Betrayal at Lisson Grove (Treason at Lisson Grove)

Now she looked at the short, dumpy old lady whose skin showed the weariness of age, whose hair was thin and almost invisible under her lace cap. Victoria was in her seventies, and had been on the throne for nearly half a century. To the world she was queen, empress, defender of the faith, and her numerous children had married into half the royal houses of Europe. However, it was not the responsibility to her country that wore her down; it was the bitter loneliness of widowhood.

Here at Osborne, standing looking out of the upstairs window across the fields and trees in the waning afternoon light, she was a tired old woman who had servants and subjects, but no equals. She would probably never know if any of them would have cared a jot for her if she were a commoner. The loneliness of it was unimaginable.

Would they kill her, those men in the hallway with guns and violent dreams of justice for people who would never want it purchased this way? If they did, would Victoria mind so very much? A clean shot through the heart, and she would join her beloved Albert at last.

Would they kill the rest of them too: Narraway and Vespasia, and Charlotte herself? What about all the servants? Or did the hostage-takers consider the servants to be ordinary people like themselves? Charlotte was sure the servants didn’t think anything of the sort.

Charlotte had been sitting quietly on a chair at the far side of the room. On a sudden impulse she stood up and walked over toward the window. She stopped several feet short of the queen. It would be disrespectful to stand beside her. Perhaps it was disrespectful to stand here at all, but she did so anyway.

The view was magnificent. She could even see a bright glint of sunlight on the sea in the distance.

The hard light picked out every line on Victoria’s face: the marks of tiredness, sorrow, ill temper, and perhaps also the inner pain of emotional isolation. Was she afraid?

“It is very beautiful, ma’am,” Charlotte said quietly.

“Where do you live?” Victoria asked.

“In London, in Keppel Street, ma’am.”

“Do you like it?”

“I have always lived in London, but I think I might like it less if I had the choice of living where I could see something like this, and just hear the wind in the trees, instead of the traffic.”

“Can you not be a nurse in the country?” Victoria asked, still staring straight ahead of her.

Charlotte hesitated. Surely this was a time for the truth? It was only conversation. The queen did not care in the slightest where she lived. Any answer would do. If they were all to be shot, what sort of an answer mattered? An honest one? No, a kind one.

She turned and looked quickly at Vespasia.

Vespasia nodded.

Charlotte moved half a step closer to the queen. “No, ma’am. I’m afraid I’m not a nurse at all. I told the man at the door that I was in order for them to allow me in.”

Victoria twisted her head to stare at Charlotte with cold eyes. “And why was that?”

Charlotte found her mouth dry. She had to lick her lips before she could speak. “My husband is in Special Branch, ma’am. Yesterday he became aware what these men planned to do. He returned to London to get help from among those we can trust. Lady Vespasia, Mr. Narraway, and I came here to warn you, hoping we were in time. Clearly we were not, but now that we are here, we will do all we can to be of help.”

Victoria blinked. “You knew that those … creatures were here?” she said incredulously.

“Yes, ma’am. Lady Vespasia realized that the man pretending to be a gardener was actually taking the heads off the petunias. No real gardener would do that.”

Victoria looked beyond Charlotte to Vespasia, still at the far side of the room.

“Yes, ma’am.” Vespasia answered the unspoken question.

Narraway moved at last. He came forward, bowed very slightly, just an inclination of his head. “Ma’am, these men are violent and we believe they are seeking reform of all hereditary privilege in Europe—”

“All hereditary privilege?” she interrupted. “You mean …” Her voice faltered. “… like the French?” From the pallor of her face she had to be thinking of the guillotine, and the execution of the king.

“Not as violently as that, ma’am,” Narraway told her. “We believe that when they are ready they will ask you to sign a bill abolishing the House of Lords …”

“Never!” she said vehemently. Then she gulped. “I do not mind dying so much, for myself, if that is what they have in mind. But I do not wish it for my household. They have been loyal, and do not deserve this repayment. Some of them are … young. Can you negotiate … something … that will spare them?”

“With your permission, ma’am, I will attempt to prevaricate long enough for help to arrive,” he replied.

“Why does Special Branch not call in the army or, at the very least, the police?” she asked.