Truth about Leo Read online

  “Perhaps the crown prince might send a guard or two to relieve us of his presence,” Julia said, trotting beside Dagmar as the latter strode out to the garden. Back behind the roses, at the very edge of the cultivated land, a low hedge marked the boundary of the property. A small shack sat in the corner, ostensibly used for gardening implements, but Dagmar knew well that Julia kept a small bottle of brandy inside it. She’d never let on that she knew her companion used the excuse of a nightly stroll around the garden to have a wee nip since Julia would likely die of mortification should her secret be discovered.

  The man lay on his back near the shed, a long, woolen driving coat covering most of his body. He was hatless, his dark hair filthy with dirt, leaves, and a small snail, but he didn’t appear to be in harm’s way. Dagmar leaned over him and caught a whiff of brandy.

  “I doubt if we have anything to worry about,” she said a moment later, noting that the man had no weapons on him. “I don’t believe he’s in any condition to do harm to the garden or anything else to be honest. He’ll likely be gone by nightfall.”

  Dagmar turned and hurried back toward the house. The morning air still held a chill, and although the house wasn’t much warmer, at least she could wrap a blanket around herself while she wrote.

  “Do you not think we might bring him indoors?”

  “Why would we want to do that?”

  “If he does not go away by nightfall, he might catch cold.”

  Dagmar settled herself at the rough table that served as a desk and dismissed the man from her mind. “He’s fine where he is. Now, I shall finish this letter and then take it to Frederick.”

  Julia fussed around the room for a few minutes. “My dear princess, do you not think that we should be packing rather than writing?”

  “No, I do not think that in the least.” The quill’s scratching on the paper was oddly soothing as Dagmar gave vent to her fears and frustrations of the last thirteen months, since that terrible day when Dearest Papa had succumbed to scarlet fever. “Does ‘excrescence’ have one r or two? Never mind, I’ll give it two. It looks better that way.”

  “Might I be so bold as to inquire to whom you are writing?” Julia asked, rising to peek over Dagmar’s shoulder. She gasped when she read the name at the top. “Dagmar! My very dear princess! You cannot speak to your cousin in such a…bold…manner. He is the prince regent, after all.”

  “He’s also a heartless rotter who thinks nothing of throwing you and me out of our home without so much as a warning.”

  Julia hesitated, then pointed out softly, “I believe that he has spoken of you going to live with your other relatives since shortly after your father’s untimely death over a year ago…”

  “Pfft.”

  I’ve told you before that my German relatives refuse to allow me to visit them, since Dearest Papa angered all of them by marrying my beloved mother, who was, if you recall, English and thus an enemy of the state of Sonderburg-Beck. Therefore, your insistence that my companion, Mrs. Julia Deworthy, and I vacate Yellow House is nothing short of murder. To be blunt, we have no family but you, Frederick, to provide us with succor. You were executor of Dearest Papa’s will, so you know full well that all he retained from his inheritance in Sonderburg-Beck was a useless and little-known title. I regret as much as you do that my beloved mother’s modest fortune was lost in bad investments, but that regret is all I possess.

  Julia touched her lightly on the arm. “His Royal Highness, the crown prince, was most insistent that we leave dear Yellow House before the fifteenth of the month, and we are but three days shy of that date. I do not wish to worry you, my dear princess, but perhaps another visit to those obliging gentlemen in town might be in order?”

  “I have nothing left to give to the pawnbrokers, so it would be of little use to speak to them.”

  You will naturally understand how hard it is for me to ask…no, beg on dutifully bended knee…that you either give up your determination to use my home as guest quarters for official visitors or relocate Mrs. Deworthy and myself to another of your houses. You have plenty of them, and we do not require grand accommodations. We are, in fact, quite used to shifting for ourselves. A simple cottage would do nicely for us, even one in the country. Surely you must have dozens of cottages, Frederick. It cannot be a hardship to turn over one to me, your neediest of all relatives. Do not fail the Bible and our ties of blood by throwing us onto the street.

  Yours in cousinly poverty,

  Princess Dagmar Marie Sophie of Sonderburg-Beck

  Dagmar signed her full name with a defiant flourish. She might have to humble herself to her annoying cousin, but she’d be damned if she disavowed her father’s title.

  “Perhaps there is something, a little trinket, something you overlooked…” Julia’s sentence trailed away as Dagmar set down the quill and sealed the envelope by tipping the nearest candle over the paper.

  “I can’t even afford proper sealing wax, Julia. Don’t you think if there was anything else to sell, I’d sell it?”

  Julia’s face crumpled into abject despair. “If only I had some means to provide for us—”

  “Yes, but you don’t.” Dagmar immediately felt like a heel. She might have heard that lament numerous times each day, but she didn’t have to belittle Julia about it. After all, she was the one who should be supporting them both. She turned in the chair and took her friend’s hands in her own. “Sweet Julia, my apologies. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. Frederick is right: I’m rude and intolerable to be around. You have nothing to feel bad about—your father didn’t lose your mother’s inheritance through bad investments, after all. Please forgive my bad temper.”

  Julia threw herself on her knees (she was prone to such dramatic gestures). “Oh my dearest princess, my very, very dearest Dagmar, do not speak so of yourself. You are everything that is good and generous. I was lost, alone, friendless in a strange country when your sainted mother took me in and gave me a place. Had she not done so, I would have been driven by poverty into that most heinous of all professions.”

  “Housemaid?”

  Julia’s gaze dropped and a maidenly blush pinned her cheeks. “You are so innocent, dear Princess. So untouched.”

  Dagmar thought for a moment. “The night soil collector?”

  “Concubine!” Julia said with a gasp, one hand clutching her throat as if speaking the very word choked her.

  Dagmar made a little face and addressed the letter. “I’ve never really seen that as the most heinous profession of all. I mean, most of Frederick’s mistresses are quite well off. His children—the baseborn ones—even have titles, and he’s given them some lovely houses…” One thought led to another. Dagmar considered the idea of becoming a mistress to a wealthy and generous man, but after a few minutes’ thought, gave up the idea. “It’s not that I’m morally opposed to such a thing,” she said aloud.

  “Opposed to what?” Julia, who had picked up her needlework while Dagmar had sat in thought, looked up again.

  “Becoming a courtesan.”

  “Dagmar!”

  “Although I do admit that it would probably be nicer to be married to the man to whom one was intimately involved, what with marriage settlements and such. But I suppose if you were very smart, you could work out all of those business details up front, yes?”

  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 emp
ty 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.