Truth about Leo Page 3

  “And just where do you expect me to go?” she asked—rash, yes, but she was driven by worry and hunger well past the point of reason. “You’re taking my only home away from me while refusing to find me another. Do you expect me to live on the streets like a leper?”

  “There are no lepers in Copenhagen,” he said dismissively, popping another biscuit in his mouth. Dagmar almost drooled, she was so famished. “And of course I’m not turning you out into the street. You have other relatives. I’m simply insisting that you go blight them with your presence.”

  “The Sonderburg-Becks won’t have me.”

  “Smart of them,” he said, nodding, and eyed the plate of small tarts that a servant held up for his perusal. “What about the English? Your mother was English, wasn’t she?”

  “Yes, she was, but her only living relative is a churchman of modest means and extremely large family—”

  “Good, good, you’ll make yourself useful to him, no doubt.”

  Dagmar fisted her fingers, mostly to keep from snatching one of the tarts, but there was also the need to not throttle the crown prince. “Even if I wanted to go to Cousin Josiah, I couldn’t.”

  “Why not?” Frederick selected a small lemon tart. Dagmar thought she might faint when its pale yellow goodness slipped into the cavernous maw that was Frederick’s mouth. He even smacked his lips, the bastard.

  “One, I have no money to pay for our passage—”

  “Your cousin can send you whatever you need.”

  “He has no money either. Haven’t you listened to me? And two, there are no ships left to take me to England. In case you missed that battle that took place a few days ago”—Dagmar was aware by the shocked silence that settled upon the kitchen that she was speaking very unwisely indeed, but she seemed unable to stop—“in case you missed it, all the ships were destroyed.”

  Frederick straightened up and looked down his nose at her. “You forget to whom you speak.”

  “I don’t forget,” she told him, her gaze holding his. “I simply have nothing to lose. If you imprisoned me, at least I’d have a shelter and occasional meals. Ones hopefully including lemon tarts.”

  “Don’t think I haven’t considered it,” he said with narrowed eyes before suddenly snapping his fingers. “The solution is quite clear. I don’t know why you haven’t thought of it yourself. You’re half English, and the English are filling the harbor. Go speak to them about your passage to your mother’s country.”

  She stared at him, wondering why God would place such a being in a position of power. If he ate one more lemon tart, she wouldn’t be responsible for her actions. “That is wholly impossible.”

  “Why?” He waved away the treats plate and absently picked up a small bunch of grapes.

  Dagmar loved grapes.

  “Because…” She stopped considering bashing her cousin over his fat head with the nearest tray of pastries and tried to summon up a good reason. “Because I’m not wholly English. They won’t want to go to all the trouble of sending home someone who’s only half English.”

  “If you know what’s good for you,” the crown prince said, dusting off his front and swallowing the last of the grapes, “you’ll see to it that they do just that. Because your options otherwise are quite limited.”

  “Oh really?” Dagmar crossed her arms and allowed a mulish expression to play across her face. “Or what? You’ll throw me out onto the streets? You’re my nearest living male relative, Frederick. Thus, you are responsible for my well-being, which includes providing shelter for me. Not to mention the fact that if you shirk that responsibility by casting me aside, you will prove to the citizens of Denmark that you are a heartless tyrant who preys on innocent cousins.”

  The servants gasped en masse.

  Frederick looked as if she’d kicked him in an extremely sensitive location, an expression that quickly changed to one of calculating fury. “Oh, I wouldn’t let you starve on the street.”

  Dagmar smiled, feeling a sudden sense of smugness. She had a feeling that he wouldn’t like the idea of all the notoriety that would come of such a callous action.

  “Although there are times when I feel you deserve it, especially after last month when you attempted to murder my wig in front of the French ambassador.”

  “I thought it was a rabid poodle!” she protested, trying very hard to keep from smiling at the memory.

  “You ripped it from my head and used my ceremonial sword to gut it!”

  Dagmar strove for a dignified mien. “I was attempting to save your life.”

  “You weren’t. You were trying to shame me in front of important visitors, and it was the last straw, do you hear me? The last straw! If you refuse to take yourself off to your family as I have repeatedly requested you do, then I shall have no recourse but to send you to a convent. There you will learn humility and the wisdom of treating your superiors with the respect due to them.”

  “A convent?” Dagmar shook her head. “But…we’re not Catholic.”

  He waved a hand. “That matters not. I will find a convent, and you will go to it. If not here, then somewhere else. I have connections. Perhaps life in a French convent would teach you some meekness.”

  Dagmar didn’t like the sound of that at all. She was not, by nature, a meek or humble person, and she had no intentions of changing her ways now. “You can’t do that!”

  “I can.” Frederick considered his fingernails, then delicately brushed them against the soft velvet of his waistcoat. “You yourself said that I am responsible for you, thus I have the right to dispose of you as I desire. You may hie yourself to a convent or go plague another family member. The choice is yours.”

  “But, Frederick—”

  “No!” The word was snapped with the velocity of a musket ball. It served to startle Dagmar enough that she stopped her protest. “Hear me, Dagmar: I am at the end of my patience with regards to you. You will leave in the next few days of your own volition, or you will leave by mine, and that is the end of the matter. I care not where you go—either your Sonderburg-Beck relations or your mother’s family or to a convent in France—but go you will. Upon that, I will brook no further debate.”

  Without so much as a good-bye, he turned on his heel and strolled out of the kitchen. Dagmar fumed for a few seconds, wanting to hurl at his head all the naughty words that she’d learned from the stable boys, but she knew that doing so would have no benefit.

  “Fabulous. Just fabulous,” she snarled, her scowl of such a quality that the kitchen maids scurried out of her way. “A convent! Of all the ridiculous ideas.”

  She stomped over to the table where the boiled pig’s head sat, picked it up by an ear, and glared at the cook when he opened his mouth to protest. “Meekness! Me! He doesn’t have a single thought for others.”

  She kicked a small, three-legged stool out of her way.

  “And he blatantly goes against the Bible’s strictures on cousinly treatment. I just hope he enjoys his days in hell for this!”

  One of the scullery maids burst into tears and ran out of the kitchen.

  Dagmar struck a dramatic pose for three seconds. “Well, I’m not going to a convent! I’d sooner starve to death on the streets than become a submissive, pious creature. I just hope that when Julia and I fall over in the square outside of the palace and die of starvation and lack of home, the people of Copenhagen know Frederick for what he is!” On her way out, she snagged a basket of freshly gathered eggs, a wheel of cheese the size of her head, and a small brown puppy that had been tied with a bit of twine to a table leg. She didn’t know to whom the puppy belonged, but she didn’t approve of animals being tied up, and in her present belligerent mood, she didn’t particularly care that it wasn’t hers to take.

  As she left the palace, she began to have second thoughts about the puppy. Not only did he squirm in such a way as to make him diffi
cult to hold, but he also seemed to have a fondness for the boiled pig’s head. It was a bit of a struggle, but at last she managed to pry him off the head, although he did claim one of the pig’s ears. She paused when she reached the guards at the door. “Jens.”

  The guard in question bowed low. “Yes, Your Serene Highness?”

  “Do your boys have a dog?”

  He looked startled for a moment, his gaze dropping to the puppy where it chomped happily on the disattached ear. “Er…no, Your Highness.”

  “Would they like one?”

  Jens hesitated, then gave a weak smile. “As a matter of fact, the wife and I have spoken on the subject. We thought we’d wait a few years until the littlest was a bit older…”

  Dagmar considered him. “Will you treat him right?”

  “My youngest?” Jens looked surprised. “Aye, the lad’s a bit lively, but—”

  “No, the puppy. If I gave you this puppy for your sons, would you treat him right?”

  Jens blinked.

  “Would you love him and cherish him and not strike him just because he has a propensity toward boiled pigs’ heads?”

  His gaze shifted to the head clutched in Dagmar’s left arm. He pursed his lips.

  “Would you let him sleep on your boys’ beds, and take him for walks even when it was snowing, and give him things to chew on because you understand that dogs need to chew sometimes?”

  Jens glanced over to the other guard, who shrugged. “Aye?” he said hesitantly, more of a question than a statement.

  Dagmar nodded to herself and shoved the puppy/ear bundle into his arms. “Good. I can go to my death by starvation and lack of home with an easy heart. I have named him Beelzebub. You may call him Bub if you like. Good day.”

  Two

  Under no circumstances should a princess lower herself to the sin of telling falsehoods. Likewise indulging in blasphemy, stealing, and thinking impure thoughts about the new head groom who may or may not spend an inordinate amount of time sans shirt while grooming the horses.

  —Princess Christian of Sonderburg-Beck’s Guide for Her Daughter’s Illumination and Betterment

  The walk to the harbor wasn’t a long one, no matter how slowly her steps dragged. Truly, she didn’t want to talk to some strange British captain. She didn’t want to be sent to her cousin’s overcrowded vicarage where she’d be a glorified—and unpaid—slave, but the steely look in her cousin’s eyes warned that her choice was that or life in a French convent.

  She shivered. “All I want is a quiet little cottage somewhere, where Julia and I can live out our days in quiet companionship.”

  The fisherman she was passing looked up from mending his net.

  “That,” she told him, “or lots of money. Great, huge wads of money, and a grand house and a handsome man to dote on me. Of the two, the latter seems more attractive, don’t you think?”

  “Aye,” he agreed amiably and continued his mending.

  “Alas, neither is likely to be found here.” She continued on, stopping some yards away in the middle of the dock and gazing out at the ships anchored in the harbor. She’d garnered some pretty curious looks as she marched through the busy crowds of sailors, merchants, and salvage men who were attempting to reclaim bits and pieces from the two Danish ships that had been sunk.

  Dagmar could still smell the smoky tang of the ships that the British had captured (and subsequently burned since they could not spare the men to sail them back to England). Rumor had it that they had kept one ship, though, and it was upon that ship her hopes were pinned.

  The harbor buzzed with life, shouts, and cries of both Danes and Englishmen alike filling the air. Small rowboats zipped back and forth between the dock and English ships, ferrying several important-looking men past her into waiting carriages. No doubt they were off to visit Frederick. “I’d wager he serves them those lemon tarts,” she said under her breath and hefted her wheel of cheese a bit higher before approaching a man in a blue uniform who appeared to be directing others. “Excuse me,” she said in English, “can you tell me who is in charge?”

  “In charge?” The man eyed her curiously.

  “Yes, I wish to go to England. I would like to engage passage for myself and a companion. Can you tell me to whom I should apply?”

  At the sound of her clipped British accent, the man straightened up. She silently blessed her mother for teaching her English and for her own natural ability to mimic. She had to admit that even to her own ears she sounded every inch the British aristocrat.

  “Yes, ma’am. The man in charge is Sir Hyde Parker, but he’s off to Karlskrona. Admiral Nelson is his next in command, but he’s unavailable. Would you be an English lady, then?”

  As a rule, Dagmar hated to lie. She’d found through past experience that any lie she told usually ended badly. Therefore, she’d do her best to tell the truth—or a respectable version of it.

  With a lift of her chin and a hoist of the boiled pig’s head, she replied, “Of course I am an English lady. I am English through and through. No more, no less.” Well…that wasn’t strictly the truth, although being half English was better than nothing.

  “It’s just that I haven’t seen any English ladies here other than the wife of the ambassador.”

  “Ah. As for that, I have been stranded in Copenhagen by the death of my father. Naturally, I now wish to go to England.” All that was certainly true enough. She would enjoy visiting England if her cousin Josiah hadn’t a hundred children packed into what was sure to be a squalid little rectory. “In fact, the crown prince suggested that I speak to one of Lord Parker’s men about this.”

  “Sir Hyde, ma’am.”

  She blinked at him.

  “It’s Sir Hyde Parker, not Lord Parker.”

  “Ah.” She waved the cheese at him. “My mistake. I have been away from England for some time, you understand. If Sir Hyde is unavailable, where will I find this Admiral Nelson?”

  The man sucked his teeth for a moment while rocking back on his heels, clearly deep in thought, although Dagmar didn’t like the glint of doubt in his eyes. “The admiral is likely busy on matters of state, ma’am. Er…might I have your name?”

  She opened her mouth to tell him, remembered she was supposed to be English through and through, and settled on using her mother’s maiden name. “It’s Wentworth. Dag…er…Marie Wentworth. I’m named for my mother, who was the only child of the Duke of Leesbury.”

  The sailor looked impressed at her late grandfather’s title. She didn’t have the heart to mention that the dukedom was now extinct and her mother’s only living relative was the destitute Josiah. “As for transportation Miss…er…Lady Marie, you might speak with Colonel Stewart.”

  “And where might I find him?”

  “The Elephant, normally. That’s the Admiral’s flagship. But I happen to know that the colonel came into town to oversee the parole of the prisoners. You’ll find them at Holmen.”

  Dagmar’s shoulder’s slumped. Holmen was a group of small islands that formed the Royal Naval Base. She’d have to hire someone to take her out there, but with no money and nothing she could barter for a ride out, she stood little chance of achieving that goal.

  “However, I did hear tell that they were coming into the town proper this afternoon.”

  “Indeed? That is excellent news.” She glanced around the dock, and deciding that there was no sense in dragging herself and her filched goods to the Yellow House only to have to turn around immediately and trek back to the dock, she planted herself and her bounty on the nearest crate. “I shall await his arrival here.”

  The man looked scandalized. “But, ma’am…my lady…this is no place for the granddaughter of a duke.”

  She gave a delicate shrug and turned her attention to the busy comings and goings of the English, who, she recalled hearing, had been given the freedom to
come and go in Copenhagen as part of the armistice treaty. “I have no pressing engagements today. It suits me to sit here and watch the activity.”

  What she didn’t say was that she’d be keeping an eagle eye out for an opportunity to speak with the admiral or to anyone else who had the potential to help her.

  To that end, she spent an hour formulating and discarding any number of plans of what she would do once the British navy transported her and Julia to England.

  “I will most definitely not go to Cousin Josiah. His circumstances sound entirely too mean and uncomfortable,” she said aloud, watching absently as two small lads in dirty uniforms stopped to gawk at her. She frowned at them until they scampered off upon their business, her gaze moving beyond their slight figures to the rows of storefronts that lined the harbor. “Hmm. Perhaps Julia and I should open up a shop of some type. The trouble is that it takes capital to open a shop. Hmm.”

  She wrestled with various ways of finding that capital during the second hour that it took the colonel to arrive. By the time his small dinghy docked and the friendly sailor informed her of his arrival, her bottom was going numb, the pig’s head was attracting more flies than she thought reasonable, and her cheese was beginning to give off a pungent odor that made her growling stomach want to roar with hunger. She swatted the flies, promised her stomach dinner just as soon as she got it home, and stood up to allow the blood back into her numb backside.

  “Colonel Stewart?”

  A group of four men approached. One of them paused, giving her a curious look. “Yes?”

  Dagmar phrased her statement carefully. “I am a young, innocent maiden stranded here in Copenhagen without family or resource. My father died last year, and although I have appealed to the crown prince for help, he has told me to contact you about seeking transportation to England. My mother, you see, was the only child of the Duke of Leesbury, both of whom I regret to say are also no longer with us. I would like to find a place for myself and my companion on whatever ship is leaving the soonest, so if you could direct me to that ship, I will see to it that our things are brought to it immediately.”