An Unexpected Peril

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  He leaned closer then, his medals clinking together. I glanced at them. “You seem to have distinguished yourself in the service of your country, Your Grace.”

  He gave a shrug that seemed to convey both modesty and pride in his accomplishments.

  “I trained at Woolwich, at your Royal Military Academy,” he told me. “And then I spent some time with your queen’s army in Afghanistan as an attaché to your general Sir Samuel Browne. They like to give out medals for such things.”

  He spoke casually, but any man who had served under the commander of the British Army during the Second Anglo-Afghan War had seen some sharpish things. He gestured towards one of the medals, a medallion struck with Queen Victoria’s image hanging from a bar of crimson and green ribbon. I peered closely at the medal, noting the inscription circling the queen’s face.

  “Victoria Regina et Imperatrix,” I read aloud. I sat back, scrutinizing him. “You were content to risk your life in the service of another country?”

  His smile was enigmatic. “One does foolish things in one’s youth and in the service of love.”

  I started to ask him what he meant, but my gaze fell upon the decoration hanging just below the Afghanistan Medal.

  “The climbing badge of the Teufelstreppe!” I exclaimed.

  “Not just a climbing badge,” he corrected proudly. “A summit badge.” He indicated the edge of tiny diamonds set in blue enamel. “This indicates the bearer has successfully climbed the mountain.”

  Excitement surged through me, like that of a lioness catching the scent of a gazelle. “I remember reading that you climbed,” I began.

  His laugh was quick, displaying excellent white teeth. “My dear, everyone in the Alpenwald climbs. There are even special leading reins of leather to attach to small children to help them with their first ascents on the lower slopes. That mountain is our birthright.” He canted his head, his eyes bright with amusement. “You have been reading about me? What sorts of things?”

  I paused a moment, letting a smile ripen between us. “About your relationship with Alice Baker-Greene,” I said softly. I watched carefully for his reaction, and there it was—a quick bob of the Adam’s apple, a brief hesitation before he spoke.

  “She was a gifted climber,” he said casually. “And the alpinist community is a small one. Everyone meets everyone else sooner or later.”

  “So you were just friends?” I asked, widening my eyes at him.

  “What a minx you are!” he exclaimed. “You think to bewitch me into indiscretions with those beautiful violet eyes, do you not? Shall I be your devoted slave?”

  His tone was arch, but there was a distinct lack of humor in his eyes.

  I ignored his question and decided to thrust once more, as I seemed to have knocked him a little off his balance.

  “What do you remember about the day she died? I hear you were an eyewitness.”

  “You seem to have heard quite a lot,” he said, his gaze sharply watchful.

  I shrugged. “I am by profession a lady explorer, traveling the world in order to study butterflies. Naturally, I take an interest in other such women. We were both members of the same club, you understand.”

  He blinked. “A woman’s place is at the hearth and in the bed,” he remarked, giving me a fathomless smile. He gazed warmly at my face, then deliberately dropped his gaze to my décolletage and back again.

  “Careful, Your Grace. You are verging on boorishness,” I murmured. I waited, and after a moment he sighed.

  “Very well. Yes, I saw her depart that day. It was very much as usual.”

  “Was it usual for her to climb alone? That seems dangerous.”

  He shrugged. “Yes, but she was highly experienced and it was a climb she had done many times before and she was not planning to attempt the summit.”

  I lifted a brow in inquiry and he rolled his eyes at me. “We did not discuss her climb, so you have not discovered some great secret. If she had meant to summit, she would have gone out better equipped and with a guide. She often climbed sections of the mountain in order to try different routes. She kept notes, you know.”

  “Notes?”

  “In a notebook.” He sketched a size with his hands. “About so large. Green kidskin. She always carried it with her to record conditions, to make little maps and notes on her experiences. There are those who say it was the key to her success as a climber. She was meticulous in her research and she was often able to offer suggestions and tips to other mountaineers.”

  “Such as Douglas Norton?” I suggested.

  He made a brusque gesture of dismissal. “A disgruntled, odious little man. He was not worth half of Alice’s merit as a climber.”

  “What would you say if I told you that he was in the Alpenwald when Alice made her fatal climb?”

  All his theatrical postures and poses fell away at that moment and his mouth rounded in genuine astonishment. “Was he indeed?” He sat back a little, suddenly preoccupied. After a moment, he shook himself a little and gave me a faint smile. “You are a very knowledgeable woman, my dear.”

  “I know very little, but I am curious about a good deal,” I corrected.

  “You know, I am sure, what they say about curiosity and cats?” The comment was well pitched. It might have been a threat or merely a warning. He had resumed his attitude of lazy good humor, but he watched me closely and I wondered which of us might really be playing at being the cat.

  “I suppose I ought to congratulate you on your forthcoming betrothal,” I said softly. “Tell me, was the princess at all vexed by your attentions to Alice Baker-Greene?”

  At this he let out a sharp bark of laughter, drawing the attention of several people seated in the boxes nearest ours.

  “Why do you laugh?”

  “Because you are ridiculous and beautiful.”

  “You mean she was not at all distressed that you developed a friendship with another woman? A friendship so important that you secured a permanent home for Alice in Hochstadt?”

  His brows shot skywards in astonishment. “Who told you that?”

  “Alice. I met her once and she spoke most enthusiastically of your country.”

  “What else did she tell you? Did she speak of me?”

  “No. She talked of her eagerness to settle in the Alpenwald and how happy she was. I only learnt later that the house given to her was taken from Captain Durand at the behest of the chancellor—no doubt acting upon the orders of someone very highly placed,” I finished.

  He gave me a long, appreciative nod. “Well, I can only say again that you are a most surprising young woman.”

  “I shall take that as a compliment.”

  He smiled thinly and I fell to thinking that this sophisticated nobleman with his weathercock moods might well have had an excellent motive for murdering Alice himself. He was a royal of the old, Continental variety; it was not difficult to imagine that he would find nothing untoward in settling a woman who might well have been his mistress in proximity to the castle he hoped to share with his future wife. But what if Princess Gisela had taken a different view of the matter? There was gossip about Duke Maximilian and Alice Baker-Greene, that much I knew, and it was likely that some of it reached the ears of the princess. In previous generations, a nobleman could expect to establish a cozy situation for himself—his wife comfortably settled in his official residence whilst his paramour feathered their love nest. But these were modern days. Not every royal marriage included genteel adultery on the part of the husband. Our own Prince Albert had been a paragon of marital virtue, I reflected. And Gisela, as the reigning hereditary princess, held all of the cards. She could easily refuse to accept his proposal except on her own terms, and the most logical demand would be for him to remove his ladylove from Hochstadt. All of this was quite reasonable enough and no motive for murdering the woman.

 
Unless she refused to go quietly. I thought of Alice Baker-Greene, standing flushed with delight in the Curiosity Club as she related her future plans to me. I remembered the photographs of her posed on a mountaintop with her suffragist banners and the stories of her whipping Douglas Norton down a Bolivian street to assuage her honor. Oh no. Alice Baker-Greene was most definitely not the sort of woman to meekly accept being cast off by a lover who found her presence burdensome, I decided. She would have staked her claim to him as stalwartly as she did a mountain summit.

  These thoughts chased and tangled in far less time than it takes to describe them, and as I considered them, the duke continued to smile his oblique smile at me until the baroness rapped him sharply with her fan. She said something in the Alpenwalder dialect too rapid for me to understand and he moved his chair back again and fell into conversation with the chancellor.

  “I hope he does not trouble you too much,” she began in a low voice.

  I shrugged. “I have encountered many such men in my travels, Baroness,” I assured her. “If he chooses to make trouble with me, he will find me a worthy adversary.”

  Her expressions were carefully schooled, but I could tell she was distressed. “I beg you, do not make an enemy of him. He might take it in his head to create mischief, and when he does, no one can be naughtier than our Maximilian.”

  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.

  Stoker spoke again. “Try drawing a little less attention to yourself,” he suggested.

  I edged my chair back a little, casting my face deeper into the shadows. “That is the best I can do. I am supposed to be the guest of honor at this event,” I reminded him.

  “Imperious as a princess already,” he returned lightly. “I think I shall make you clean my walrus when we go home just to put you in your proper place.” He dared a quick wink before resuming his post in the rear of the box. I drank deeply of my champagne.

  Home. The word was jarring in this context. I had never had a home, not a real one. My aunts and I had moved frequently for reasons I had come to understand only too late. My travels had taken me around the world, drawing me across the globe and back again in pursuit of my beloved butterflies. I never tarried long in any spot for the fear that I would become too rooted, too settled. But with our employment at the Belvedere and the eccentric lodgings of which we had both become fond—to say nothing of our personal attachment—I found myself for the first time perched on the edge of domesticity.

  It was a terrifying thought. Hearthsides and cradles held no charms for me. I was unfettered as the east wind, I reminded myself. And the sooner Stoker realized I had no interest in darning shirts and stirring cook pots, the better off we would both be.

  I turned in my chair to meet Duke Maximilian’s delighted gaze as I held out my glass again. “I would like more champagne,” I announced.

  “With pleasure, Princess,” he said, obliging me.

  I caught the baroness’s glance of reproof as I started on my third glass. The coupes were small, scarcely bigger than thimbles, and I was well capable of handling my intoxicants, I thought in some irritation. Besides, the combination of the handsome duke, the jewels, and the danger of what I was doing was heady enough. I had spent too long cocooned in the security of the Belvedere, pinning mounts and answering correspondence. For just these few hours, I was on the tightrope again, balanced precariously between glory and disaster, and the thrill of it coursed through me with far more effect than the glittering wine.