There was something modestly revolting at the notion of a grown man being described as mischievous, but the baroness was obviously troubled and I had no wish to add to her burdens. I put a fingertip to her arm, startling her a little.
“You are clearly distressed,” I said. “Be of good heart, Baroness. I am certain your princess will return unharmed and soon.”
She said nothing, biting her lip before she darted me a grateful glance. She cleared her throat and opened her program. “Ah, act two is the love duet. That should be a most excellent scene,” she began. She carried on talking about the opera whilst a steady stream of visitors appeared at the door of the box, offering flowers, confections, and other little tributes from admirers whilst being carefully discouraged from entering by the lowering Teutonic presence of Captain Durand. The gifts were heaped on a small table in the corner—armfuls of carefully arranged blooms, boxes full of sugared almonds and tiny jeweled fruits, and an assortment of envelopes.
“Correspondence?” I asked the baroness.
“Petitions,” she explained. “Whenever the princess appears in public, there are those who present her with their needs. If it is in her power to assist them, she will do so.”
I watched the chancellor carefully bundle the envelopes before tucking them into his pocket. “It is my responsibility to assess the worthiness of each claim before passing it along to Her Serene Highness,” he told me smoothly. I realized then how very isolated the princess must be. She seldom traveled outside her own country, and even when she went in public, there was little opportunity for anyone to speak to her without the interference of her entourage.
Before I could ask, Duke Maximilian spied a bottle of costly champagne amidst the offerings and pounced upon it like a house cat upon a mouse. “Now we have the makings of a party,” he proclaimed. He snapped his fingers at Stoker to find glasses. I held my breath, waiting for Stoker’s response, but I need not have worried. He was finding the entire affair amusing, I realized. He signaled to an usher passing by the open door of the box for coupes as the duke popped the cork with a lavish gesture, sending it flying into the crowd below. They laughed and dove for it, a little memento of their night at the opera with a foreign princess.
“Madness,” I murmured as Duke Maximilian handed me a frothing glass of the golden wine.
“That they leap for rubbish? It is indeed. But such is the lot of royalty, my dear,” he said, touching his glass to mine. “Blue blood carries magic in it.”
“You cannot really believe that,” I protested.
He shrugged. “I am a pragmatist. I believe what serves me.”
“You are an opportunist,” I corrected and he laughed, loudly enough that half the theatre turned to look.
“Ah, they see now how well we get on! I must thank you for that,” he said, raising his glass. “It is because we make such a beautiful couple. Just think how handsome our children will be.”
“You are impossible,” I told him.
“I am adorable,” he corrected. “I am a charming rogue and you are perplexed because you find that you like me more than you want to.”
“Did someone tell you that confidence is attractive in a gentleman?” I asked sweetly. “Because if they did, you have taken it entirely too far.”
“A gentleman can never be too confident. He must believe in his abilities even when no one else does,” he said. “I have always believed that I possess the qualities necessary to make a worthy consort.” His gaze dropped to his glass, where bubbles were still rising through the champagne. It was excellent stuff, the color of pale straw and tasting of toast with a hint of jam. I finished my first glass and the duke hastened to refill my coupe.
“But there is doubt in some quarters?” I guessed.
“I enjoy life very much—too much, some would say. They think me not serious enough to play such an important role in my country’s future.” He seemed sincere then, and I liked him better than I had up to that point.
“What would you like that role to be?”
He considered this a moment. “I should like to be the sort of man who could make Gisela proud. This surprises you? Do not deny it, I can see the astonishment on your face, my dear. But it is true.”
“You really care for her then?”
“How can you doubt it?” His expression softened. “I have known her since childhood. We are cousins, after all, though distantly so. I was always the disgraceful boy with the untidy hair and the pockets full of frogs or French cigarettes.”
I widened my eyes and he smiled. “I was a very mature boy. But I cared much for her, and I still do. She was so serious, so lovely and always restricted!”
His gaze fell to the tight lacing of my waist and rose slowly to the heavy jewels at my wrists and head. “You feel a little of that, do you not? How one must suffocate? I always tried to relieve her of that.”
“You encouraged her to misbehave,” I guessed.
“She needed little enough encouragement,” he told me. “There was always a rebel beneath the royal. But whenever we got ourselves into trouble, I took the blame. It was easy enough. Everyone knew who we were—Gisela the good girl and Maximilian the scoundrel.” His tone was mocking, but his lips took a wistful turn. “More than once I was whipped for some plot of her making. Still, I do not regret it.”
“I imagine there is little you do regret,” I said.
“Why don’t we do something scandalous and find out?” With that, he settled back into his chair and sipped his champagne, never breaking eye contact with me.
“Enjoying yourself?” came a voice at my ear. I turned to see Stoker kneeling just behind me in a posture of supplication.
“What are you doing on the floor?” I demanded. “Get up at once.”
“I cannot sit in your presence,” he told me in mock seriousness. “It is a violation of royal etiquette. But I can kneel in devotion to my princess.”
“You are an ass,” I hissed.
“I am also about to save you a good deal of trouble,” he told me. He turned his head away from the theatre. “Do not look now. In the stalls. Second row on the end.”
“Who is it?”
“Who is the very last person you would want to see in your current guise?” he asked.
“Mornaday.” It was a name, but I said it like an expletive.
Stoker nodded. “Mercifully, his duties demand he pay closer attention to the audience than the royal box and he has not looked often this way. If he suspects for a moment—” He broke off. There was no need for him to finish the sentence. Mornaday had occasionally played the ally; one might even consider him a friend. But an ambitious second-in-command at Scotland Yard was not the person to conspire with to impersonate a foreign royal. If he got as much as a sniff of something amiss with the Alpenwalder delegation, he would be after it like a hungry dog with a juicy bone.