His mouth, pink and plump lipped, curved into a smile as I approached. He surveyed me up and down, quickly at first, then a second time more slowly and not as respectfully as he would have done his princess, I was certain. He did not scrutinize; he ravished.
“Enchanting,” he said in a low, melodious voice. He swept into a sudden low bow, his half cape touching the carpet. “I am Your Serene Highness’s most humble servant,” he said.
I froze. Was I meant to play the part of the princess already? I had not been prepared for this meeting.
Before I could respond, he looked up at me through his lashes, grasping my hand. “Your most humble servant,” he repeated, brushing his whiskers over my fingers. But his thumb was doing something decidedly uncourtly to my palm and I withdrew my hand as he laughed, showing a good deal of his straight white teeth.
He turned to the chancellor. “She is the very image of Gisela. Well done.”
“You have the advantage of me, sir,” I told him, but I already knew. I had known the moment I laid eyes upon him, although the photographs had not done him half justice.
He grinned. “Permit me to introduce myself, mademoiselle. I am His Grace, Maximilian, Duke of Lokendorf and the Alpenwald and your fiancé.”
CHAPTER
12
From behind me, Stoker gave a muffled growl, which I stifled by stepping carefully backwards onto his foot. I turned to the baroness for an explanation.
“We did not expect His Grace until tomorrow,” she said tightly. “This is an unexpected honor.”
“What are the pleasures of Monte Carlo against the incomparable joy of spending time with my betrothed?” he asked, his mouth twitching.
“Are you not in the least concerned that she is missing?” Stoker put in.
The duke gave him a dismissive glance. “Who is this man? He is not one of us.”
“No,” the chancellor hastened to explain. “He is a friend of the Fraulein’s and insisted upon accompanying her for her own safety. I am to duel him later. Perhaps,” he added swiftly as the baroness shot him a look of displeasure.
The duke smiled again. “How very interesting. Perhaps we will duel as well,” he said, touching two fingers to his brow and saluting Stoker in a manner that was clearly calculated to annoy.
But Stoker refused to rise to the bait. “I have no objection,” he said mildly.
The duke turned back to me. “They have made a good job of you, mademoiselle. But you stand a much better chance of passing as Gisela with my help.”
“What sort of help?”
He raised his brows in mock reproof. “How forbidding you look! Not easy with such a lovely face. I mean, mademoiselle, that I shall accompany you to the opera tonight.”
“Out of the question,” the baroness stated in her best governess voice.
The teasing expression turned serious. “I think,” the duke said in a dangerously soft voice, “that you do not mean to be impertinent, Baroness.”
She flushed a little. “I meant no disrespect, Your Grace.”
The duke gave her a hearty kiss upon the cheek, smacking his lips loudly. “I am jesting with you, Margareta! You know your little Max better than that.”
Her smile was indulgent. “I spoilt you as a child, I fear.”
“Impossible!” he cried. “For I am perfect, just as I am.” The baroness’s distress had fled and I wondered how strange it must be to rule the nursery—no doubt with an iron fist—only to have one’s charge grow into manhood, poised to take the reins of power.
The duke turned his smiles to me, but there was something a little aloof in his manner, and I realized he was forcing himself to cordiality. “The baroness worries when she should not. Her princess is in very good hands with me, and so should you be,” he assured me.
“You are not betrothed to our princess yet,” the chancellor said, lifting his chin.
The duke’s eyes rested on him a moment too long for comfort. Then he nodded. “It is truth, what you say, Chancellor. I have asked and she has not yet accepted me. But I think we know that she will. In time.”
“Are you not concerned about her whereabouts?” Stoker asked bluntly. “Surely that is of greater importance than helping Miss Speedwell sustain this ludicrous masquerade.”
The duke gave a thoughtful nod. “You make an excellent point, sir. But this ‘ludicrous masquerade’ is more important than you perhaps understand. I have no doubt that Gisela is perfectly fine. She is always slipping away to avoid engagements she would rather not attend. She will turn up in a day or so, looking quite pleased with herself, I promise you. Besides,” he added smoothly, fluffing the plume on his shako, “if it were made public that I had arrived in London and was not permitted to escort my intended wife to the opera, what a scandal this would make!”
The baroness gave a little cry of distress. “You would speak to the newspapers—Max, no!”
The duke shuddered. “You wound me, Baroness. I, highest-ranking duke of the Alpenwald, lower myself to speak to a journalist? You insult me,” he said, shaking his head with a mournful downward pull of the lips. “But naturally as I am in London and it is Sophie Fribourg making her debut in the role of Atalanta, it is my duty to attend and to witness her triumph. I would not let it be said that I am slow to uphold the glory of my country,” he finished with a little bow.
The baroness made no further objections, giving her former charge another of her exasperated smiles. It was left to the chancellor to agree. “Of course, Your Grace,” he said quietly.
The duke, having got his way, rubbed his hands together and beamed a smile around the room. He put out his arm and I laid my hand on top of it. He leaned close enough so that I could smell his toilet water—something with sandalwood and herbs. “What fun we shall have together, my pretty,” he murmured.
Behind me, Stoker growled again.
“There is another person you ought to meet,” the chancellor said. He signaled to the baroness, who opened the outer door and beckoned to the guard outside. Captain Durand stood at attention, snapping his heels together as he reached the chancellor and giving a sharp bow.
No doubt for my benefit and Stoker’s, the chancellor spoke English. “Captain, you have been informed of the circumstances and what is at stake. This is Miss Speedwell, who is assuming the role of the princess for the evening. Miss Speedwell, the commander of the princess’s guard, Captain Durand.”
The etiquette of the little court in the Alpenwald was clearly one of formality, but there seemed no obvious protocol for greeting an ersatz princess. I nodded to him and he clicked his heels together, giving me not the deep bow that royalty would have demanded, but a cursory nod in return.
“The captain will naturally escort us this evening, but arrangements for the princess’s security have been made by the Special Branch of the Metropolitan Police,” the chancellor informed us. I resisted the urge to exchange glances with Stoker. There was an excellent chance that someone of our acquaintance would be amongst the policemen assigned to the princess, but I was not worried that my own masquerade would be revealed. I had long ago learnt in my field experiences as a lepidopterist that invariably one sees what one expects to see. Many species of butterfly are gifted with protective coloration lending them the appearance of a predator’s eye or a dried leaf in order to discourage those who would feed upon them. Would-be marauders give such species a wide berth because they do not see them as they are, but as what they present themselves to be. With my formal gown and jewels and royal entourage, I would appear a princess to all who looked, so long as I made no obvious missteps. Stoker, however, was another matter altogether. He was entirely too remarkable. He had pocketed his gold earrings, but the eye patch and uncommonly intelligent expression were impossible to disguise. I could only hope that with most eyes upon me, those likeliest to expose him would pass by him, oblivious to the cuckoo in the nes
t.
The chancellor looked at the hideous mantel clock and clucked his tongue. “Come now, it is time,” he urged, taking up his own befeathered hat and swirling cloak. We assembled, and as we made our way downstairs, the captain took the opportunity to speak with me.
“The resemblance is most remarkable, Fraulein,” he said at last, his English heavily accented.
“Thank you, Captain. I presume you have met Mr. Templeton-Vane?” I gestured towards Stoker and the captain’s mouth pursed beneath his moustaches.
“I have. That is my uniform,” he said with a lowering look. “It has been altered because you are a very small man.”
Stoker, whose inches just topped a perfectly respectable six feet, raised a brow. “Not where it matters,” he said just loudly enough for me to hear.
“What is that you say?” the captain demanded.
“Nothing at all, Captain,” Stoker said, smiling broadly at him. “Nothing at all.”
* * *
• • •
I received the first of many surprises that evening when we emerged from the hotel to the sight of crowds assembled on the pavement. Several constables were holding them back as they surged forward, eager for a glimpse of a princess. I cut my eyes to the baroness—the tiara was far too heavy to permit quick movement—and she gave an almost imperceptible nod.
“Wave,” she murmured as she bent near to fuss with my mantle. “Just hold your hand up in the air—not like that! You are not a bank clerk hailing a hackney.” I tried again, simply lifting my gloved hand in a small salute. The crowd responded with a muted roar and pushed forward. The constables linked arms to push them further back, but by the time they had managed it, the baroness had bundled me into a waiting carriage. It was a handsome affair, lavishly polished and marked with the hotel’s crest.
“The Sudbury has made their equipage available for the duration of our stay,” the chancellor said as he climbed in after the baroness and I had settled ourselves. The captain swung himself up into a seat next to the driver, his hand resting loosely upon his sword. Duke Maximilian vaulted in next, leaving Stoker standing upon the pavement.
The duke favored Stoker with a grin. “The help rides on the outside,” the duke told him as the hotel’s doorman stepped smartly up to slam the door. The carriage gave a lurch as it sprang from the curb, leaving the crowds behind.
Stoker must have secured a seat for himself somewhere—or perhaps he hung on the back like one of the larger brachiating primates—for he was the one who opened the carriage door as soon as we arrived at the opera house. I was familiar with the venue, having attended the opera on the arm of Stoker’s eldest brother, Tiberius, upon occasion. Tiberius and I were enthusiasts whilst Stoker maintained that, apart from sea chanties, no decent music had been written since Handel.
With his witty urbanity and love of luxury, Tiberius was a delightful escort for an evening’s entertainment, and I had thoroughly enjoyed the hours spent in his velvet-draped box. But we had attended for love of the music, largely ignoring the crowds of society peepers gathered to gossip and survey with sharp-eyed interest all the goings-on—a far cry from being the guest of honor at a royal gala. My anonymous pleasure was at an end.
Stoker gave a smart bow as he handed us from the carriage, and I left my hand in his a moment longer than necessary, squeezing his fingers as I let go. An even larger crowd awaited us here, intent upon seeing the elusive Princess of the Alpenwald as well as the other dignitaries making an appearance. A long line of them stood on an azure carpet—the distinct Alpenwalder blue, I noted, laid no doubt as a compliment to the delegation. I walked towards them, inclining my head just enough to make the jewels swing a little. Any harder and they clattered against the frame, the baroness had warned me. The officials were a collection of diplomats, opera patrons, society beauties, and assorted hangers-on. The baroness prodded me discreetly in the ribs to stop in front of the most heavily decorated one, a tiny little man with the usual lavish Alpenwalder facial hair.
“Your ambassador,” the baroness said, concealing her mouth with a subtle flick of her fan. She had explained in the carriage that the ambassador had been an appointment of the princess’s grandfather and had not met the princess since she was a child. He would not recognize an imposter, she had assured me, and seeing his thick-lensed spectacles, I was inclined to agree with her.
I put out my hand, leaving it hanging in the air between us. “Excellency,” I began.
He seized it with real vigor and touched it to his forehead. “Your Serene Highness,” he pronounced, clicking his heels together as he bowed. “It is a very great honor to welcome you to our host nation’s most illustrious cultural institution for an event which will bind our two countries together even further in harmony.”
He bowed again at the conclusion of this pompous little speech and snapped his fingers. A child dressed in traditional Alpenwalder costume of embroidered dirndl and apron came forward, staggering under the weight of an enormous bouquet of white roses. The ambassador presented them to me with a flourish, and I took one deep, heady inhalation of the blooms. They were so wildly out of season, they must surely have come straight from the hothouse. I smiled my thanks and passed them to the baroness. She took them with a practiced gesture and I moved on. Duke Maximilian stepped up to escort me up the grand staircase, turning this way and that to nod to the assembled crowds as we ascended.
He shot me an amused glance. “You are a natural at this,” he whispered, taking care that his moustaches should brush my cheek.
“It is hardly difficult,” I said. I was aware of the baroness and chancellor hard behind us with the captain and Stoker bringing up the rear. The duke and I were presenting a picture of an intimate conversation, I had little doubt.
His smile deepened. “You would be surprised. Our late Queen Adelaide was not at all personable. She used to scowl at people. Of course, it might have just looked that way because of her moustaches,” he said with mock seriousness.
“Do not make me laugh,” I told him severely. “I am meant to be regal.”
He squeezed my hand where it lay upon his sleeve. “You are delectable and delicious and all things delightful, my dear. Do not wish to be anything other than you are.”
I opened my mouth to reprove him, but we had arrived at our box. A few minutes later we were seated, the baroness and myself in the front in a pair of little gilt chairs, with the duke and the chancellor behind us. I was glad of the baroness’s company—if for no other reason than she could continue to instruct me on points of etiquette—but I wondered at the wisdom of the arrangement as the duke leant forward and put his hands upon my shoulders.
“Do not look so startled, Princess,” he murmured. “I am to help you off with your cloak. You will be much too warm with it on.”
He exposed my bare shoulders, drawing the velvet and fur slowly away, teasingly. From behind him, I heard Stoker growl again and gave a sigh. It was going to be a very long evening.
* * *
• • •
No sooner had we settled into the box than the concertmaster and conductor appeared, accepting the enthusiastic applause from the audience. The conductor turned, bowed to me, and lifted his baton, signaling the orchestra to strike up a thunderous tune with a martial melody. Immediately, the Alpenwalders leapt to their feet, but the baroness put a slipper firmly upon my dress, forcing me to stay seated.
“The anthem,” she muttered. I realized then that the tune they were lustily singing was their national song, “Verlorene Seelen,” a rather macabre invocation to the spirits of dead comrades-in-arms. The melody concluded with a martial crash of cymbals and I inclined my head to the conductor to acknowledge the compliment.
The duke leant forward, his moustaches tickling my neck. “Do you like our national anthem, Princess?” he inquired. I did not have to look round to know he was smiling.
“My German is imperfect, but from what I could translate, it is a trifle bloodthirsty,” I whispered back.
He gave a short laugh, his breath ruffling my hair. “We made the mistake of trying to stop Napoléon on his way to Russia. Every Alpenwalder who fought was slain—except one.”
“Lucky fellow,” I replied.
“He was my great-grandfather,” the duke told me. “And the luck did not end with him.”
I wondered what he meant by that, but the orchestra was beginning the overture and I settled back to listen. It was a very modern opera, with a good deal of strident posturing and aggressive passages for the brasses, but all of this was nothing compared to the verve of the leading lady. Mademoiselle Fribourg threw herself into the role with tremendous passion. The first act saw the intrepid Atalanta besting every suitor at the sporting games hosted by her father, a lively scene full of color and movement with Mademoiselle Fribourg’s legs shown to excellent advantage in a short tunic. But immediately after the athleticism of the competition, the mournful heroine stepped behind a convenient bush to lament her loneliness, pouring out her pain in a piercing aria of such sweetness, such pain, I was forced to blink back tears as the curtain came down upon the first act.
“Well, what do you think of our Atalanta?” the duke asked, moving his chair nearer to mine and edging the baroness aside a little.
“I think she is immensely talented,” I told him.
“You do not find her figure a trifle generous for a loose-limbed athlete?” he teased. There was something I did not quite like in the challenge of his gaze. It was as if he knew a secret joke at my expense, and I wondered at the nature of his relationship with the princess.
“On the contrary. It would require a robust physique to excel at such activities,” I told him firmly. “She puts me in mind of the Rubens painting of the same lady.”
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