The letter was delivered on a silver tray, and the seal alone was enough to make her heart jump slightly. She broke it open, scanning the words written in the Duchess’s flowing hand:
Be ready in an hour. We are going to Buckingham House.
Elizabeth was still reading when she felt her father’s presence at her shoulder.
“A message from Wrexham?” The pleased note in his voice was unmistakable.
She turned, holding the letter aloft. “From the Duchess.”
Her father took it from her fingers, reading quickly. His brows lifted, and a slow smile spread across his face. “To The Queen’s House,” he murmured. “Now, what have you done to attract such interest, petal?”
Elizabeth folded her hands, choosing her words carefully. “The Duchess and I have had some discussions about… recent events.”
Her father gave a dismissive wave. “Ah. The assassination nonsense. The whole of London is in a frenzy over it.”
“This is not nonsense, Father.”
He barely seemed to hear her. Instead, he turned the letter over, as if examining the weight of the paper might tell him more.
“The Queen’s House,” he repeated. “Not a formal audience, I suppose—too short a notice for that. A private meeting.” His lips curled slightly. “Interesting.”
Elizabeth was not sure she liked the way he said it.
“You must dress well,” he continued, handing the letter back. “The Queen is fond of modest refinement—no frills or French embellishments.”
Elizabeth arched a brow. “Father, I am aware of how to dress.”
“Yes, yes,” he said vaguely, already lost in thought. Then, with a pointed look: “You realize this may bode well for you.”
Elizabeth tilted her head. “How so?”
He chuckled indulgently, as if she were hopelessly naïve. “When a young lady is invited to the Queen’s residence in the company of a duchess, it is not usually to discuss politics.”
Elizabeth held her breath.
“She may be considering bestowing favor upon you. Perhaps something substantial. Preeminence among your peers… perhaps she has taken it upon herself to see you well matched. Shehasseemed rather taken with you this Season. A pity Montford is still in mourning; he would have made a solid enough husband, dull though he is. But there is Ferndale—charming fellow, very much in the Prince Regent’s good graces. And there has been talk of Prince Nikolaos of Württemberg looking for an English bride, and I heard some murmurs that he foundyourather fetching. Imagine that—my daughter, a princess! I do believe even your mother would have to approve of that.”
Ah.
Sothatwas what interested him.
Elizabeth sighed, folding the letter carefully. “Or, perhaps, she simply wishes to speak with me.”
Her father chuckled. “Of course, petal. Of course.”
Elizabethhadstoodbeforedukes and earls, princes and ministers. She had promenaded under the chandeliers of Almack’s, dined in the company of lords, and parried words with the sharpest minds in London society.
None of it had prepared her for this.
The corridors of Buckingham House were cool and quiet, lined with high windows that let in the pale afternoon light. The air carried the faintest trace of fresh-cut roses and lavender, the hush of well-trained servants moving in silence.
At her side, the Duchess of Wrexham walked with absolute poise, her posture perfect, her steps unhurried but purposeful.
Elizabeth, by contrast, felt far too aware of her own movements, as if she had forgotten entirely how to walk like a rational person.
She had never met the Queen of England.
She had been presented at court, yes, but from a distance, a fleeting curtsy among a sea of glittering debutantes. Her Majesty had looked in Elizabeth’s direction once or twice at balls, and there was even one occasion when Elizabeth happened to be leaving the retiring room the very moment Queen Charlotte passed by in the hall. But this—this was anaudience.
