Narraway stepped back, surrendering with as much dignity as possible.
“I regret to say, ma’am,” Vespasia said frankly, “that Osborne House has been surrounded by armed men. Of what number I do not know, but several of them are inside and have taken your household prisoner.”
Victoria stared at her, then glanced past her at Narraway. “And who are you? One of those … traitors?”
“No, ma’am. Until very recently I was head of your Special Branch,” he replied gravely.
“Why are you not still so? Why did you leave your post?”
“I was dismissed, ma’am, by traitors within. But I have come now to be of whatever service I may until help arrives, as it will do. We have seen to it.”
“When?”
“I hope by nightfall, or shortly after,” Narraway replied. “First the new head of the branch must be absolutely certain whom he can trust.”
She sat very still for several moments. The ticking of the longcase clock seemed to fill the room.
“Then we had best wait with some composure,” Victoria said at last. “We will fight if necessary.”
“Before that we may have some chance to attempt escape …,” Narraway began.
Victoria glared at him again. “I am Queen of England and the British Empire, young man. In my reign we have stood our ground and won wars in every corner of the earth. Am I to run away from a group of hooligans in my own house? In Osborne!”
Narraway stood a little more uprightly.
Vespasia held her head high.
Charlotte found her own back ramrod-straight.
“I should think so!” Victoria said, regarding them with a very slight approval. “To quote one of my greatest soldiers, Sir Colin Campbell, who said at the battle of Balaclava, ‘Here we stand, and here we die.’ ” She smiled very slightly. “But since it may be some time, you may sit, if you wish.”
PITT RETURNED TO LISSON Grove knowing that he had no allies there except probably Stoker, and that the safety of the queen, perhaps of the whole royal house, depended upon him. He was surprised, as he walked up the steps and in through the doorway, how intensely he felt about his responsibility. There was a fierce loyalty in him, but not toward an old woman sitting in lonely widowhood in a house on the Isle of Wight, nursing the memories of the husband she had adored.
It was the ideal he cared about, the embodiment of what Britain had been all his life. It was the whole idea of unity greater than all the differences in race, creed, and circumstance that bound together a quarter of the earth. The worst of society was greedy, arrogant, and self-serving, but the best of it was supremely brave, it was generous, and above all it was loyal. What was anybody worth if they had no concept of a purpose greater than themselves?
This was very little to do with Victoria herself, and most certainly nothing to do with the Prince of Wales. The murder at Buckingham Palace was very recent in his mind. He could not forget the selfishness of the prince, his unthinking arrogance, and the look of hatred he had directed at Pitt, nor should he. Soon the prince would be King Edward VII, and Pitt’s career as a servant of the Crown would rest at least to some degree in his hands. Pitt would have wished him a better man, but his own loyalty to the throne was something apart from any personal disillusionment.
All his concentration now was bent on controlling Austwick. Whom did he dare to trust? He could not do this alone, and he must force himself not to think of Charlotte or Vespasia, or even of Narraway, except insofar as they were allies. Their danger he must force from all his conscious thoughts. One of the burdens at the core of leadership was that you must set aside personal loyalties and act in the good of all. He made himself think of how he would feel if others in command were to save their own families at the cost of his, if Charlotte were sacrificed because another leader put his wife’s safety ahead of his duty. Only then could he dismiss all questions from his mind.
As he passed along the familiar corridors he had to remind himself again not to go to his old office, which was now occupied by someone else, but to go back to the one that used to be Narraway’s, and would be again as soon as this crisis was past. As he closed the door and sat at the desk, he was profoundly glad that he had retrieved Narraway’s belongings and never for a moment behaved as if he believed this was permanent. The drawings of trees were back on the walls, and the tower by the sea, even the photograph of Narraway’s mother, dark and slender as he was, but more delicate, the intelligence blazing out of her eyes.
Pitt smiled for a moment, then turned his attention to the new reports on his desk. There were very few of them, just pedestrian comments on things that for the most part he already knew. There was no information that changed the circumstances.
He stood up and went to find Stoker rather than sending for him, because that would draw everyone’s attention to the fact that he was singling him out. Even with Stoker’s help, success would be desperately difficult.
“Yes, sir?” Stoker said as soon Pitt had closed the door and was in front of him. He stared at Pitt’s face, as if trying to read in it what he was thinking.
Pitt hoped that he was a little less transparent than that. He remembered how he had tried to read Narraway, and failed, at least most of the time.
“We know what it is,” he said quietly. There was no point in concealing anything, and yet even now he felt as if he were standing on a cliff edge, about to plunge into the unknown.
“Yes, sir …” Stoker froze, his face pale. On the desk, still holding the paper he had been reading, his hands were stiff.
Pitt took a breath. “Mr. Narraway is back from Ireland.” He saw the relief in Stoker’s eyes, too sharp to hide, and went on more easily, a darkness sliding away from him also. “It seems we are right in thinking that there is a very large and very violent plan already begun. There is reason to believe that the people we have seen together, such as Willy Portman, Fenner, Guzman, and so on, intend to attack Her Majesty at Osborne House—”
“God Almighty!” Stoker gasped. “Regicide?”
Pitt grimaced.
“Not intentionally. We think they mean to hold her ransom in return for a bill to abolish the hereditary power of the House of Lords—a bill that of course she will sign before, I imagine, her own abdication …”
Stoker was ashen. He looked at Pitt as if he had turned into some nightmare in front of his eyes. He swallowed, then swallowed again. “And then what? Kill her?”
Pitt had not taken it that far in his mind, but perhaps it was the logical end, the only one they could realistically live with. In the eyes of Britain, and most of the world, as long as Victoria was alive she would be queen, regardless of what anyone else said or did. He had thought things could not get worse, but in one leap they had.
“Yes, I imagine so,” he agreed. “Narraway and Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould have gone to Osborne, to do what they can, until we can send reinforcements to deal with whatever we find.”
Stoker half rose in his seat.
“But not until we know whom we can trust,” Pitt added. “The group must be small enough to be discreet. If we go in with half an army it will be far more likely to provoke them to violence immediately. If they know they are cornered and cannot escape, they’ll hold her for ransom—their freedom for her life.” He felt his throat tighten as he said it. He was fighting an enemy of unknown size and shape. Moreover, elements of it were secret from him, and lay within his own men. For a moment he was overwhelmed. He had no idea even where to begin. Every possibility seemed to carry its own failure built into it.
“A few men, well armed and taking them by surprise,” Stoker said quietly.
“That’s our only hope, I think,” Pitt agreed. “But before we do that, we need to know who is the traitor here in Lisson Grove, and who else is with him. Otherwise they may sabotage any effort we make.”