I folded my arms over my chest and regarded Stoker.
“I managed it well enough last night,” I reminded him.
“Because no one was near you! You were surrounded by Alpenwalders and by me,” he pointed out. “You spoke to almost no one, and you had nothing to do but sit quietly and occasionally wave. A clockwork mannequin could have done as much.”
“Thank you,” I said, my tone acid. “It was actually a trifle more complicated than that.”
“Yes, I quite forgot. You also had to hold up a tiara. However did you manage it?”
“There is no call for sarcasm,” I said.
“What approach is called for?” he inquired. “Should I simply fling you over my shoulder and stalk out of here until you come to your senses?”
“Certainly not. Do not think I will play the Sabine,” I warned him. “I mean to do this. Besides, we needed a pretext to spend time with the Alpenwalders to investigate Alice’s relationship with Gisela. We could hardly do better.”
“Than a semi–state occasion in a royal residence?” His tone softened. “You have not considered the complications. Veronica, it is a formal dinner at Windsor Castle. It will be full of British dignitaries and officials, people who could easily unmask you for the imposter you would be.”
“I am not acquainted with any members of the government,” I protested.
“Just because they are not known to you does not mean you are not known to them!” He thrust his hands through his hair, disordering it violently. “Veronica, be reasonable. You simply cannot swan through the gates of Windsor Castle as if you have a right to be there.”
“Don’t I?” I asked softly.
I said nothing more, but I did not have to. He came forward and simply enfolded me in his arms. “I thought you wanted nothing from them.”
“I didn’t! At least until I met Eddy,” I corrected. Our latest foray into murder had seen us making the acquaintance of my half brother, Prince Albert Victor of Wales, Eddy to his intimates. I had found myself growing quite fond of the young man during our short time together. He was silly and frustrating to an impossible degree, but I could not deny the attraction of spending time with those of my own blood. Growing up without family, I had never really placed much importance upon the connections of genetics. I had consoled myself with those whom I met upon my travels whose tastes and values aligned with mine, with those who had proven themselves loyal and trustworthy out of true affection, not the obligations of blood.
Eddy had been different. We were nothing alike, my half brother and I, but I had been conscious of a deep pull to watch over him, a protectiveness I had seldom experienced before. And I wondered if it were unique to that young man or if I would feel the same towards others of my family, towards the home I had never known but to which I was tied by blood. For eight hundred years, my ancestors had lived and died in that castle. Would I feel any sort of recognition? Any variety of belonging? This was perhaps the best opportunity I would have to find out.
“Well, I suppose it is only a mercy that she will not be there,” Stoker said finally, resting his chin on the top of my head. He did not have to specify. I knew precisely whom he meant. “You can at least say hello to her portrait, I suppose.”
“Something like that.”
“You will be disappointed,” he warned me. “She looks very much like a turnip.”
I stifled a laugh and he drew back, his gaze intent. “I am deadly serious. She looks like a turnip in a black bonnet. Or I suppose since they have state portraits there you might see one where she is a turnip in a tiny crown.”
I poked him firmly in the ribs. “Behave. You forget I have seen her once before.” I had watched her Golden Jubilee procession from a distance, scarcely able to see the small, rotund figure that had been smothered in ruffles and lace and tucked into a royal carriage. I looked up at him. “You understand, do you not?”
“Better than you think. For all my bluster about my family, I still find myself running to them in spite of my best efforts.” He dropped a kiss to the top of my head. “I know you well enough to understand that you are going to do this with or without my blessing so I may as well accept it.”
“Besides,” I told him, “we still do not know anything about who might have been aware of Gisela’s connection to Alice and who might therefore have wanted Alice dead.”
He slanted me an odd look. “Tell me that is why you want to do this, and I will accept the lie. But at least be honest with yourself. There is nothing about Alice Baker-Greene’s death that is drawing you into this particular scheme. You have ghosts of your own to exorcise that have nothing to do with her.”
It was an unkind observation, but it was not wrong, I reflected as he went to open the door. As expected, Maximilian was hovering just outside and he tumbled into the room, followed hard by the baroness and the chancellor.
The chancellor’s expression was watchful while the baroness’s was one of naked hope.
“Very well,” I told them. “I will do it. But the same terms as last night—I must be accompanied by Mr. Templeton-Vane, and not merely as my guard,” I stipulated. “He must be acknowledged as a member of the delegation and seated at the formal supper.”
To my surprise, they agreed at once, and I felt a rush of emotion. I was going to a banquet at Windsor Castle—home of my grandmother, the queen. And whether that emotion was fear or exhilaration, I could not tell.
* * *
• • •
After a lengthy lesson on royal etiquette from the baroness, Stoker and I were given a brief respite. Stoker complained of hunger and went to the room put aside for his use with the packet of honeycomb he kept in his coat whilst I rubbed my aching temples and picked up a discarded copy of the Weekly Portent that someone had stuffed beneath the sofa cushion. I could not imagine any member of the entourage taking an interest in such a periodical; it was a lurid little publication even more outrageous than the Daily Harbinger. I wondered if one of the maids had been reading it and hidden it away lest she be discovered shirking her duties.
exclusive interview with princess’s potential betrothed, royal man of action, shouted the headline. I read the article with mounting disbelief. It was a lengthy piece on Duke Maximilian, describing the events of the previous night at the opera house and detailing how his courage and perspicacity had saved Princess Gisela from harm when a bomb had exploded near her. The piece was stickily sentimental and flattering in the extreme, cataloging his virtues as a man of the people, accomplished and yet never lacking the common touch. There was a formal photograph of him in uniform and two more in hunting garb and evening dress. He presented a perfect image of a man of the world, destined for greatness. He was quoted as saying that he was a devoted lover of his country with no greater wish than to serve the Alpenwald by supporting the princess. He had many flattering things to say about England and the continued bonds between our countries, and the article ended with an encomium of praise so extreme I blushed for the author. The last lines were a direct appeal to the princess to accept the duke’s hand in marriage and give the Alpenwald the prince it so richly deserved.