”

Marie's dark eyes widened. “He was attending to business of a highly personal nature.”

“He was not. He wasn't even near the closestool when I finally managed to get the door open. He was slouched in a large armchair reading a pornographic French book and quite obviously hiding from me because he is so riddled with guilt over his actions. I don't suppose you've talked to him about that?”

The crown princess eyed her coldly, minutely adjusting a silk shawl. “Why should I? I happen to agree that the time has come for you to move on to other relatives.”

“I've told you that I don't
have
other relatives—”

Marie held up a hand. “I'm late. I have warned you against bothering Frederick again. If you insist on doing so, it's on your own head.” With a sniff and a disparaging glance at Dagmar's gown (mended several times and showing signs of an ill-fought battle with the lye kettle), Marie and her ladies left by a side door to a waiting carriage.

Dagmar looked at the footman standing at attention next to the door and thought of saying a very rude word, but the memory of her mother's strictures (“A princess never refers to anything as a bitch unless it has eight teats”) kept her silent.

Until she came up against her cousin's lackeys, that is. After fifteen minutes of vigorous arguing, pleading, and at one point, threatening, Dagmar had given up hope of being admitted into the crown prince's presence.

Which made it all that much sweeter when she saw that very man while she was loitering around the kitchen, waiting to snatch up a tasty looking loaf of bread, wheel of creamy cheese, and perhaps, if she could arrange her shawl in an unsuspecting manner, the boiled head of a pig. The three kitchen servants suddenly called upon to deal with a badly smoking chimney was her moment of opportunity, and she took it with alacrity before looking up to see the newcomer.

“Speak of the devil.” She set down the pig's head and moved over to intercept her cousin on his path to the table containing baked treats. “Good morning, Frederick.”

The crown prince spun around, one jammy biscuit in his hand, his eyes (which tended to protrude anyway) bulging out in the manner of a pug dog caught with a pheasant pie in his mouth. “Dahmar!” he said indistinctly, bits of biscuit crumbs spraying out as he spoke. He gave a tremendous gulp, then scowled fiercely at her. “Dammit, what are you doing here? I thought I forbade you to enter the palace.”

“No, you forbade me to enter your closet, your bedchamber, the throne room, the grand ballroom, the small ballroom, and most if not all of the rooms on the first through third floors, but you did not forbid me from the kitchen. Thus, here I am. I need to speak to you—”

“If I didn't forbid you, it was merely an oversight. Out!” he said, pointing a finger at the nearest door before jamming the rest of the biscuit into his mouth.

Dagmar's stomach rumbled ominously. She hadn't eaten in almost twenty-four hours, and the fact that her cousin, her own flesh and blood, could stand there and stuff himself full of sweet biscuits covered in delicious jam while she wasted away to nothing—her mind shied away from the fact that no matter how tight provisions were, she seemed to be gaining flesh rather than losing it—without so much as offering her one little bite goaded her anger in ways that she hadn't anticipated.

“And just where do you expect me to go?” she asked—rash, yes, but she was driven by worry and hunger well past the point of reason. “You're taking my only home away from me while refusing to find me another. Do you expect me to live on the streets like a leper?”

“There are no lepers in Copenhagen,” he said dismissively, popping another biscuit in his mouth. Dagmar almost drooled, she was so famished. “And of course I'm not turning you out into the street. You have other relatives. I'm simply insisting that you go blight them with your presence.”

“The Sonderburg-Becks won't have me.”

“Smart of them,” he said, nodding, and eyed the plate of small tarts that a servant held up for his perusal. “What about the English? Your mother was English, wasn't she?”

“Yes, she was, but her only living relative is a churchman of modest means and extremely large family—”

“Good, good, you'll make yourself useful to him, no doubt.”

Dagmar fisted her fingers, mostly to keep from snatching one of the tarts, but there was also the need to not throttle the crown prince. “Even if I wanted to go to Cousin Josiah, I couldn't.”

“Why not?” Frederick selected a small lemon tart. Dagmar thought she might faint when its pale yellow goodness slipped into the cavernous maw that was Frederick's mouth. He even smacked his lips, the bastard.

“One, I have no money to pay for our passage—”

“Your cousin can send you whatever you need.”

“He has no money either. Haven't you listened to me? And two, there are no ships left to take me to England. In case you missed that battle that took place a few days ago”—Dagmar was aware by the shocked silence that settled upon the kitchen that she was speaking very unwisely indeed, but she seemed unable to stop—“in case you missed it, all the ships were destroyed.”

Frederick straightened up and looked down his nose at her. “You forget to whom you speak.”

“I don't forget,” she told him, her gaze holding his. “I simply have nothing to lose. If you imprisoned me, at least I'd have a shelter and occasional meals. Ones hopefully including lemon tarts.”

“Don't think I haven't considered it,” he said with narrowed eyes before suddenly snapping his fingers. “The solution is quite clear. I don't know why you haven't thought of it yourself. You're half English, and the English are filling the harbor. Go speak to them about your passage to your mother's country.”

She stared at him, wondering why God would place such a being in a position of power. If he ate one more lemon tart, she wouldn't be responsible for her actions. “That is wholly impossible.”

“Why?” He waved away the treats plate and absently picked up a small bunch of grapes.

Dagmar
loved
grapes.

“Because…” She stopped considering bashing her cousin over his fat head with the nearest tray of pastries and tried to summon up a good reason. “Because I'm not wholly English. They won't want to go to all the trouble of sending home someone who's only half English.”