A Royal Affair

by Allison Montclair

  “Then I’m sorry she couldn’t be here, Your Majesty,” replied Mrs. Bainbridge. “I hope that I prove an adequate substitute.”

  “You are very well informed,” he said, laughing ruefully. “Still, it is a lovely thing to dance with a beautiful woman, no matter what the circumstances. One can forget that the world exists outside the dance floor. One can forget that one is no longer young, or healthy. Or king.”

  “There are things I should like to forget as well, Your Majesty,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “Let us be amnesiacs together.”

  Bill Savill must have received some cue to prolong the moment, for he signaled the orchestra to take the repeat. Mrs. Bainbridge closed her eyes for a moment, and it was Ronnie holding her, spinning her into a dream. Then she opened them and saw the king looking at her sympathetically.

  “I think that you were not forgetting at all,” he said softly.

  “I can’t dance with the one I want to dance with, either, Your Majesty,” she said. “And I never will again.”

  “Close your eyes again and think of him,” he urged. “It is all that I can offer.”

  “Thank you,” she said.

  And she closed her eyes and remembered it all. His arms became Ronnie’s arms. Another orchestra played in another ballroom, and they were young and looking forward to everything.

  When the music stopped, the king released her, and she went into her curtsy again. This time, her leg didn’t complain at all. When she rose, he bowed and kissed her hand.

  “Thank you for this respite,” he said.

  “Thank you for letting me remember,” she replied.

  She returned to her table, where Captain Palfrey stood and applauded.

  “That was a sight to behold,” he said. “You danced with a king.”

  “I danced with a king,” she said. “And stepped out with a memory. I think I would like to go now, if you don’t mind.”

  “Anything else would be anticlimactic,” he agreed.

  They paid their respects, then left, Sparks scampering to catch up.

  “Your cape, ma’am?” she gasped.

  “Hang on to it for now, would you, Millie?”

  “Certainly, ma’am.”

  The doorman signaled for a cab, then held the doors for them.

  “Where to?” asked Palfrey.

  “Back to our office, please,” said Mrs. Bainbridge.

  He gave the address to the cabbie, then turned back to her. “And then? The night is still young.”

  “The night is still Monday, and the woman still has to get up and go to work on Tuesday. My regrets, Captain.”

  They traveled in silence. Sparks stared straight ahead, wanting very much to turn and watch the two in the passenger compartment.

  “We shall have to have another date so you can explain to me exactly what was going on during this one,” said Palfrey when they arrived at the office.

  “I may not be able to do that to your satisfaction,” she said. “But I am so grateful to you for accompanying me.”

  “It was my great pleasure,” he said. “And I claim my reward.”

  Before she could react, he pulled her close and kissed her. She tried to shove him back, but he was stronger than she was. When he finally released her, she was trembling in anger.

  “I would say ask next time,” she said. “But there won’t be a next time.”

  “There never was going to be a next time,” he said. “We both knew that. Good night, Mrs. Bainbridge. Good night, Miss Sparks.”

  The cabbie opened their doors, shaking his head slightly. The two women got out and stood watching as the cab drove off.

  “Are you all right?” asked Iris.

  “I forgot how brutal these things could be,” said Gwen, rubbing her mouth with her handkerchief. “Bastard. He didn’t even have the courtesy to ask first.”

  “Men like him know the answer,” said Iris. “That’s why they don’t ask.”

  “And he was doing fairly well up to that point,” complained Gwen as they went inside. “How the hell did I not see that coming?”

  “You’re out of practice,” said Iris.

  “Did you know he would try that?”

  “You yourself said he was NST. And there we were, in a taxi.”

  “So you’re saying I should have seen it coming.”

  “It’s been an action-packed evening. One can’t keep track of everything. You were still flying from dancing with the king. How was that, by the way?”

  “He was rather sweet, which surprised me,” said Gwen as Iris unlocked the door to The Right Sort.

  “I need to change,” said Iris. “Close the door, would you?”

  “I’m not going to bother changing again,” said Gwen. “Just my shoes, I think. How are your feet after a night in Millie’s?”

  “I don’t think I’ve walked a mile in her shoes yet,” said Iris. “But they held up well. Don’t forget to get mine back. My sling-backs probably had more fun than I did tonight.”

  “You had fun. You got to hit someone. You enjoy that.”

  Iris hung Millie’s uniform on a hanger, then put on her own suit. “My disguise didn’t fool anyone that mattered tonight,” she said as she removed her glasses.

  “Putting on glasses doesn’t change you from the Scarlet Pimpernel into Sir Percy, you know.”

  “Alas. But we learned a few useful items. What did you think about Torgos?”

  “A mixture of truth and lies,” said Gwen.

  “Which were which? You’re the one who reads people.”

  “There were two moments in particular when I thought he was lying.”

  “Which were?”

  “When he said Magoulias was working for him.”

  “That makes sense. He would have kept closer tabs on him for something like this. So, if Magoulias wasn’t with the Royalists, he was with some other faction. Anti-Royalist, maybe one of the Leftist groups. He must have let slip something about the letters to someone loyal to Torgos. What was the other item?”

  “When he said Talbot was his friend,” said Gwen. “Torgos has never had a friend in his entire life.”

  “Yet I can’t bring myself to feel sorry for him,” said Iris. “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Which means he’s not our man. He’s looking for the letters, too.”

  “Which he heard about through rumours. Our rumourmonger was exceptionally busy, wasn’t he?”

  “He was. Now it’s time for us to put an end to all of this. Tomorrow, we send out our invitations.”

  “I wonder what I should wear,” mused Gwen as they left the office. “I’ve never been to this kind of party before. Have you?”

  “This kind of party never existed before,” said Iris. “Wear something comfortable. Something you don’t mind getting dirty if we have to dive for cover.”

  “Are we expecting a shooting war?”

  “Not if it all goes according to plan,” said Iris as they headed out the front door.

  Then she stopped.

  “But when does it ever do that?” she said as Gwen came up beside her.

  There was a black Bentley parked in front of the building. A large man in a black suit stood in front of it. Iris glanced to her right, then her left. Other similarly dressed men were positioned in both directions, blocking their escape. She knew even before she heard footsteps that another man was coming up behind them from inside the building.

  “Excuse me,” said the man by the car, opening the rear door. “The proctor would like a word with you.”

  “Right,” said Iris, her shoulders slumping in resignation. “I’ll see you in the morning, Gwen. At least, I hope I will.”

  “Nonsense,” said Gwen, stepping up to the Bentley with Iris. “I’m coming, too.”

  “This doesn’t involve you,” said Iris.

  “Actually, it does,” said the man. “The ‘you’ was plural. As in, both of you, in case I wasn’t being clear.”

  “Per
fectly clear, thank you,” said Gwen as they got into the car.

  The man closed the door. There was a click as the driver engaged the locks.

  “Iris, are we being kidnapped?” Gwen asked as they drove away.

  “I’m not sure,” said Iris.

  They were separated from the driver by a thick glass panel. Iris leaned forwards and felt along the back of the bench seat until she found a small latch. She opened it and slid a panel to the left. The compartment it revealed held a whisky bottle and a pair of tumblers.

  “Want some?” she asked.

  “God, yes,” replied Gwen.

  “Hey, that’s not yours,” called the driver.

  “If we’re guests, then you should offer us a drink,” said Iris as she poured herself and Gwen a generous amount.

  “And if we’re prisoners, then to hell with you,” added Gwen.

  She clinked her tumbler against Iris’s, then paused. “What if it’s drugged?” she asked. “Or poisoned?”

  “He knows I know about it,” said Iris. “He left it for us to find.”

  “You’re certain that he doesn’t wish us any harm?”

  “Not yet,” said Iris. “Cheers, darling. This will be the best whisky we’ll have had in a while.”

  “Well, in that case, cheers,” said Gwen.

  CHAPTER 14

  The whisky was excellent. They opted for a second drink when the first was done, as the car headed somewhere north. Mrs. Bainbridge gazed out the window.

  “We’re in Highgate,” she said. “There’s the cemetery. Oooh, spooky!”

  “You’re drunk!” said Sparks.

  “I am not!” insisted Mrs. Bainbridge. “Well, maybe a little. I had a few at the reception.” She started to giggle.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “I just figured it out,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “He left the whisky because he knew we’d drink it and let our guard down.”

  “Fiendishly clever,” said Sparks. “Little does he know a veteran deb’s capacity for alcohol. We shall wear our most serious faces and frown at him severely when we see him. Let’s see your best frown.”

  Mrs. Bainbridge furrowed her brow and made a disapproving expression.

  “Oh, that’s good,” said Sparks. “Now let me try.”

  She glared at Mrs. Bainbridge, who immediately burst into laughter.

  “That was not the intended effect at all,” said Sparks.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Mrs. Bainbridge gasped. “Let me compose myself. There. Now, try again.”

  Iris imagined a water buffalo facing down a hyena, and tried to duplicate the expression. Mrs. Bainbridge took one look and started up again.

  “It’s no good,” she guffawed. “I can’t help myself.”

  Sparks, no longer able to hold back herself, joined her.

  The driver looked at them in the rearview mirror. “Unbelievable,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Oh, don’t you start,” called Sparks. “I’ve already sent one irritating bloke to the emergency department tonight. I’ll be happy to have you join him.”

  “You wouldn’t stand a chance in hell, Lollipop.”

  “Hell is my turf, Big Boy,” Sparks retorted. “Name the time and place, and we’ll have a proper do.”

  “Me too,” growled Mrs. Bainbridge. “Marquess of Queensberry rules be damned!”

  “You don’t fight, remember?” said Sparks.

  “You were going to teach me, remember? We’ll start with him.”

  “Save it, ladies,” said the driver. “We’re here.”

  He turned into a drive and passed under a stone arch. They looked out the rear window and watched as a man closed and barred a large wooden gate behind them, then picked up a shotgun that was leaning against the wall.

  “Not our best escape route,” observed Mrs. Bainbridge.

  There was a large stone mansion to their right, but the driver took them to the rear of the building, where a garage had been fashioned from what had once been a carriage house. They pulled in, and a door lowered behind them. A man stepped forwards and opened the car door.

  “This way,” he said.

  “Do you mind if I leave the dress bags in the car?” asked Mrs. Bainbridge. “I’d rather not lug them around.”

  “Fine,” he said.

  “You keep an eye on them,” said Mrs. Bainbridge to the driver. “And don’t go trying anything on.”

  Sparks snickered.

  The man led them to a rear door, which opened onto a stairwell going up.

  “He’s at the top,” he said.

  “Naturally,” said Sparks, leading the way. “Ever been in a chauffeur’s digs before?”

  “I’m sure I haven’t,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “You?”

  “Mmm. Tell you all about it sometime. Ah, there’s the old man now.”

  The Brigadier was sitting behind a small card table, leaning back in his chair, his hands steepled on his chest.

  “Sit,” he commanded, nodding to a pair of folding chairs in front of the table.

  The two dutifully sat down, folding their hands on their laps.

  “Do you have any idea what—” he began, then he stopped as the two women broke into laughter. “What on earth?”

  “It’s the face,” Sparks giggled. “You’re doing the face.”

  “Sorry,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “You’re exactly how I expected you to be.”

  “This is not a laughing matter!” he shouted.

  “No, it isn’t,” agreed Sparks, regaining control. “Apologies, sir. You know how it is when women stumble into a man’s world, don’t you? Everything looks so, so—”

  “Pathetic and ridiculous?” suggested Mrs. Bainbridge.

  “I was going for exaggerated and melodramatic, but those will do nicely. Well, sir, how may we be of assistance to you?”

  “You can start by telling me about him,” he said, tossing a photograph onto the table.

  They leaned forwards to look. It was the man they had subdued at The Right Sort two nights previous. The photographer had captured him walking on some unidentifiable London street, wearing a tweed coat and a leather cap.

  “Oh, look,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “Someone dressed up a weasel in men’s clothing.”

  “Who is he?” asked Sparks.

  “Don’t play games with me, Sparks,” said the Brigadier. “You know damned well who he is.”

  “Sorry, the face doesn’t ring a bell,” said Sparks. “What does he do?”

  “We believe him to be a blackmailer,” said the Brigadier. “We also believe that he’s been in contact with you.”

  “Since when does your office concern itself with blackmailers?” asked Sparks.

  “After our last meeting, we did some poking around,” he said. “We heard some chatter about someone holding a set of letters that could prove an embarrassment to certain people in whom we have an interest, or a benefit to other people in whom we also have an interest.”

  “Who was doing the chattering?”

  “Can’t tell you that. But this fellow was supposed to be involved. By the time we knew who he was, he had disappeared.”

  “What does any of this have to do with us?” asked Sparks.

  “We have ears inside the Palace, Sparks,” said the Brigadier. “We know who hired you. We know there was to be a meeting. Then some unlucky fellow bought it at the rendezvous.”

  “Don’t know anything about any of that,” said Sparks.

  “On the supposition that this man contacted you later, we decided to search your office yesterday.”

  “You did what?” exclaimed Mrs. Bainbridge, rising to her feet.

  “Sit down,” he directed her.

  She sat, glaring at him with all her might.

  “What did you find?” asked Sparks.

  “That one desk had a blotter, and one did not.”

  “Heavens!” cried Sparks. “Someone stole one of our blotters! Call Scotland Yard!”

  �
�There was a small hole in the surface of that desk. We recovered a trace amount of blood from within that hole. And more blood on one other item.”

  “Which other item?” asked Sparks.

  “You neglected to clean the dart,” said the Brigadier.

  He took the photograph, came around the table, and thrust it in front of her face.

  “Is he still alive, Sparks?” he asked.

  “I have already told you, sir. I don’t know the man.”

  “But the blood—”

  “Mine, I expect. I’ve nicked myself playing with darts plenty of times. Bad habit, but just one out of so many.”

  “If only I had a shilling for every time I’ve had to bandage her up,” added Mrs. Bainbridge.

  “Where are the letters?” asked the Brigadier.

  “I don’t have them. Yes, we were supposed to make the exchange at the warehouse, but we found a dead man with no letters, so we got out before anyone could start blaming us. We never saw this man there. Is he the killer, do you think?”

  “My chief suspect for that title is you, Sparks.”

  “Will you still send flowers to my funeral after they hang me, sir?”

  “Not the large arrangement. You’re certain you don’t know where this fellow is?”

  “Brigadier, you know me,” said Sparks. “Trust me when I tell you that I haven’t the slightest notion where he is.”

  “She’s telling the truth,” said Mrs. Bainbridge. “Neither of us knows where he is. You could inject me with truth serum, and I still wouldn’t be able to tell you. Do you have truth serum? I’ve always wondered what it was like.”

  “I think that’s what we were drinking in the Bentley,” said Sparks.

  “Oh really? It was rather good. Let’s have some more on the trip home.”

  “Carruthers,” called the Brigadier. The man who had met them in the garage appeared at the top of the stairs. “Put these women back in the Bentley and send them home.”

  “Yes, sir. This way, ladies.”

  “Carruthers?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Remove my whisky from the car before they leave. I’ve wasted enough of it tonight.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Carruthers brought the two women back to the garage, where the driver was leaning against the car and smoking.