The Prince’s Summons
The door splintered with a sound like a bone breaking. A booted foot slammed through the panel, splinters of dark oak scattering across the floorboards. Julian’s hand clamped around Eli’s small wrist, his other arm already around Freya’s waist, propelling them both toward the casement window.
“Dorian!” Julian’s voice was a low, sharp order—one word, no room for argument.
The security chief moved without a sound. He crossed the room in three strides, his heavy frame a shadow against the firelight, and threw the window wide. The night air rushed in, cold and damp, carrying the scent of wet earth and pine. Below, a sheer drop to the garden. Julian didn’t hesitate. He lifted Eli bodily, the boy’s breath catching in a frightened gasp, and handed him over the sill.
“Dorian, take him down.”
“Your Grace, there’s a three-meter drop.”
“Then catch him.”
Dorian’s jaw clamped but he took the boy, hooking Eli’s small fingers around his neck. Eli’s eyes were wide, dark pools in the amber glow, but he didn’t cry out. He bit his lip. A seven-year-old shouldn’t know how to stay this quiet. He’d learned it from the last six months of running.
“Mama,” Eli whispered, reaching for her.
Freya was already at the sill, her skirts bunched in one hand. Her face was pale, but her eyes were steady—calculating the distance, the landing. She didn’t flinch.
“I’m right behind you,” she said, and Julian saw her hand tremble once on the stone lip before she swung her leg over.
The door shattered inward.
Victor Pemberton stood in the breach, his pistol raised, his silhouette stark against the torchlight of the corridor. Behind him, two armed men in the livery of the King’s constabulary filled the doorway. Victor’s eyes found them at the window, and a slow, almost amused smile spread across his face.
“Julian. Really? The window?” He stepped forward, the pistol steady. “You’ll break your neck. I’d rather have you alive for the trial.”
Julian didn’t answer. He had one hand on the window frame, one foot on the sill, and he met Victor’s gaze with a flat, hard look.
“Tell Silas I’ll deliver my condolences personally.”
He vanished.
The drop was short—not quite clean, his boots scraping against the rough stone of the outer wall—but he landed with a roll, his shoulder slamming into damp grass. The breath left his lungs in a sharp burst. Above him, the window blazed with light, and a gunshot cracked the night. Dust exploded from the stone inches from his head.
Then Dorian’s hand was under his arm, hauling him up.
“Run,” Dorian said. “They’ll circle to the stable yard.”
Freya was already moving, Eli’s hand gripped in hers, her skirts hiked to her knees as she tore across the garden. The hunting lodge was a hundred yards ahead, dark and hulking against the treeline—half-timbered, slate-roofed, built a century ago for dead kings. A pair of torches flickered beside the service door. Dorian keyed a lock, and they spilled inside.
The door slammed shut behind them.
Quiet.
The hall was empty. Dust motes drifted in the pale shaft of moonlight falling from a high window. Somewhere in the depths, a clock ticked.
Eli was breathing hard, his small chest heaving. Freya knelt before him, her hands framing his face, checking him. “Are you hurt? Say it if you’re hurt.”
“I’m not.” His voice was small but steady. “Mama, your hands are cold.”
She kissed his forehead and pulled him close, and Julian stood at the door, pressing his ear to the wood, listening. No footsteps. No voices. The service road ran through thick forest; Victor wouldn’t risk his men on the uneven ground in the dark. Not yet. He’d find a better trail, a better moment.
But not tonight.
Julian turned, and the clock’s ticking filled the silence.
Raven’s Keep was not a fortress. It was a hunting lodge built by Edward VI—six stone bedrooms, a great hall with a fireplace you could ride a horse through, and a tower that looked out over the ridgeline to the estate of Ashby Hall, five miles distant. It had been in the Ashby family for generations, a private retreat. And it was, Julian calculated, the one place the Pembertons couldn’t touch without openly declaring war on the Crown.
The loyal soldiers who guarded it were of the Prince Regent’s own garrison, quartered discreetly in the old gatehouse. It was a courtesy extended to Julian by the one man whose hand he hadn’t yet overplayed: Prince Leopold himself.
That courtesy, Julian thought, might be exactly what Victor meant to sever.
“This is beautiful,” Freya said, standing at the great hall’s window, her reflection a pale ghost in the dark glass. She’d found a shawl somewhere—Miriam had left a trunk of clothes at the door, along with bread, cheese, and a jar of honey. Freya wrapped her hands around a cup of tea, steam curling around her chin. “I never knew this place existed.”
“No one does. That’s the point.” Julian sat at the long oak table, a map spread before him, his fingers drumming a quiet rhythm against the wood. Two candles guttered beside him, their wax pooling in silver dish. “The only road up here is the one we took. Victor can’t move in force without the Prince Regent’s seal, and tonight his men were constables—legal, but thin. He’ll have to go through chambers now.”
“And what does that look like?” Freya asked.
“Paper. Laws. A summons.” He looked up. “He’ll try to paint us as fugitives from the King’s justice. He’ll demand surrender at a public hearing, in a court where he controls the narrative. And he’ll do it fast, before I can reach Leopold.”
Eli was asleep on the settle by the fire, wrapped in linen sheets, his face slack with exhaustion. Freya looked at him for a long moment, and when she turned back, her eyes held a coldness Julian had never seen before.
“He said he’d have the King’s wardship order,” she said softly. “He threatened your son.”
“I know.”
“He’ll do it, Julian. He’ll find a way to make Eli a ward of the Crown, and then he’ll take him. That’s how he’ll break you.”
Julian’s hand stilled. The candle flame flickered, a ribbon of black smoke trailing upward. He looked at Freya across the table—the woman who had fled France, who had crossed a war-torn continent with a child at her breast, who had trusted him when anyone else would have seen only the shadow of a traitor’s husband. She was the strongest person he had ever known, and Victor Pemberton thought he could destroy her by filing the right paperwork.
The fire crackled. A log shifted, settling into embers.
“He’s not taking my son,” Julian said quietly. “And he’s not taking you.”
A knock came at the door—three sharp taps, a pause, two more. Dorian’s pattern.
“Sir,” Dorian said from the door, his voice carrying no urgency. “There’s someone here. Says his name is William Hart, secretary to the Prince Regent’s household. Has a letter with the royal seal.”
Julian and Freya exchanged a look. He rose, and she followed, her steps light on the worn flags.
The man in the entrance hall was thin as a reed and blanched as paper, his powdered wig immaculate even at this hour. He wore the dark blues and gold braid of the royal household and clutched a leather portfolio to his chest like a shield.
“Your Grace.” His bow was precise, but his eyes moved around the hall with nervous little darts. “I bring a communiqué from his Royal Highness the Prince Regent.”
“At half past midnight?” Julian said.
“The Prince does not sleep,” Hart said, a thin smile crossing his mouth. “He has commanded that a summons be delivered to you in person, and that no earthly obstacle be permitted to stand in the way of its arrival.”
He held out the portfolio. Julian took it, his fingers brushing the wax seal—the royal monogram, pressed into burgundy, untouched. He broke it there, under the flickering light of the hall’s single lantern, and unfolded the letter.
He read it twice. Then he read it a third time, slowly, committing every word to memory.
“The Vauxhall Masquerade,” he said aloud.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Hart cleared his throat. “The Prince believes that a certain matter—concerning certain documents in your possession—might be best settled in a context that invites public scrutiny but allows for private resolution. He is prepared to review your evidence, hear your account, and render judgment. He suggests that a masquerade offers the perfect anonymity. All parties in attendance will wear masks. No one will know who is speaking. And the Prince, of course, may recognize a voice or two.”
“He’s telling me to present my case in a costume party,” Julian said, flat. “While my enemies walk the same floor with blood on their hands. That’s his compromise?”
Hart’s smile thinned further. “His Royal Highness likes to hear all the music before choosing which symphony to conduct, Your Grace. The invitation is not optional,” he added, bowing low. “I will await your acknowledgment at the gatehouse. Midnight tomorrow. Come masked. Come armed, if you wish a place on the floor. The Prince does not quibble at the provisions of a gentleman’s attire.”
He turned, and his footsteps faded down the gravel path toward the gatehouse.
Freya stood in the doorway, her shawl pulled tight. “He’s baiting you.”
“He’s giving me a stage,” Julian said, folding the letter into his coat. “And Victor will be there, marking every move I make. There’ll be no room to hide.”
“Then we don’t hide,” Freya said. “We dance.”
The hours before dawn passed in a haze of planning and silence. Dorian did a perimeter sweep, counting doorways, windows, sightlines. Miriam arrived at first light, her carriage loaded with trunks of clothing—proper gowns for Freya, a wardrobe for Eli, and a long, dark velvet coat for Julian, suitable for the Prince’s masquerade.
“A wig and a mask will be delivered by noon,” Miriam said, setting down a basket of pastries. Her face was flushed, her cheeks pink with cold. “I’ve bought them through three hands so no one can trace the order. And Dorian tells me the nursery here is small but suitable—I’ve put fresh linen on the bed and a stack of books by the lamp. He’ll be safe here with me and two of the Prince’s men. No one else knows this place exists.”
Freya took her hand. The two women stood in a brief bubble of warmth, a moment of unspoken understanding, before Freya turned back to the table where Julian had laid out all that remained of their lives.
A single ledger. A stack of letters. A map of Vauxhall Gardens.
And one intercepted dispatch, its seal broken, its ink smeared with damp—Victor Pemberton’s own hand, addressed to his father.
Freya’s fingers traced the words.
*“The woman is a French agent, contracted to the Directorate. The boy is a bastard, seeding a lie to claim Ashby blood. If the Duke will not quietly surrender the title, I shall have the Prince Regent sign an order of attainder before the month is out. The brother’s whore and her whelp will rot in the Tower, and the House of Ashby will be swept from the book of heraldry like a stain.”*
“This is his plan,” Freya said, her voice barely above a whisper. “He will declare me a spy. He will have Eli declared illegitimate. And the Crown will take him from me. That’s how he kills us.”
Julian read the letter again. His index finger tapped the edge of the desk in a slow, deliberate rhythm. Once. Twice. Three times.
“He signed it,” Julian murmured. “He had the arrogance to sign it.” His eyes lifted to hers. “He calls you a French agent. But he’s about to give us the only proof we need that we’re telling the truth.”
“How?”
“He doesn’t know we have this. He doesn’t know what I’ve already handed to the Prince.” Julian rose, crossing to the window, where the morning light spilled silver over the ridgeline. “Leopold holds my evidence. Victor holds a threat. But at a masquerade, everyone is equal. Title is hidden. Rank is hidden. And when the Prince asks for witnesses, Victor will have to speak to an audience he can’t control.”
“You’ll expose him in front of the entire court.”
“I’ll expose him in front of the only man whose judgment matters.” Julian’s jaw set, a hard line of bone and muscle. “And I’ll be wearing his father’s mask, so he won’t see it coming until it’s too late.”
Freya came to him, reaching up to touch the collar of his coat, smoothing a crease. Her touch was quiet, intimate—there was no fear in it, only certainty.
“We do this together,” she said. “I don’t leave your side tonight. Not a step away from you, not a moment off your arm.”
“They’ll try to separate us.”
“Then they’ll fail, because I know every door at Vauxhall keeps a garden view, and we’re going through every one of them with our heads held up.” Her hand caught his chin, drawing his gaze to hers. “Julian. You are not going to lose me. You are not going to lose Eli. We would burn this city to cinders first.”
Julian looked at her for a long moment, then lowered his head, pressing his brow to hers.
“Then we plan for cinders,” he murmured. “Because tonight, we bring the fire.”
They spent the afternoon in the tower room, drafting, cutting, discarding. Dorian moved between window and door, checking shadows, timing his circuits with the sun’s arc. Miriam stayed below with Eli, whose laughter drifted up the stairwell—a clear, bell-like sound, the first Julian had heard from him in weeks. He paused at the sight of the boy in the morning room, sitting cross-legged at the hearth, a wooden horse in one hand, a tin soldier in the other.
Eli looked up, and for a moment, his eyes searched Julian’s face.
“Are we safe here?” he asked.
“Yes.” Julian heard no lie in the word. “Tonight is the last night we run. After tonight, we go home.”
Eli considered this. He gave a small nod, then turned back to his soldiers, arranging them around a castle of cushions. In the window, the attic clock ticked.
Dorian met him at the end of the passage, his face grave.
“The trap is laid, sir.” He handed Julian a folded note. “Ruby wore the ring for one afternoon at the Pemberton ball. Victor’s own clerk has a cousin who saw her. And I’ve found the man who drove the carriage that fetched Victor from the docks on the night you mean to expose. He remembers the passenger’s coat, sir. Maroon, with a silver collar.”
Julian tucked the note into the ledger. “He wears British blue,” he said quietly. “He will in public. He’ll give away his own lie.”
“And Eli, sir?”
“Stays here. With Miriam and two of the Prince’s garrison. Armed.” Julian’s voice was clipped. “Victor will not touch him. That’s the one promise I will die to keep.”
Dorian’s face was stone. “Understood.”
He turned and walked back to the stair, and Julian heard Freya’s footsteps behind him, her skirts brushing the stone floor.
The afternoon light had begun to fade in the library window. The clock on the mantel ticked—seven, then eight strokes as the hour turned.
Freya leaned against the doorframe, the masquerade gown in her arms: a deep red silk, cut with a low, confident neckline, trimmed in black Chantilly lace. Her mask was waiting on the table beside it, leather and gold, worked into the shape of a fox with shrewd, tilted eyes.
Julian looked at her, and his chest tightened with the sheer, unbearable weight of what he stood to lose.
“You know what they’ll call you tonight,” he said.
“They’ll call me the Duchess,” Freya said. “The moment you introduce me.”
The silence between them stretched. Far off, a bird cried against the dusk. The fire settled in the grate.
Dorian appeared at the head of the stairs, his face unreadable. A slip of paper was pinched between two fingers.
“Your Grace,” he said, and the noise carried a certainty that made Julian’s blood cool.
He took the card. Black-edged, written in a neat, masculine hand. The candlelight caught the ink, and Julian read the words twice, a slow, cold anger building behind his ribs.
“From Victor Pemberton, Your Grace,” Dorian said. “He will have the Prince Regent’s wardship order signed before the last dance—unless you surrender Ashby Hall tonight.”
Julian crushed the card. The paper crumpled sharp in his palm, and he let the pieces fall into the fire.
“Then we’ll be wearing masks.”