Drina felt strangely light and free wearing trousers. She wanted to run down the castle halls. And the coat was nice, too. It smelled musky and manly—like George. She lifted her shoulders and marveled at how warm it was. Most of her evening gowns exposed the top of her shoulders to the cold. She pulled the two sides of the coat together.
“That’s a good idea to cover your chest like that,” George said. “There’s rather too much of you upfront to be taken for a boy.”
“Well-spotted, George,” Drina replied sarcastically. “After nearly eight years, you’ve finally realized that I’m a girl.”
He raised his hands in mock surrender. “I apologize, Drina. Cry friends with me.”
“Very well, friends,” she said. Out of habit, she put her hand on his arm. George flinched and stepped back.
“You can’t hold my arm dressed like that.”
She felt her face go fiery again. “I forgot.”
“It’s no matter,” he said, not looking her in the eyes.
Drina exhaled and began to walk.
“You can’t walk like that either,” he said from behind her.
She snorted in frustration and placed her hands on her hips. “Like what?”
“You know,” he said, walking with an exaggerated sway of his hips. “You sashay.”
“I do not.”
“Do too,” George replied. “It’s rather nice to watch, especially in trousers, but it’ll give us away.”
Drina wanted to growl in frustration. Here she was risking everything for George and he was being critical of her. “How am I supposed to walk?”
“Don’t swing your arms so much,” he said, and walked by her in a ridiculously stiff fashion.
She copied his rigid, straight-armed stance and walked by him. “Better?”
“Worse,” he said with a laugh.
She couldn’t help but smile back at him—tightening their intangible connection. But then George broke it by glancing away and awkwardly stuffing his hands into his coat pockets.
He only thinks of me as a friend.
Frustrated with her own romantic silliness, she shoved her hands into her own pockets and managed to constrain her facial features to a more serious expression.
“That works,” he conceded. “Keep your hands in your coat pockets.”
Drina rolled her eyes in response and George grinned at her. She wished his smile didn’t make her feel all warm inside like drinking a hot cup of wassail.
She tipped her head down and continued walking. A footman opened the enormous wooden door to the courtyard and George called for a carriage. When it came rolling toward them, he opened the door and climbed in without looking back at her. She paused a moment … before realizing that men didn’t help other men into carriages. She pulled her hands out of her pockets and climbed up inside. It was so easy to get into a carriage without skirts or a crinoline cage!
She sat down on the seat across from George and folded her arms across her chest. “Where are we going to look first?” she asked.
“I’ve told the driver to take us to the Gate’s Head public house,” he replied. “It’s the nicest tavern in the town of Windsor.”
“Are you well acquainted with the taverns in Windsor?” Drina asked with an edge to her voice.
George raised his hands in surrender. “Not at all. Merely stopped for a bowl of punch on the way to the castle.”
The carriage halted in front of a brightly lit building. The facade looked Tudor, with white stucco and dark brown timbers placed in triangular patterns. Drina followed George through the front door.
The ceiling of the entire building was low, the main room decorated with a few green pine boughs. Drina pulled her coat closed and tipped her head down. She wished she could cover her nose with the coat, for the room smelled of pipe smoke and unwashed men. And from what she could see from underneath the brim of her hat, the room was quite full of unwashed men.
There were also a few unwashed women, dressed in vulgarly bright colors and low-cut dresses. She’d heard of ladies of ill repute, but she’d never actually seen one. One of the ladies looked to be even younger than Drina, sitting with men nearly twice her age. Drina’s stomach roiled. When Drina caught her eye, the young girl gave her a wink. She blushed and pressed closer to George.
He asked the man at the tap if he’d served a foreigner today. The man stroked his bushy mustache. “Can’t say that I ’ave.”
George then plunked down a coin and asked for two pints. The tapster took out two grimy mugs and filled them with ale, placing one in front of George and the other by her. Drina took her hand out of her pocket to pick up the glass, willing herself not to see the smudge marks on the outside. She raised it to her lips and sipped gingerly.
“Don’t like our ale?” the tapster asked, sounding affronted as he leaned over the counter to glare at her.
She felt several eyes on her, so she cleared her throat before forcing herself to take a large gulp. “V-v-very good,” she sputtered. “V-v-very strong.”
“That’ll put the hair on your chin, lad.”
Drina took another swig of the disgusting drink and coughed. “I think it’ll put hair everywhere.”
The tapster barked a laugh that made his crooked nose wobble, and another patron clapped her on the shoulder. She managed to finish half her glass before they walked out of the tavern.
It was so cold outside, even wearing men’s clothing didn’t keep the chill away. They walked only a few feet to the next public house. In the dim light from the lantern hung in front, Drina read the sign: The Green Dragon.
“Try not to draw so much attention to yourself this time,” George said, opening the door.
“Then don’t order me ale,” she said, feeling a little green and as fiery as a dragon.
The inside of the public house was just as dim as the exterior. She scanned the room, but none of the ruffians looked like her cousin. George sauntered through the room, glancing at every man there before setting down a coin and asking the barman for two beers.
Drina took a large gulp—apparently beer and ale weren’t sipped. It burned down her throat and she blinked in shock, but managed not to cough. She pretended to take a few more swigs, but left the glass more than half full.
George asked the barman if he’d served a German fellow today. The barman simply shook his head. He was completely bald on top, but made up for his lack of hair everywhere else. They also ordered drinks at the Dark Nun and the Widow’s Teeth, but there was no sign of Friedrich.
Drina wearily trudged behind George, her head feeling strangely light. She kicked the snow with her overly large boots.
“Surely there can’t be any more taverns in this small of a town,” she protested. “I can’t stare another beer in the face.”
He turned back to her. “We’ve visited every tavern in town. I thought we could check the local inn next. It’s the first stop in town, so perhaps your cousin never left there.”
It seemed like a reasonable idea. Drina clasped her arms even tighter around her waist and crookedly trudged through the snow after him.
The hostelry was called the White Hart and looked as if it had a higher class of clientele than the taverns. It was a large redbrick building, and she could see lighted candles in every room. George opened the door, which had a large holly wreath on it, and Drina was hit by a wave of warmth. She nearly dove into the building.
George walked straight up to the proprietor, a ferret-faced man wearing an emerald waistcoat and a golden chain. He asked for a bowl of punch and a private room. Drina was relieved to exit the large common room, following the man down a hall to a private parlor with faded yellow floral wallpaper. The room had a small table with several chairs and a large fire in the hearth.
George took off his hat and coat and gave them to the proprietor to hang on the coat rack. The man fumbled with George’s coat, dropping it, but quickly picked it back up off the floor.
“Sorry, sir,” he said. He hung it up and then put his arm on Drina’s coat sleeve, but she shrugged him off.
“I’ll keep my coat on,” she said in a gruff voice. “Don’t want it on the floor.”
George clapped his hands to draw the man’s attention from her. “Have you seen any foreigners about?”
“Besides the Queen’s husband?” the proprietor asked. He grinned at his own wit, showing gray teeth.
“Aside from Prince Albert,” George said. “I’m looking for … for a friend. A blond fellow with a German accent.”
He shook his head. “Haven’t seen him. But most of my customers keep to themselves and I don’t meddle in their private business.”
Drina’s stomach dropped, either from disappointment or too much beer.
“Are you sure?” George pressed, gesturing. “You haven’t seen a blond, tall man today? It is imperative that we find him.”
“As I said before, I have not.”
George cursed her cousin quite colorfully. Drina tried to turn her giggle at his language into a manly snort—but failed miserably. She covered her mouth with her hands, but the laughter bubbled inside of her.
The man bowed and left the room.
“What a waste of a night,” she said, sitting down in the chair closest to the hearth. “We missed a royal party, too.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
Another servant knocked on the door and brought in a bowl of hot punch. George squeezed the lemons and poured Drina a tall glass.
“Careful how much you drink,” he warned.
Drina sipped the hot beverage and instantly felt better. “I can hold my wine,” she retorted.
“I meant all of the beer you’ve already drunk tonight,” George said as he poured himself a glass. “And you don’t weigh more than a feather.”
She bit her lower lip before taking another small sip of the bittersweet brew. “I thought Friedrich and I were two of a feather—he was my dearest friend when we were children. But I guess he doesn’t care about seeing me again at all.”
“Or insulting the blasted Queen of England,” George added bitterly.
Drina laughed, although it was not funny. “Dear Cousin Victoria is not the most forgiving person.”
“Neither is my father.”
She drained the rest of her glass, the bitterness of the alcohol matching her own feelings.
“Slow down on the punch,” he said, setting his glass on the table with a clink.
“Why should I? The room is already spinning—hic.” She covered her mouth, but couldn’t contain her hiccups or giggles.
“Don’t tell me you’re already three sheets to the wind,” George said dryly.
“N-not in the wind,” Drina said, but her head felt lighter than ever. She was so deliciously warm and a little bit tired.
“You’re completely foxed!”
“I’m not a f-f-fox. I’m a f-f-fiery green dragon.” She burped and giggled again.
The door to the room suddenly opened; the proprietor had returned along with two thickset men. The shorter one had a long, full beard that would have put Father Christmas’s to shame. The other man wore a dark, tattered coat and a fur cap, his face hidden by a dark beard. He reminded her of Belsnickel—the German Christmas visitor who brought candies and nuts to the good children, but carried a switch to beat the naughty ones.
Oh dear, we have been naughty.
“What is the meaning of this intrusion?” George demanded in a very duke-like voice.
“Constable,” the proprietor said to Father Christmas, “look in his coat. You’ll find a necklace worth a king’s ransom. I’ve caught you a pair of robbers.”
The beefy, white-bearded constable reached into the pocket of George’s coat where it hung on the rack and pulled out Drina’s ruby necklace. He whistled.
“Probably stole it from one of the swells visiting the Queen for Christmas,” he said. “Smythe, you take that one. I’ll take the little one.”
“I can explain—” George began.
But the dark-bearded Belsnickel didn’t give him a chance. He grabbed George by the arm and yanked him out of the chair, hauling him out of the room as if he were merely a sack of wheat. George flailed his arms, trying to break free, but to no avail.
Drina stood up, her legs shaky. The constable held George’s coat in one hand and took Drina by the arm with his other. He held her so tightly that she could feel bruises forming as he led her out of the hostelry and down the back of the building to another street. Drina knew she ought to try and run away for help, but she felt so light-headed that it took all of her concentration to even walk in the too-large boots.
The trip to the jail wasn’t more than five minutes, but still Drina felt frozen through by the time they arrived. The building was cramped and dirty, consisting of an office with a small fire and two cold prison cells. George was pushed into the first one. There was dirty straw on the floor and a chamber pot in the corner. The second cell looked equally unpromising. The whole building smelled as if it hadn’t been cleaned since the previous Christmas.
The constable released his hold on Drina’s arm and she stumbled a few steps.
“Take his hat and check his coat for more stolen valuables,” the constable told his partner.
Before she could stop him, the dark-bearded Belsnickel pulled off her hat, and her long yellow hair tumbled down.
“Blimey, it’s a woman,” he cried.
Drina took a step back from him. “The necklace wasn’t stolen. It’s mine.”
“And who might you be, the Queen of England?” the constable asked, sarcasm dripping from each word.
She stood up straighter and hiccupped. “Queen Victoria—hic—is actually my second cousin, once removed. I am Lady—hic—Alexandrina Gailey, daughter of the Marquis of Rothfield and Princess Wilhelmina of Hoburg.”
“Blimey,” the Belsnickel said in wonder, bowing to Drina. She gave her most regal nod in return but ruined the effect with a burp.
The constable folded his arms across his barrel of a chest, looking her up and down. Drina glanced over at George, who scrambled to his feet.
“Unhand her,” he said. “I am Lord George Worthington, the second son of the Duke of Doverly.”
The constable raised his eyebrows and looked from George to Drina.
She nodded her head.
Which was a terrible idea—the entire room spun.
“We are looking for my cousin,” Drina managed.
“And who might he be?”
“Prince F-Friedrich of Hoburg,” she said in a slurred voice, but thankfully without any hiccups or burps.
“What a load of twaddle!” the white-bearded constable said. “Do you take me for a gullible fool? Never heard of a country called Hoburg. Toss her in the other cell.”
“It’s a German principality,” she explained.
The dark-bearded man seemed hesitant to touch her.
“Smythe, do as I say at once,” the constable demanded.
“Sir … Constable, sir. I think we might have been a tad over hasty,” he said. “I read in the newspaper that the Crown Prince of Hoburg would be staying with the Queen for Christmas, as well as the Duke of Doverly. He’s the head of the Foreign Office, sir.”
“No doubt these villains read the newspaper, too,” the constable growled, seemingly unconvinced. “Smythe, if you don’t put her in that cell, I’ll put you in one for contempt.”
The younger constable muttered an apology as he gently took Drina’s arm, leading her to the door of the cell and closing it behind her.
She couldn’t stay here. What would her parents think when they found her room empty in the morning? What would George’s parents think when they found her clothes in his room? What scandal and uproar there would be if this escapade became known! Drina would be ruined and Cousin Victoria would refuse to break the entail on her family’s estate. She would lose her home, fortune, and reputation … all for trying to help George.
Scheisse!
She had to find a way out of this jail without anyone, especially the Queen, knowing about it.
Whom could she ask for help? Who wouldn’t tell? Her mother? No, she couldn’t see her mother in such a place as this or being able to keep her mouth shut about it after. Her father? He was always sympathetic, but not particularly helpful in most practical situations. She couldn’t picture her scholarly father in this dirty jail with these rough men.
“Wait,” Drina said. She stuck her hand through the iron bars, grabbing the collar of Belsnickel Smythe’s coat. He turned and she let go. “George’s brother will come and v-vouch for us.”
“And who might his brother be?” the older constable asked with a sneer. “The King of Sweden?”
“No—hic, the Earl of Dim—I mean Lord Dinsmore,” she said breathlessly. “He’s staying at Windsor Castle as a special guest of the Queen.”
George groaned audibly, and Mr. Smythe shifted back and forth on his feet.
“She’s making a fool of you,” his partner said flatly.
“P-please,” she begged.
Smythe rubbed his dark beard. “’Twouldn’t hurt to check her story out, sir. I’ll just nip up to the castle and see if there’s an earl by the name of Dinsmore there and if he’s ever heard of Lady Alexandrina Gailey.”
“It’s past midnight.”
“They’ll be up at the castle,” Smythe replied. “Toffs stay up until the early morning hours.”
“Thank you!” Drina said, grabbing the iron bars. “Oh thank you!”
Smythe nodded to her and then opened the door to leave. Drina shuddered as the sharp winter wind blew into the room. She backed farther into the cell, but the smell of urine and unwashed bodies became even worse the closer she stepped toward the straw. She sidled toward George’s cell and he stuck his hands through the bars.
“I can’t tell you how sorry I am,” he whispered, taking her hands.
Her hands finally felt warm inside his and she felt heat blooming in her belly. “It’s not entirely your fault,” she admitted with a hiccup. “I should’ve left my jewels in your room.”
“I never thought I’d be arrested as a bridle cull.”
“A what?”
“A common thief.”
“Don’t disparage our profession, George,” Drina said, in an attempt to lighten the mood. “We weren’t condemned as common thieves, but as jewel robbers. Something quite superior, I believe.”
“Yes, of course, much superior,” he said wryly. “I believe we would be hung, instead of transported.”
Drina pulled one hand from George’s hold and touched her neck. She could feel her pulse in her throat.
“It won’t come to that,” George assured her, and caressed her cheek with his free hand. For a moment, she thought he was going to kiss her between the grimy iron bars. But she saw that his eyes had wandered from her face to the door.
She sighed and bit her lip. When would she finally accept that George wasn’t interested in her romantically?
“I’m sure you’re right,” she said, pulling her other hand away from his. “Besides, this isn’t our usual crack lay.”
George laughed and raked his fingers through his hair. “I don’t even want to know where you learned the thieves’ cant for housebreaking, Drina. But I think you’re very bricky. The brickiest girl I’ve ever met.”
It was nice that he thought she was brave, but she would much rather that he thought her beautiful.
Drina rubbed both her arms with her hands. She felt so cold, but it at least helped clear her mind. There wasn’t any humor to find in their situation. She didn’t doubt that they would get out of jail—tomorrow probably, once she and George were missed at Windsor Castle. But if she wasn’t found in her bed tomorrow morning, her reputation would be lost and Queen Victoria would not remove the entail on her father’s estate.
The royal family’s rigid morality could not tolerate even a hint of impropriety.
Drina would lose her home. Where she loved every blasted brick and individual blade of grass, and most importantly, each person who lived on the estate. Who would ensure that old Mrs. Crick in Robin Cottage had enough bread when her rheumatism flared up? Or check on Mr. Portier, their retired butler, who was mostly deaf but still spoke enough for three people? And who would laugh with the Bradshaw sisters, all seven of them, who worked as maids in Rothfield House? The sisters did more than dust and scrub; they seemed to bring joy to every room they entered.
What would happen to everyone she loved when the estate defaulted to the government? Would it be sold? Or kept under the careless watch of a steward who valued its profitability more than its people?
She turned around and sat with her back against the cell wall. George must have sat down, too, with his back to the bars—she could feel his warmth.
It was a small comfort in an otherwise dreadful situation.