Chapter 4

By July, Phileas Fogg, had grown fully at home at court. He watched the ton with practiced precision and few distractions. The glitter had finally dimmed, and the truth seen. These parties were little more than an auction arena for the capture of heiresses and the selling of daughters for titles. Thus, fully stripped of his innocent illusions, he put his full attention on the job at hand.

Phileas had been given no chances to talk to Pamela since the announcement of her betrothal. Lord Quincy was a Tory, as was Sir Niles. The two introduced her to a different set of people from what was normally found in the Queen's company. Pamela gave Phileas a sad look across the room from time to time, but that was all the regret she dared show. To the ton, she was warming up to her fiancé. And so were Lady Beatrice, and Miss Ruby, the newest debutantes to be betrothed.

With the height of summer, the threat to Queen Victoria had become clearer to Phileas. It is not so much a concrete danger, like an assassin; it is a political struggle using the head of the country as its method of getting attention. There are several players in this game. The anarchists would indeed kill Her Majesty, simply because they didn't want any sort of rule. The radicals of both main political affiliations didn't like the way Lord Melbourne had made the Queen a political partisan. They wouldn't likely kill her, but would, if they could, turn her into a powerless puppet. That, or try to marry her off to someone they thought could control her. And lastly, there are radicals of social reform who, for reasons known only to God, thought threatening the Queen's life would help their causes become realities. The last group is the most worrisome. They are insane and dedicated, a lethal combination.

Sir Boniface Fogg, in the privacy of his study, was thinking about the same political realities while his son did his work. Though an ardent Whig, he had chosen to keep his views silent in the prosecution of his duties. He had taken his son aside to explain that one afternoon after dinner with a longtime friend. Sir Richard had served with Sir Boniface in the Royal Navy. During the shared meal, Richard had blatantly proposed that I use my position to influence the, supposedly, still pliable young queen. Phileas had sat in silence, in deference to us, but I could tell he had been upset by what was said. I addressed the matter behind the closed doors, in this very room.

"It would be too easy for me to do as Sir Richard suggests," I had said; "Easy if I were that ruthless. His hasn't been the first such suggestion. God grant that it will soon be the last." He took a long drink off his brandy, trying to wash his distaste away.

"Phileas, what Sir Richard asked of me is so close to treason it could get me hung." I said and shuddered. "My position in government is to protect the Queen and to protect England from harm. Whether I like her politics is immaterial. We Foggs have been in the service of the crown for centuries. Some kings and queens have been good and some not so good. Either way, our first duty is always to them. I spent many nights on my knees begging divine intervention to sway King William from his follies. That is as far as it ever went. We, as the Crown's protectors, must maintain political neutrality. It's a hard road, I can tell you, but it's the only way to be in this business and keep one's honor." I let those words sink in for a moment, and then, with great hope asked, "Can you understand that?"

"I think I do, father," Phileas had said.

"Good. Then you will understand that we will not act on any of what was suggested tonight. We will, however, keep a close watch on Sir Richard and his associates when in the Queen's presence. If he had the misplaced courage to come here asking my aid, he could be bold enough to act against her."

"Yes, sir," Phileas had said, and then excused himself for the night.

After Phileas left the room, Sir Boniface had remained, nursing his drink as he was this night. Sir Richard still worries me. He is in the radically anti-German influence ranks. He wants Queen Victoria to choose an English noble for her husband. Several have been brought up as possibilities since her coronation. All are strong-minded men, likely having aspirations of ruling as an unhindered king. "God save us all from the ambitious." The suitors mentioned have all been noted and investigated.

This girl we have as queen… She worries me greatly, too. Right now, she is young and moral and wants to be a good queen. She is also a political innocent. Lord Melbourne made himself her political advisor. While mostly a good councilor, he has encouraged her to his own party and discouraged her from any involvement in anything outside of court functions. And unfortunately, against social issues, where her interest could do some good. He has even discouraged reading novels on such subjects. I can't agree with that. But those are only part of the issues Victoria isn't dealing with. The mess brewing in Ireland... the expansion of English influence abroad... the slave trade and…

He stopped, took a breath.

Some like to compare her to Queen Bess for her circumstances. Sir Boniface frowned into his glass. That is a poor comparison. Elizabeth was a fully formed and well-tried political player by the time she took the throne. Victoria has been deliberately shielded from that. Uneducated… untried… unprepared…

If Victoria were Elizabeth, that would make me a present-day Sir Francis Walsingham, wouldn't it? Sir Boniface took another long drink to dispel that thought. That spymaster of another age had served Elizabeth well. He had uncovered many plots against her life, but he had also been a ruthless monster. 'May that old bastard's shade stay as far from me as the east from the west.

Sir Boniface shook his head of frustrations, putting his glass down. On second thought, he changed his mind. The glass was scooped back up and shattered in the fire grate to cement his earlier pronouncement against Walsingham's ghost. A silly superstition and a waste of good crystal, but old traditions are too embedded to ignore. Sir Boniface stood tiredly and stretched. If I continue on this vein, I will either drain my decanter or cut my wrists.

He opted for a cold bed.