“In here!” Harry urged, holding open a door. We dove inside, and Harry closed the door after us. We were in a room lined with shelves, each one stacked high with pristine white sheets and towels, the air heavily scented with the odors of starch and clean linen.
Stoker laid a finger over his lips and we held our breath, waiting for the footsteps to pass.
But they did not pass. Instead, they stopped just outside and the door was yanked open.
“What the devil—” The woman outside had no chance to finish. Stoker reached out and jerked her inside while Harry once more closed the door.
“J. J.,” I said, sagging in relief.
“You know this chambermaid?” Harry asked, surveying her from starched white mobcap to stiff bombazine skirts.
She gave a sniff. “I am not a chambermaid. I am a journalist,” she corrected loftily. “And who are you?”
“Henry Trismegistus Spenlove,” he said, sweeping her a bow.
“Your second name is not Trismegistus,” I hissed.
“No, but I don’t much care for Walter. I thought I might try something new,” he replied.
Stoker sighed. “J. J., we are in need of assistance,” he began.
“So I deduced,” she said, a thoroughly mercenary light in her eyes.
“We need an audience with the Maharani of Viratanagar,” he explained.
“And your manager is most unhelpful,” I put in.
“I can get you in,” she told us. “But it will cost.”
“J. J., really,” I remonstrated. “I thought we were friends.”
She held up a hand. “Friends keep other friends’ secrets,” she said with a meaningful look. “Which I have done. And now friends can help friends get a story.”
“That is a convoluted statement,” Stoker told her.
She bared her teeth in something that was not quite a smile. “And yet you understood me.”
“We did,” I told her. I sighed. She was entirely correct. J. J. had learnt the truth of my parentage some months back, and although the story would have been the making of her career—she would, in short, have gone down as nothing less than a journalistic legend had she published it—she had said nothing, in print or otherwise, to betray me. Furthermore, when she discovered I was masquerading as Her Royal Highness, the Hereditary Princess of the Alpenwald, she had asked for comparatively little to keep her silence.
“Very well,” Stoker said. “We will give you a story. You can print nothing of the maharani and our business here tonight, but I swear we will give you something worth your while. Do I have your word that you will keep quiet with what you are about to hear?”
“My word,” she said, putting out her hand to shake. Stoker took hers soberly as she jerked her head towards Harry. “Who is he really?”
“A thief and a confidence trickster,” I said. Harry reared indignantly.
“That is mighty rude, considering,” he protested.
“What business has a confidence trickster with the Maharani of Viratanagar?” she asked.
“None that you may print,” I told her firmly. “But we have something far more interesting for your readers,” I assured her.
She gave me a narrow look, then fetched an armful of towels for Harry to carry. “Hide your face with these and follow,” she ordered. She took a look at my disguise and snorted. “Speak to no one and keep your eyes down,” she instructed me. She poked her head out of the linen room to make certain the corridor was clear before beckoning to us. “Walk fast and stay close.”
Unlike the older hotels, where the most august suites were located at the bottom, the Sudbury had been built with lifts, allowing them to give the higher floors over to luxurious rooms far from the bustle of the street and lobby. Everything was hushed here, courtesy of the thick carpets that stretched from wall to wall. Staff spoke only in whispers on these floors, and the air smelt of privilege.
“Which suite?” Stoker asked as he moved down the corridor.
“The Empress Suite,” J. J. informed us. “Here.” We stopped in front of the door, a tiny brass plaque proclaiming the name of the suite in elegant script. An empty chair sat outside and J. J. grinned. “The maharani’s bodyguard has a tendresse for one of the other maids. She finishes work at eleven and he always slips off to see her.”
“Rather slipshod if he is supposed to be protecting her,” Harry put in.
J. J. rolled her eyes. “There are half a dozen plainclothes detectives in the lobby at any given hour. This fellow is ceremonial.”
J. J. rapped sharply and the rest of us gathered behind her. The door opened almost at once, and I peered under Stoker’s arm to see that it was our intruder from the previous night.
He looked at Stoker’s chef’s coat and the tray of pastries as well as Harry’s stack of towels. “We ordered nothing,” he said, shutting the door. Stoker put out his foot, catching the door before it closed, just as I stepped out from behind him. The young man’s eyes widened in shock. I smiled to put him at his ease, but he let loose a string of words in a language I did not speak and turned, fleeing into the suite as if all the devils from hell were hard upon his heels.
We entered and closed the door. The foyer of the suite was furnished with a heavy walnut table carved with assorted fruits and animals. Stoker left his tray of pastries there—not without a longing look at a cream horn—and dropped his chef’s coat beside it. We saw ourselves into the sitting room, where our intruder stood in front of a seated woman, his legs spread in a warrior’s stance, a sword held aloft in his hand. He was clearly prepared to die in defense of the lady, and I smiled, recognizing her at once.
“I am sorry, I do not know the correct way to address a maharani,” I told her.
She raised her hand to stem the flow of chatter from her grandson and gave me an amused look. “You should not address me at all until you are spoken to, but I do not expect you to know such things.”
The maharani was dressed in the same style of ensemble she had worn in her photograph, beautifully draped silks, heavy with embroidery. Her hair, thick and black with only a few threads of silver, was coiled at her neck, and she wore a parure of gold jewelry set with enormous gems. Her grandson was also dressed in traditional clothing, with a long silk coat over narrow trousers of the same material. He maintained his martial posture and the meaning was clear—we might intrude, but we would never get near enough to harm his grandmother. The gesture was touching, although one look at the set of the maharani’s jaw told me she was a woman accustomed to looking after herself.
“This is my grandson, Bhairav, and you may address me as Excellency or madam,” she said. “Let us be casual together.” She made a brief signal and her grandson lowered his sword but kept a watchful eye upon us.