Page 86 of A Problem Princess

It looked like a castle, with a central tower that stretched three stories high and crenellated battlements lining the roof where soldiers could defend it from attack. She could even see a portcullis gate positioned above the main entrance. A dozen or more well-armed guards stood watch in the yard, and fires blazed from tall braziers to light the building’s perimeter.

Good God.He’d brought her to a fortress.

Without a word, Clayton took her arm and led her past the guards, through the gate and courtyard beyond, and down the narrow entrance guarded by twin portcullises at both ends. The temperature dropped as they passed through the stone tunnel with what seemed like twenty-foot-thick walls, and she shivered, although not from the cold.

They emerged into the main room of the Armory, and she halted midstep. She stared at the large room in front of her—

No, she stared at the men waiting there.

Over a dozen in all, all of them dressed in black and armed, they turned to look as she and Clayton entered. She recognized them—dukes, earls, barons, and officers of all stripes who had been introduced to her at palace events, including the Duke of Hampton himself, General Marcus Braddock, who stood in the center of the group and somberly sketched a shallow bow to her, one followed in turn by the men around him.

Her chest ached as she stared at them. For all these men to gather here like this in the middle of the night, all awaiting orders and prepared to do battle, then they must also believe…

A tear slipped down her cheek as the harsh realization gripped her so fiercely that she couldn’t breathe.

Clayton had told her the truth about her uncle.

Twenty-Six

Out of the corner of his eye, Clayton saw Alfred, the Armory’s butler, lead the princess and the two aunties up the wooden steps wrapping around the sides of the central tower and toward the bedrooms above where they would all spend the night. She would be safe from attack here.

The realizations about her uncle, however, were another matter entirely.

The trip back to London had been painfully silent. He hadn’t said anything to her about her accusation at the cottage, that he was still attempting to prove himself to the world and to his father. But her words had gutted him.

He hadn’t lied to her. He prayed to God he was wrong, but he wasn’t. He knew her uncle was Scepter. So did the men of the Armory.

And so did Cordelia from the way she’d stared at the men who’d waited here to greet and guard her. He’d never before seen a woman go so pale so quickly, and somehow the sight of the tear slipping down her cheek was impossibly worse than her penetrating accusation from that morning.

“The announcement is in here.” Marcus Braddock opened theTimesand showed Clayton the same clipping Justice Rivers had sent to him in Mersea. Marcus tossed the paper onto the massive oak reading table at the side of the central room. “And here.” He dropped another paper on top of the first. “Here.” Another paper. “And more, including the gossip sheets.”

The papers spilled across the polished tabletop, but every one of them held an announcement about Prince Ernest’s address to Parliament tomorrow and a drawing of the Monrovia royal coat of arms. The large key symbol stood out prominently on every page.

The core group of men of the Armory gathered around the table and stared glumly down at the newspapers. The others had gotten their orders from Marcus to secure the perimeter and keep watch over Buckingham House and St James’s Palace until further plans could be made.

“And not just in the newspapers,” Merritt Rivers muttered as he crossed his arms over his chest, as always his sword dangling at his hip. “Letters have been sent to all the peers and MPs about the address, and every one of them contains the key symbol from the royal crest.”

“It’s also been put on bills,” Brandon Pearce, Earl of Sandhurst, blew out on a hard breath. “They’ve been plastered across the squares and markets of London and sent out across England via mail coach.”

“The palace staffs have also replaced the usual banners at all the royal residences with the Monrovian crest,” Captain Nate Reed informed them as he strode into the room and straight into the midst of their planning. He removed his riding gloves and slapped them against his thigh to knock off the dust. “I just came from Kensington Palace.” He frowned. “None of the staff have any idea what it means. They think the British royals are simply showing their solidarity with Monrovia.”

Marcus cursed beneath his breath. “It would be nearly impossible for anyone of rank or position within a hundred miles of London not to have seen that key by now.”

“Anyone who’s part of Scepter will know exactly what it means,” Alexander Sinclair, Earl of St James, interjected.

“The signal to start the revolution,” Clayton finished quietly. “They’ll use his address to Parliament as a call to arms.”

The men stared silently at the pile of newspapers, but tension hung thick in the air around them. It was that same tense mix of anxiety and growing unease that had descended on them before every battle they’d engaged in during the wars. As before, too, they all assumed the same postures as when they’d discussed battle strategy, the same crossed arms and hard-set jaws, the same inscrutable expressions and somber gazes.

They all knew a new fight was coming.

“There are already calls from common Londoners for Monrovia to take action against England for the princess’s apparent death,” Merritt Rivers informed them.

“And calls for the removal of the British monarch,” Nate Reed added glumly. “They’re arguing that if King George and Prinny can’t keep their own government—and their foreign guests—safe on English soil, then they can never properly lead a global empire.”

Marcus Braddock muttered, “Scepter’s men will call out in Parliament right after his speech, and they’ll put forward an immediate act to place Prince Ernest on the British throne.”

“Prinny will refuse to grant the act royal assent, and the wars will begin,” Alec Sinclair added grimly. “It won’t be a bloodless coup either. Thousands will die in the streets across Britain.”