Velvet Undercover

by Teri Brown

  “Not at all,” he says, his brows knotting with concern. “I should have taken that into consideration.”

  “No, it’s been fun, but I am tired.”

  “We’re not far from the palace. Would you like me to get a motorcar to take us back?”

  I shake my head, feeling more than a little foolish. “No. Let’s enjoy the last of the evening.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  Maxwell grins, and his brown eyes are so warm and velvety that I have to look away.

  Reaching out, he tweaks one of my curls. “I like you, Sophia Thérèse.”

  He holds out his arm and I take it silently, unable to form a single coherent response.

  Maxwell talks easily as we stroll, telling me about summers spent on his grandparents’ farm outside of Munich.

  “My mother said she wanted me to experience the healthy farm life, but I think she just wanted the break. I was a bit of a troublemaker.”

  I laugh. “I can’t see it.”

  He gives me a rueful smile. “I was,” he insists. “Nothing bad, really. Just mischievous and full of energy. She was right, though. Farm life was good for me. I was too exhausted from helping my grandfather and exploring the woods to have a chance to get into trouble.”

  “Were you close to your grandparents?”

  He nods. “I think I was closer to them than I was to my parents. How about you?”

  “My mother and I aren’t as close as I would like, but I was very close to my father.”

  He frowns. “I thought your parents died when you were very young?”

  A wave of cold washes over me. I’d given him my history, not Sophia Thérèse’s.

  I frantically try to fix it. “They did. It’s still so hard for me to accept that they’re gone. I just meant I wasn’t as close to my mother as I was my father. I regret that now. My aunt was wonderful, of course, but it wasn’t the same after she remarried.”

  He says nothing more about it and I wonder what he’s thinking. How could I be so stupid? What is it about Maxwell that makes me so perilously comfortable?

  Whatever it is, it has to stop.

  “I’m very lucky to have had not only my parents but my grandparents, growing up,” he says. “For a child it’s just heaven to spend every summer milking cows, making hay, and fishing with your grandpa.”

  He stares off into the distance for a moment, and when he continues, his voice is suddenly hard. “I just want you to know that it’s that Germany that I would fight for. If someone attacks us, I will fight to the death for my grandfather’s land.”

  I stare up at him as we walk, but he isn’t looking at me. His thin mouth is straight and firm and his jaw resolute. “So please don’t take it the wrong way when I tell you that this debacle we are calling a war should have never happened.”

  I gasp at his words, which would get him in serious trouble if overheard. His trust touches me. “Why are you telling me this?”

  He finally looks at me, and his smile is bittersweet.

  “Because you’re an educated woman. I’m sure you have opinions on the war. I just wanted you to know that not even the soldiers are certain they’re doing the right thing.”

  I squeeze his arm. “I think war is like that,” I say softly.

  He nods without looking at me and seems preoccupied when he drops me back off at my room. He says nothing about wanting to go for another outing with me but I don’t take it personally, considering. We both have work to do. And getting involved with a German guard, no matter how handsome or tragically conflicted, isn’t a good idea.

  After shedding my coat, I pull the foil band off the gingerbread and set it on my dresser. Knowing the gingerbread note is from La Dame Blanche, I pick it up first. Taking the codebook out of the inner pocket of my jacket, I easily decode it.

  Proceed with caution. Steer clear of songbirds. They have their own agenda.

  The pencil falls from my fingers as I stare at the message. What does this mean?

  I remember Mrs. Tremaine talking with Lillian last night. Is Mrs. Tremaine the songbird who has her own agenda? It doesn’t make sense, but then nothing really has since the moment I walked into Captain Parker’s office.

  I think of Maxwell and wonder again if he was the guard who went out last night, and if so, what he was doing. My face heats as I remember my stupid blunder, and I run the conversation through my mind. Something about the incident bothers me. I suck in a breath when I realize what it is. I thought your parents died when you were very young? he’d said. Why would one of the prince’s guards know so much about the assistant governess’s background? Does he suspect me of spying? Of not being who I say I am? I remember how I felt when he told me how much he liked me.

  Is that true or is it just a ruse?

  Whatever it is, one thing is for certain—I need to be very careful around Corporal Maxwell Mayer.

  FIFTEEN

  ILIWHHQ

  Flaps and Seals: The tradecraft involved in making secret openings or compartments for envelopes and pouches.

  “Ringel, Ringel, Reihe, sind wir Kinder dreie . . .”

  Frowning seriously, I listen to Mary Elizabeth sound out the words to “Ring Around the Rosie.” I clap my hands when she finishes. “Wunderbar!”

  The smile she gives me lights up her face and I find myself sinking into the comforting role of teacher. After a bit of a rocky start, I now look forward to these simple sessions. The children have warmed to me, especially the little ones, and there are times when I’m so immersed in what I’m doing that I forget that I’m not really Sophia Thérèse, assistant governess, but Samantha Donaldson, spy.

  Sometimes it’s just easier to be Sophia Thérèse.

  When we break to go outside, Lillian helps the little ones on with their coats while I go to get mine.

  “Will you get my coat as well?” she asks. “I can’t seem to get warm today.”

  “Of course.” I open the small wardrobe and pull out my coat as well as hers. One side of her coat feels oddly heavy, and I frown. Glancing back over my shoulder to make sure she is still engrossed in helping the children, I lift the flap on the pocket and peer inside.

  Nestled within is the small, dark shape of a lady’s pistol.

  My heart slams against my ribs. The gun is so unexpected in this warm child-space, and I was so absorbed in my role of Sophia Thérèse, that the shock of the weapon is a cruel splash of reality.

  “No, not that one,” Lillian calls quickly. “It’s too heavy. The other one, please.”

  I swallow hard, hang the coat with its deadly little secret back up, and get her the dark blue one hanging next to it.

  I’m quiet out in the courtyard, only half watching the children while my mind spins. If Lillian really is just a mild-mannered governess, why does she have a gun in her pocket? Why would she be arranging secret meetings with an Australian opera singer whom she couldn’t possibly know? And if Lillian really is Velvet, how does Mrs. Tremaine fit into everything?

  I’m jumpy and out of sorts when we get back to the schoolroom. I can’t stop thinking of the gun in the wardrobe, just inches from where little Gretel is working so diligently on her slate, her lips pressed together in concentration.

  “Are you all right?” Lillian asks.

  “I’m just tired,” I tell her.

  “Why don’t you leave early,” she says. “Teaching can be exhausting when you’re not used to it.”

  “Really?” I ask, not bothering to hide the relief in my voice.

  She laughs. “Of course. Off with you.”

  I wave to the children and step into the hallway, pausing when I see Marissa Baum and Duchess Cecilie coming toward me.

  I give a deep curtsy. “Fräulein Baum, Duchess.”

  “Hello, Cousin. We were just coming to visit the children. Are they still inside?”

  I nod. “Yes, they’re just finishing up their lessons.”

  Duchess Cecilie smiles and enter
s the schoolroom.

  “It was nice seeing you again, Fräulein Sophia Thérèse,” Marissa says before following the duchess.

  I wait until the door is shut before hurrying down the hall, my heart beating wildly. This may be my only chance to search Marissa’s room. Even though circumstances are pointing toward Lillian, I still need to investigate Marissa, if only to rule her out. If she is Velvet, surely there will be some sort of clue in her private quarters. I walk with purpose, keeping my pace steady, even though I want to break into a jog. Whenever I meet someone, I nod pleasantly, trying to look both casual and busy, as if I belong in this part of the palace. There are more guards in this part of the house, no doubt due to the assassination attempt. I’m hoping I won’t run into Maxwell.

  I come to the room I believe is Marissa’s, from Maxwell’s description, and close my eyes as I try the door.

  Locked.

  Sighing, I pull out the hairpin that I use to keep my curls out of my eyes. I look around; the corridor is still empty. Then I stick the pin in the lock. Miss Tickford showed me how to do this in France and even had me practice on Monsieur Elliot’s office door. I got fairly proficient at it, but was nowhere as adept as she was.

  I hear heavy footsteps coming down the hall and a hot flush of desperation sweeps over me. With one last effort, I twist the pin and the knob at the same time. The knob turns so suddenly that I almost fall into the room. Shutting the door behind me, I wait, heart thudding in my ears, until the footsteps pass by outside.

  I take a quick visual inventory of the room. From the cunning little hats and kid gloves lying about, I know I’ve found Marissa’s quarters. The suite consists of a fresh, pretty boudoir decorated in rose and soft greens with a bedchamber just beyond it. Trying to keep my moral reservations at bay, I work quickly but carefully, riffling through her cupboards and drawers, feeling guilty when I remember how I felt when someone did the same to me.

  Nothing. I stand in the middle of the room, thinking hard. If I were Marissa, where would I keep incriminating documents? I go into the bedroom area and riffle through the trunks at the end of her bed. There’s nothing in them, but I didn’t really expect there to be. Too obvious.

  How much time has elapsed since I saw Marissa and the duchess in front of the schoolroom? Marissa will be coming to dress for supper soon.

  I spot another stack of hats on the shining vanity table next to her bed, and I frown.

  Most people keep their hats in hatboxes. I drop to my knees and pull up her bedcovers. Sure enough, there’s a large hatbox under the bed. I pull it out and open it. Empty. My breath whooshes out in disappointment. I move to replace the lid and then frown.

  Why is the inside of the lid so lumpy? I run my hand over it and feel the hard outline of an envelope underneath. Ha! The paper has been glued over it. Working carefully so as not to rip the paper, I loosen it with my fingernail and gently peel it off. The envelope underneath falls into my lap.

  I slip the envelope into the waist of my skirt and pull my sweater over it. Then I shove the hatbox back under the bed. At this point, I have no idea how I’m to get the envelope back into Marissa’s room, but right now I just want to get out of here.

  Pressing my ear against the wood of the door, I listen for any sounds outside in the corridor. I open the door slowly and slip out, praying that I can get out of this part of the house before I’m caught.

  No such luck. I’m halfway down the stairs when I hear my name. I turn, trying to think up a good excuse for being in this part of the palace. Marissa is coming toward me, an inquisitive look in her dark eyes. “Were you looking for me?” she asks.

  I smile, hoping I’m not as pale as I feel. “Only if you can tell me which way the servants’ quarters are. I’m so bad at directions. My aunt always said I could get lost in my own home.”

  She links her arm in mine. “I’ll show you. It took me a bit to get used to the size of the place, too.”

  “I feel so silly,” I say breathlessly.

  She raises an eyebrow and I realize I’m putting it on a bit much.

  “I was actually going to send a note to you,” she says.

  “You were?”

  “The duchess and I would love to have you join us for supper and a performance by the opera singer Elsa Tremaine. Your cousin wishes to thank you for coming to help with the children.”

  As oblivious to royal etiquette as I am, I know enough to realize this isn’t a request—it’s a command. “I’d love to,” I tell her.

  “Wonderful.” She hesitates and I wait. We’re almost to the servants’ quarters and I hope she finishes up soon. I don’t want the maids to see me arm in arm with her. They’d think I was too snooty for words, and I may yet need their help.

  “Your cousin also wanted you to know that if you didn’t bring an evening gown with you, she would be more than happy to lend you one.”

  I shake my head. “I did bring one. But please extend my appreciation for her offer. Which dining room will the supper be in?”

  “I’m not sure,” she says. “I’ll send someone to escort you.”

  Wonderful. I stop and disengage my arm from hers. The envelope I stole from her feels as if it’s branding my waist. “I can find my way from here. Thank you so much. I’ll see you at supper?”

  She nods, then turns away, and I sigh in relief.

  After returning to my room and locking the door, I take the envelope out from under my waistband and pull out the contents. There are several pieces of paper inside. The first two look to be travel documents. I scan down and draw in a breath. The papers are for a Maryann Donovan. Is Marissa really Maryann, or are these fake? Could this be proof that she’s Velvet?

  The third paper is just doodles of circles, or at least that’s what it looks like. Hab is scrawled across the bottom and followed by a squiggly line, as if the word was written quickly and left unfinished. I frown. What is this? It looks like a sketch done by a child.

  Unless the entire drawing is some sort of sophisticated code. I turn the picture and look at it from all angles. I guess it does look rather like a solar system. The middle circle, the one that has Cl-35 written in the center, could be the sun. Then I shake my head. No. There aren’t enough planets for it to be the solar system.

  The beginning of a headache throbs in my temples and I sigh again. Tonight promises to be a very long night.

  After washing up in my tiny bathroom, I slip into the antique blue charmeuse gown, grateful that Miss Tickford thought to pack it. Had it been up to me, I’d have worn the sensible gray suit that I wore with the children all the time. Luckily, Miss Tickford knew I’d need more clothes than that if I was to look the part.

  A knock sounds at the door and I give myself one more glance in the mirror to make sure the birthmark is properly drawn. Sometimes I don’t even recognize myself. I take a deep breath, again feeling the strange sensation of being two people at the same time.

  A very sulky Mathilde is waiting for me. “Apparently, I’m to escort you to the Anna Amalia Dining Room.”

  “Yes,” I growl, following her rapid footsteps. “I’ve been summoned. The only bright note is that Lillian’s nose is going to be put out of joint.”

  I send a silent apology to Lillian.

  Mathilde actually giggles at this. “Well, let me know if you like Elsa Tremaine’s singing. Though I suspect it’s not her singing the prince is enamored with.” She glances out of the corner of her eye to see my response.

  I shrug. “Who knows what people see in other people? Take Marissa Baum, for example. What do you think the duchess sees in her?”

  “I think she just likes to irritate her mother-in-law. You be careful of that one.”

  “The empress?” I ask, surprised.

  “No. Fräulein Baum. There’re some funny rumors going on about her,” Mathilde says.

  “Like what?” I ask.

  “That she’s a witch.”

  I scoff. “There’s no such thing as witches.”


  “Maybe, but one of the footmen says she’s been seen walking the Mendelssohn Hall at midnight, and everyone knows it’s haunted. The royals won’t even go there.”

  “I’d be more inclined to think that she’s meeting a secret lover than that she’s practicing witchcraft.”

  Mathilde hushes me then, as more people are milling about the hallway. She points. “It’s right in there, Fräulein. Just follow the other snooty aristocrats.”

  I fall into line behind a stout woman whose hat is almost as big as a wagon wheel. She’s talking to a tall, thin woman in pink.

  “I’m so glad the empress invited us this evening. My poor cook is having to ration sugar. You can’t buy any extra for love or money. Not that I’d try to get more than my fair share,” she puts in hastily. “But I do wish this dreadful war would end so things can go back as they were. I like a bit of cake with my tea.”

  The other woman clucks, and then they fall silent as they enter the dining room. I understand their awe. The domed ceiling is painted in the classical style and I recognize the story of St. John the Baptist. Poor taste, if you ask me, to have a painting of his head on a platter in a place where people are supposed to be eating. The walls are covered with gold-embossed leather, and giant stone lions decorate a fireplace large enough to stand in. If this is an intimate family dinner, I have to wonder what a state dinner would be like. The long, ornately carved table seats at least forty.

  I walk next to the empty seats, looking for my name on the place cards. Once I locate it, I take a seat, wishing I were anyplace but here in this stuffy, perfume-scented, overly lavish room with all these pampered people whose main problem in life is missing their cake at tea.

  The headache that dogged me all afternoon is now pounding at my temples as if a roomful of drummers have taken up residence in my brain. I stifle a yawn and glance at the clock hanging above the mantel. It’s eight o’clock. Hopefully, I’ll be able to get to bed before midnight.

  Marissa slips into the chair next to me. She’s stunning in a steel-blue silk gown with creamy lace sleeves and a plunging décolletage. “Just in the nick of time,” she says.