Page 100 of Crash Landing
But what?
Florence had tucked the packet of letters in the secret pocket of this gown she was wearing. Perhaps she ought to have listened to Trajan when he suggested locking them in his safe at home. But she had insisted on keeping them with her at all times.
Had she made a grave tactical mistake?
Chapter Nineteen
“Florence, send wordas soon as your audience with Her Royal Highness is over,” Durham said, scowling and tense as he faced down the royal guards. “If we do not hear from you by nightfall, we are storming the palace.”
The guard who had approached them heard the threat and his eyes widened. “Your Grace, I would reconsider—”
“They are not really going to do it,” Florence interjected. “He is merely expressing his desire for our wedding celebration to start. He is talking about parties, not rebellion. I am pleased to cooperate, as any good and loyal subject would be.”
Trajan placed her arm in his. “As she is newly married and now the Duchess of Weymouth, I am certain Her Royal Highness will expect to meet her new husband. I am coming with you.”
“But you were not summoned,” the guard said.
“Are you going to risk her wrath when she learns you have insulted me?”
The guard considered the matter and then nodded. “Follow me.”
Their barouche was escorted to Kensington Palace by a dozen horse guards. The crowds they passed gawked at their procession, as though they were people of importance.
Well, they were.
But perhaps not for long.
Was there more to these letters than she had realized?
In this moment, Florence was glad she was now a duchess. Trajan had insisted on it, no doubt thinking ahead to all the possibilities and concluding she needed his considerable power as the Duke of Weymouth.
Florence knew it would take some getting used to before she adjusted to being his duchess. The duties did not overwhelm her, for she was never one to shirk from work. It was the pomp and circumstance that often surrounded the title that she did not care for.
And the political maneuvering. This was her weakness. She had no sense of political posturing or strategies.
Trajan was very good at this, however. He could discern a person’s character almost on first impression.
But she had not been trained for this. How was she to spot the liars and manipulators? The last thing she needed was an entourage of false friends.
Instead of being led to the receiving hall, she and Trajan were taken to a back entrance and escorted up a flight of private stairs. He kept tight hold of her hand until the moment they were led into the parlor of the princess’s private apartments.
A man stood beside the princess, an older gentleman who appeared to be in his early fifties. He was tall, and had a full head of snow-white hair and a commanding bearing. This man had an unmistakable aura of power, and Florence sensed he could be ruthless and dangerous in his dealings.
She had no idea who he was.
But Trajan suddenly stiffened. He knew the man.
Who was he?
“Do you have the letters?” the princess asked Florence after polite introductions were made.
The man turned out to be one Lord Peregrine Althorpe, perhaps the most influential peer in all of England. Florence had heard his name mentioned before, often in hushed tones, but had never met himuntil now. He was a kingmaker, wielding power over noblemen of the highest ranks and government ministers all the way up to the prime minister. They all bowed to him.
Why washehere?
“The letters?” She did not want to admit she carried them on her person, but could not lie to the princess. “Yes, I do.”
“Give them over,” Trajan said with a surprising tone of confidence.
