A Royal Rebuke

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Czar Alexander III, who came to the throne of Russia in 1881 when he was thirty-six, years old was a giant.

  He was very proud of his physical strength.

  He could tear a pack of cards in half, break a rod over his knees and was known to crush a silver rouble with his bare hands.

  He was German, but he had the enigmatic look of a Russian peasant. This was how he liked to think of himself, so he grew a beard and wore the baggy trousers and checked blouses of the muzhiks.

  He was furious, in fact was reported as ‘burning with indignation’ when he thought that Russia had failed in her mission to dominate the Balkans and seize control of the Bosphorus Straits. If this happened, it would have given Russis access to the Mediterranean.

  He, however, refused to give in and stubbornly continued to pursue the same goal. He was determined to establish subservient governments in Serbia and Greece.

  As it was impossible for Russia to afford another war, the Emperor kept his troops at home. Yet throughout his reign he waged the first ‘cold war’ in history.

  De Giers, his Foreign Minister, encouraged Russian revolutionaries to act as agents in stirring up trouble for the established regimes of the Balkans.

  Posing as icon sellers, Russian undercover men wandered through Serbia arranging subversive cells. Officials of the Russian Embassy paid crowds to stage riots and in the Eastern Rumelian section of Bulgaria, Russian Army Officers opened gymnasiums.

  They sounded attractive to the populous, but the Officers drilled boys and girls in guerrilla warfare.

  CHAPTER ONE

  1888

  Lord Victor Brooke arrived at Windsor Castle feeling like a schoolboy ordered to the Headmaster’s study.

  He was well aware that he was in disgrace.

  More significantly, more distinguished and older men than he had trembled before they faced Queen Victoria.

  It was just bad luck, he thought, that he should have run into trouble.

  It had happened last week when he was staying at The Castle for what had been an extremely boring dinner.

  It was being given in honour of the Ambassador of a small unimportant European country and Lord Victor had yawned his way through the meal.

  He had a pompous politician on one side of him and the Ambassador’s rather plain wife on the other.

  He was well aware that he had been invited because not only was the Queen his Godmother but she also liked handsome men.

  He would have been very stupid, which he was not, if he had not been aware that he was extremely good-looking.

  He seldom made love to a woman who, when she saw him undressed, did not compare him to a Greek God.

  As the third son of the Duke of Droxbrooke, Lord Victor was welcome in every house of importance in the country. He was invited to all the balls, receptions and dinner parties that were given for the younger generation.

  It was true that ambitious mothers did not consider him a great matrimonial catch, as with two older brothers there was little chance of his becoming the Duke.

  At the same time the Droxbrookes were one of the oldest and most distinguished families in England and it was considered a privilege to be counted as one of their friends.

  Lord Victor however was not interested in debutantes or, for that matter, in getting married at all.

  He enjoyed life enormously, pursued by or, as he preferred to think, pursuing the beautiful women who surrounded the Prince of Wales.

  They were discreetly, but regularly, unfaithful to their husbands and it was the Prince of Wales who had made it acceptable for a gentleman to have an affaire-de-coeur with a lady of his own class.

  Society had welcomed this new attitude with delight and husbands were expected to turn a blind eye to their wives’ infidelities as long as they were discreet.

  There must be no question of their being talked about outside the closed circle of what was known as ‘The Marlborough House Set’.

  Lord Victor found it easy to go from boudoir to boudoir and this was because he was not only handsome but also charming.

  It was considered a ‘feather in her cap’, if a beauty had him in attendance, if only for a short while.

  Whatever the Marlborough House Set felt amongst themselves, they were acutely aware of the propriety that regulated life at Windsor Castle, where the Queen upheld the almost obsessive morality of her late-lamented Prince Consort.

  Last week the boredom of the dinner had made Lord Victor turn his eyes in the direction of the only attractive Lady-in-Waiting to Her Majesty.

  The Countess of Weldon was about the same age as himself.

  When their eyes met across the dining room table he knew that she was finding her dinner partner as deadly as he found his.

  Later the gentlemen joined the ladies in the drawing room and he managed to reach her side.

  When she smiled up at him, there was an undoubted invitation in her eyes and a provocative pout to her lips.

  It was a look he knew all too well. In fact he found it hard to remember any occasion when a woman had not looked at him in that way.

  He paid the Countess a compliment and she pretended to be both surprised and embarrassed by it.

  It was, however, only pretence.

  From that moment on Lord Victor thought that the party was a little less unbearable than it had been before.

  Because the Queen’s eyes were on him, he contrived to have conversations with several other guests and yet when he spoke to the Countess again after the Queen had retired, he knew what was expected of him.

  Windsor Castle was a rabbit warren of passages, corridors and stairs and they had defeated a great many visitors over the years.

  A story concerning one gentleman had been repeated in every Club in St. James’s.

  He had tried to find his bedroom, but failed and because he had dined well he sat down on a sofa and fell asleep.

  He was discovered by an hysterical housemaid early the next morning who thought he was a burglar.

  It was a story that had pursued the unfortunate man for the rest of his life.

  There were a great number of other tales, including one about a guest who opened the door of what he thought was his own bedroom and what he found was Her Majesty sitting at a dressing table with her hair down.

  Lord Victor, however, knew his way round Windsor Castle better than most people.

  The Queen had patronised him ever since he was a small boy and he had then found it amusing to explore The Castle, to climb up the towers and slide down the banisters.

  Now he was thinking that a definitely redeeming feature about this visit would be the Countess of Weldon.

  When finally, after only a slight hesitation, he found her bedroom, it was, he realised, uncomfortably near to Her Majesty’s.

  It was in a part of The Castle that was usually reserved for the Ladies-in-Waiting.

  However, when he opened the door, then locked it behind him, he was not thinking of the risk he was taking.

  He was thinking only of Nancy Weldon.

  She was very entrancing with her hair falling over her shoulders.

  There was just enough candlelight in the room to reveal her white skin and the curves of her breasts beneath a diaphanous nightgown.

  Lord Victor reached the bed and stood looking down at her.

  “You are very lovely, Nancy!” he said softly.

  “That is what I want you to think,” she answered and held out her arms.

  *

  It was two o’clock before Lord Victor thought that it was time for him to return to his own room.

  But Nancy, who he had found was, as he had expected, insatiable, clung to him.

  “I had better go,” he told her. �
�I don’t want to risk stumbling into a soldier coming on duty or one of those tiresome nightwatchmen who prowl about the passages.”

  “I cannot bear you to leave me,” she cooed softly. “When shall I see you again?”

  It was a question that every woman asked him when he was about to leave her.

  He knew, however, that if she was tied to her duties at Windsor Castle, it would be difficult for them to meet.

  “We must think about it,” he answered.

  She started to protest, but he rose, put on his dressing gown and picked up the candle that had lit his way from his part of The Castle to this.

  He bent to kiss her hand saying,

  “Goodnight, Nancy, and thank you for making me very happy.”

  It was something that he had said a great many times and he did it with a grace that invariably thrilled the woman he was speaking to.

  “Do let’s meet again soon!” the Countess pleaded.

  By this time Lord Victor was walking across the room and he turned to smile at her as he opened the door.

  Cautiously he looked both left and right before he emerged from the room.

  Everything was quiet and so he closed the door softly and walked quickly down the passage.

  It was as he turned left that he bumped violently into someone coming from the other direction.

  It was a woman.

  By the light of his candle and the one she carried, he saw that it was the Marchioness of Belgravia.

  She was wearing an elaborate lace-edged dressing gown and a lace cap.

  Lord Victor parted his lips to apologise, but she said sharply,

  “Lord Victor! What are you doing here at this hour of the night?”

  “I am afraid I lost my way,” Lord Victor replied. “These corridors are a complete maze!”

  As he spoke, he walked on quickly, hoping that the Marchioness had not seen from which direction he had come.

  Yet he was sure as he left Windsor Castle later that morning that what had happened had already been relayed to the Queen.

  He had not communicated with Nancy Weldon since leaving for the simple reason that his letter would have to go to The Castle.

  And when he received a summons four days later to an audience with the Queen, he knew that he was in trouble.

  Because he was apprehensive he made enquiries about the Marchioness.

  He learned, as he might have expected, that she was the oldest of the Queen’s Ladies-in-Waiting.

  She was therefore more or less in charge of those who were younger and certainly more attractive than herself.

  Lord Victor learnt that in fact she was thoroughly disliked in The Castle, but that did not make his position any better.

  An aide-de-camp greeted him at the doorway and escorted him along the twisting passages and up the stairs to the Queen’s private apartments.

  Lord Victor knew his way perfectly well.

  However he realised that the way he was being received indicated better than words that he was in trouble.

  If the aide-de-camp had been a young man, he might have asked him confidentially what was afoot, but he was an older man who obviously had no desire to make himself pleasant or to appear friendly.

  Lord Victor therefore walked along solemnly behind him without speaking.

  There was the usual pause before the Queen’s room could be approached and a whispered conversation took place with another aide-de-camp who was on duty.

  This was a procedure that, Lord Victor thought, usually amused him.

  He thought that it was a lot of nonsense, just to impress visitors, whoever they were.

  Certainly it created an atmosphere of awe and respect.

  Now, as far as he himself was concerned, he could not help feeling a little apprehensive.

  As the aide-de-camp who had entered the room to announce him came out walking backwards, he announced rather pompously,

  “Her Majesty will see you now.”

  It was a room Lord Victor knew only too well.

  There were the silver-framed photographs that travelled with the Queen wherever she went and there was an aspidistra in a corner and antimacassars over the tops of the chairs.

  Amid a mêlée of small tables laden with objets d’art was the Queen herself, wearing black. She was small in stature, but overwhelming in authority and importance.

  Her Majesty had just celebrated the fiftieth year of her reign.

  Lord Victor could not help thinking of the unprecedented developments in travel, communication, education and the acquisition of political power that had happened during that time.

  She now reigned over an enormous Empire covering three-quarters of the world’s land surface.

  At school, he remembered, the British Empire had been marked in red on the maps and amazingly enough, this was what one small woman had achieved.

  When she came to the throne in 1837, she had said,

  “I will be good.”

  Now, Lord Victor thought, much of the world bowed down to her.

  It was not surprising that she was awe-inspiring.

  Lord Victor walked slowly towards the Queen and saw that she was looking at him without a smile.

  Yet, when he bowed and kissed first her hand, as her Godson, then her cheek, he thought her eyes softened.

  “I sent for you, Victor,” she said in her clear, slightly hard voice, “for I have a duty for you to perform.”

  “I am honoured, ma’am,” Lord Victor replied.

  At the same time he was well aware that this was going to be a punishment.

  “I have thought for some time,” the Queen continued, “that you should do something for your country, rather than just enjoy yourself, as I understand you have been doing – lately.”

  There was just a pause before the last word.

  “Of course,” Lord Victor answered. “I shall be delighted to do anything that Your Majesty commands.”

  That was far from the truth, nevertheless, he had no alternative but to be pleasant about anything that was suggested.

  “I have always believed that travel enriches the mind,” the Queen said, “and I think, Victor, you have not been abroad for some time.”

  “I did go to Paris two months ago,” Lord Victor replied, “but it was only for a short visit.”

  “Paris!” the Queen exclaimed.

  It was obvious that she was thinking not of the cultural riches of France but what he had been doing in Paris and with whom he had spent his time there.

  Her eyes hardened as she said,

  “I have no wish to criticise, but what I hear of Paris at the moment makes me think it is not the right place for a young man to spend his time – or his money.”

  Lord Victor could not help wondering which cocotte’s behaviour had been relayed to the Queen and he could understand all too well what her reaction would have been.

  “What I am asking you to do at the moment,” the Queen went on, “is to visit a country that is very different in every way from anywhere you have been before and which needs the protection of Great Britain and my Empire.”

  There was an undoubted note of pride in the Queen’s voice as she said the last words.

  Lord Victor was aware that the Queen’s policy was to extend her protection to almost every small country in Europe.

  She married her relatives to their Kings and Crown Princes so that they could rule under the protection of the Union Jack.

  He remembered someone saying at Windsor Castle last week that there were nearly twenty thrones in this category and he wondered if there could be many more of them.

  As if she knew what Lord Victor was thinking, the Queen declared,

  “I am sending you, Victor, to Zararis.”

  Lord Victor looked at her blankly.

  “Zararis, ma’am?” he repeated, feeling somewhat confused.

  “It is a small country,” the Queen added quickly, “but of importance because it is on the Aegean Sea, bordered by countries that th
e Russians are currently infiltrating into.”

  She paused before she added sharply,

  “You must be aware of what we feel about Russia at the moment.”

  “Yes, of course, ma’am,” Lord Victor agreed.

  “King Stephan has asked that I should provide him with a wife. I am therefore sending him Princess Sydella of Troilus and you will be escorting her to Zararis as my representative at the wedding.”

  Lord Victor was astounded.

  Such an assignment was traditionally carried out by a much older man and usually a Statesman.

  At the same time he was aware that she was, in fact, rebuking and punishing him very effectively.

  He knew only too well how exceptionally boring such a duty would be.

  Princess Sydella, whoever she might be, was, he was quite sure, young, dull and plain and she was doubtless a member of the Saxe-Coburg family whom the Queen treated as her own.

  She would be accompanied by two Ladies-in-Waiting, the Zararian Ambassador and his wife and perhaps an elderly Statesman.

  And lastly himself.

  He could almost see Her Majesty concocting it all in her mind. A month or two of boredom for him would be the equivalent of being sent to prison or purgatory.

  He thought there was a look of triumph in the Queen’s expression as she waited to see his reaction.

  He was, however, determined not to let her realise the extent to which she had succeeded in demoralising him.

  “That sounds extremely interesting, ma’am,” he said, “and I will, of course, do my best to represent my country in exactly the way Your Majesty would wish and make King Stephan realise how extremely fortunate he is in enjoying Your Majesty’s support and your generosity in finding him a bride.”

  “You will leave in three days’ time,” the Queen stated. “The Princess is travelling to Zararis by sea in H.M.S. Victorious.”

  “I can only thank Your Majesty for being so exceedingly gracious,” Lord Victor said, “as to honour me with what will undoubtedly be a most enjoyable and exciting duty.”

  He forced a note of sincerity into his voice which he was sure surprised the Queen and just for a moment he thought that she might be wondering if she had made a mistake.

  Then she said sharply,

  “You will be given all particulars about Zararis, which is a particularly important small State to us, by the Prime Minister the Marquis of Salisbury and, on your return, I would like a detailed report on that country, which is at least sensible enough to have asked for our protection.”