She bared her teeth in what a foolish person might have thought was a smile. “I have bigger fish to fry, my dear. The scandalous peccadilloes of minor royalty are nothing compared to the story I want to write—something that will establish once and for all that I ought to be taken seriously by the editors.”
“Something political,” Stoker guessed.
“Full marks to Templeton-Vane,” she said.
“You are a demon in a petticoat,” I told her. “How can we be certain you will keep your bargain?”
She had the nerve to look offended. “I have never broken my word to you and I do not intend to begin now. I thought we were friends, Veronica. Or if not friends, at least that we understood one another.”
In spite of myself, I felt my rage ebbing. The trouble was, I did understand her. The challenges of being an intelligent woman working in a world limited by the whims of narrow-minded and unimaginative men were legion. J. J. had struggled for years to secure respect for herself as an investigative journalist, one who wrote important stories about the people shaping events. She longed to influence discourse, to raise topics worthy of discussion, of international importance. Her ambitions were limitless, but her scope was small. She was, very, very occasionally, permitted to write a piece that touched upon something of real merit. But far more often, she was relegated to writing knitting patterns or describing teething remedies for children. It was an endless trial for her, and while I deplored her methods, I understood her motivation.
“Very well,” I said.
Stoker spluttered, but I stood my ground. “She has us over the proverbial barrel,” I reminded him. “The Daily Harbinger is no friend to you. I will not have the business of your divorce raked up again. The mud has only just dried.”
He curled a lip in disgust, and J. J. had the grace to look a little embarrassed. But she did not back down and I put out my hand. “Very well. If the chancellor does not object, you may come as my maid, but you will conduct yourself at all times like a proper servant,” I warned her. “It is absolutely essential that you make no trouble. I will not bother to explain the consequences to you if you fail me tonight,” I added in a low voice. “I think your own imagination will suffice.”
She blanched a little, but rallied. “I will not fail,” she promised.
“See that you don’t.”
Stoker and I rose to leave, but just as we reached the door, he turned back, almost as an afterthought. “When Maximilian and Gisela stopped on the way to St. Pancras, where did they go?”
J. J. helped herself to a handful of sugared almonds, crunching them soundly before replying. “It is rather odd, I thought. They went to that club of yours, Veronica—the Curiosity Club.”
“How long did they stay?” I asked.
She munched another almond, shrugging. “Ten minutes? I cannot imagine what they wanted there, but Gisela left with a parcel about so big,” she added, holding her hands a foot and a half apart.
“What sort of parcel?” Stoker inquired.
“Something a little unwieldy. Max carried it into St. Pancras for her, but when he came back out, it was gone. Gisela must have taken it with her, wherever she went.”
CHAPTER
21
As we left the kitchens, Stoker helped himself to the last of the guimauves, chewing thoughtfully as I vented my spleen.
“That monstrous, outrageous—” I broke off as Stoker held up a hand.
“Yes, J. J. is difficult,” he began, stuffing in another guimauve.
“I was not talking about J. J.,” I said as we made our way back upstairs to the suite. “I meant Maximilian. Imagine playing such dreadful games with the woman you claim to want to marry!”
“Well, they did break into the Curiosity Club together,” he pointed out. “Clearly there is some trust if they are committing casual crimes with one another in a foreign country.”
I snorted by way of reply. Once we made our way back to the suite, we seized the opportunity to beard the duke in his den. We found him in his room in a languorous pose, legs propped on a hassock, brandy snifter dangling from his fingertips. He was staring into the fire, his expression inscrutable.
He acknowledged our presence with a flick of his gaze. “I ought, out of politeness, to rise, but considering the fact that you did not trouble to knock, I will consider us equally bad-mannered.”
I took the chair opposite him and Stoker stood behind me, arms folded over his chest. A small smile played about the duke’s mouth, but his eyes were watchful and frightened. “I am, as you can see, quite busy. Please state your business and then be off.”
“Very well,” Stoker said in a pleasant tone. “Perhaps you would care to explain your arrangement with J. J. Butterworth.”
The hesitation was so slight, anyone watching him less intently would have missed it. But a trained butterfly hunter’s eye is acute, and I saw the brief, tiny inhalation, the almost imperceptible flare of the handsome nostrils.
The denial, when it came, was a shade too casual. “I am certain I do not know what you mean.”
I looked over my shoulder to Stoker. “Perhaps we ought to go directly to the chancellor,” I proposed. “No doubt he would be vastly interested in the duke’s intentions with regard to his princess.”
“Oh, very well,” Maximilian said, quaffing the last of his brandy and letting the glass drop to the carpeting. His expression was distinctly unhappy. He had intended to play the game by bluffing and he had lost badly. He wiped a drop of brandy from his mouth and made an effort to focus his eyes. “If you must know, I gave the girl an interview. I thought to sway public opinion in my favor. If the English, our nearest ally, finds me a worthy partner to Gisela, it might influence her to finally accept my hand in marriage.”
“You were looking to raise your prestige on an international level?” Stoker asked.
“Something like that,” Maximilian replied with a tinge of real bitterness. “I have not always been a paragon of virtue. My reputation is a trifle soiled, and there are those in the Alpenwald and abroad who have wondered if Gisela could do a little better for herself.”
“Hence seizing upon the chance to get J. J. Butterworth to write something laudatory about you,” Stoker remarked.
“Just so.” Maximilian’s grin was broad and no doubt lubricated by the brandy he had drunk. “A nice, pretty profile of a prince-to-be.” He refilled his glass and took a deep swallow.
“Indeed it was,” I agreed. “And I am very glad to hear the article was your idea. I was afraid she had extorted it from you after discovering you in the act of doing something disreputable—such as breaking and entering the Curiosity Club?”
The fact that he choked on his brandy bothered me not at all except that he managed to spit a quantity of it on the hem of my skirt. “That will leave a stain,” I informed him when he had recovered himself.
His face changed colors from puce to white and back again. “Miss Butterworth, I presume? She is the only one who could have told you. One ought never to trust the press,” he added hoarsely.
Stoker poured him a fresh drink and Maximilian sipped at it, more gingerly than he had before. But his color seemed somewhat more natural after a few minutes.
“So you admit you broke into the club?” I pressed.
“I admit nothing,” he said, his self-possession returning. “It would be my word against that of a rubbish-peddling guttersnipe.”
“A rubbish-peddling guttersnipe who also knows you arranged for the explosion last night,” Stoker put in mildly.
“And left a threatening note in Gisela’s chocolate box,” I added for good measure.
Maximilian dropped his glass and gave a deep moan, thrusting his hands into his hair as he bent double. “Mfffmmmfffmffff,” he said.
“I am afraid that was not entirely audible,” Stoker told him.
The d
uke raised his head; the fight had clearly gone out of him. “I did not mean to harm her—I would never harm her, you must believe that. I love Gisela.” His protests echoed J. J.’s, but that proved nothing. She might well have been parroting what he had told her, falling for his persuasions in spite of her journalistic instincts.
“Tell us,” I urged. I was conscious of Stoker fairly vibrating with satisfaction at what we had learnt so far.
The duke began to speak in a small, halting voice, very unlike his usual assured tones. “You must understand what it is like. I was born to a very minor branch of the family. I have a title, yes, but precious else. The lesser von Hochstadts have never been wealthy. We hang on the fringes of the senior branch of the family, hoping for crumbs. My parents always pushed the idea that Gisela and I should marry, and her father liked the notion of keeping everything within the family. We were thrown together constantly as children. We quarreled and made up, as children do, but we were friends, always,” he insisted. “I was sent away to school here in England and then into the army. I scarcely saw her, but whenever I did, we picked up where we had left off. We understood one another very well. We got on. It seemed logical that we should marry.” He paused, heaving a bone-weary sigh. “I am not permitted to propose to Gisela. Her rank is too far above my own. It must come from her, but the years have passed and still she does not speak. I am left on tenterhooks, never knowing when I will marry, when I will assume my responsibilities as consort.” He smiled, a small and rueful thing. “I must amuse myself as best I can, which sounds as if it ought to be a very enjoyable life, but it is not. I have no purpose, no money, and no way of earning any. I gamble because that is the only way to afford decent tailoring,” he said, plucking at the cuff of his sleeve. “I keep company with disreputable ladies because it is a way of passing the time, and I drink too much in order to forget that the woman I am meant to spend the rest of my life with does not think me worthy of her hand.”
He retrieved his glass and examined the contents, draining a few remaining drops.
“Has the princess told you as much?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No. But I know she believes I am not serious enough, that I lack responsibility and proper feeling.”
I rolled my eyes heavenwards. “And your idea of how to change that is to gamble and disport yourself with disreputable people?”
He turned to Stoker. “Does she always speak so plainly?”
Stoker shrugged. “No. In fact, she is being rather polite just now. You are quite fortunate she has not told you what she really thinks.”
The duke put down his glass and laced his fingers across his flat stomach. “Very well. What do you really think?”
“I think you are entirely pathetic,” I told him serenely. “You are gifted by nature with intelligence and ability and remarkable good looks and yet you cannot be bothered to lift a finger for anyone besides yourself. You have allowed indolence and bad company to influence you to do nothing more interesting than play baccarat and wager on horses, which makes you dull in the extreme. Not only do I not blame the princess for hesitating to betroth herself to you, I applaud her for her lucky escape.”
He gaped at me, his complexion purpling once more. “No one has ever dared speak to me in such a fashion.”
“You did ask,” I reminded him. “And I am not finished. I have not even begun to express my feelings on the abject weakness of character that would cause a man to play vicious pranks upon the woman he professes to love.”
“That was not my fault!” he exclaimed, thumping his thighs with his fists. “It was the devil to whom I owe money. He owns a casino in Deauville and I made promises to him—promises I would have been able to keep if Gisela had announced our betrothal.”
“But she has not and so this blackguard instructed you to bring terror to bear upon the princess in order to shock her into marriage.”
He covered his face with his hands for a long moment, and when he dropped them, the rage seemed to fall away. “I was drunk, very, very drunk. And I had lost a great deal of money. And I had quarreled with Gisela yet again about making our engagement official. I had done a favor for her—a very large favor. And she had given her word she would make the announcement. But when the time came, she did not. The reasons are not important, but I felt she had failed me. I took myself off to Deauville to have a good carouse to exorcise my feelings. I lost, heavily. They took me into the office of the owner of the casino and we had a little discussion,” he said, his lips twisting in distaste. “I cannot tell you how much I hated myself in that moment. A Duke of Lokendorf reduced to sitting with such a fellow, asking him for his forbearance! Supplicating, like a beggar. It was his idea to play these pranks upon Gisela, but I agreed and that fault is mine,” he said. There was sorrow in his eyes, and for the first time, I felt I saw the real character of the man.
“The favor you did for Gisela,” I said gently. “Was it to conceal her relationship with Alice Baker-Greene?”
Astonishment flickered in his eyes before he dropped his gaze. “I do not know what you mean, Fraulein. Gisela barely knew the woman.”
“They were lovers,” Stoker said. “We have seen evidence. A sketch in Alice’s own hand.”
Maximilian groaned. “I beg you, do not share this information. Whatever you think of me, and I understand it is very little, believe me when I tell you that Gisela does not deserve to be ruined for this.”
“We have no intention of ruining your princess,” I told him firmly. “Her private affections are none of our concern. But her whereabouts and Alice Baker-Greene’s murder are.”
He leveled his gaze at me. “Alice Baker-Greene fell off the Teufelstreppe.”
“After her rope was cut,” Stoker put in. “Furthermore, you know that is what happened because why else go to the Curiosity Club and steal the rope if not to remove evidence of the crime?”
He was silent a long moment. “I think I am tired now,” he said. “And this interview is at an end.”
“Did you cut that rope?” I demanded. “Did you kill Alice to eliminate your rival for Gisela’s affections? She was the obstacle to your marriage, was she not? Murdering her would have opened the way for you. Did you take it?”
“I did not,” he said, clipping the words sharply. “She was my friend. And whatever you think of me, I am no murderer.”
“But you might be an accomplice,” Stoker suggested.
The duke shied in his chair. “What do you mean?”
“He means that you and Gisela stole the rope from the club—rope that proves Alice was murdered. You helped her do it and you helped her get out of London,” I said.
He gaped at me. “You think Gisela killed her? For what reason?”
“I met Alice several months before her death,” I told him. “She was incandescently happy. She told me about moving to the Alpenwald, how she meant to make her permanent home there. And she was a very strong woman. If Gisela had wanted to break things off with her, turn her out of the Alpenwald, Alice would not have gone quietly. She would have stood her ground and made it impossible for you and Gisela to have married and begun a life together. Would that have been a happy life, do you think? Hochstadt is a very small city. You would have constantly seen Alice—a ghost of Gisela’s former life—and a liability if she ever chose to share her damnable story. You would never have been secure, not until she died.”
He listened in rapt attention, then burst out laughing until he wiped his eyes. “Oh, Fraulein. Whatever becomes of us all, I do hope you will take to writing stories. You have a prodigious imagination.”
He poured another glass of brandy and it was clear he intended to say no more. Before we left, I tried one final tack.
“Where did Gisela go that night?” I asked.
For a long minute, I thought he would refuse to answer, but at last he replied. “She did not tell me, I swear it.”
“I almost believe you,” Stoker told him.
Duke Maximilian hesitated, then reached into his pocket.
“Here, this is all that I know of her intentions—a railway timetable.”
Stoker took the timetable from the duke. It was a little grubby and marked with a pencil.
He traced the penciled line with a finger. It highlighted a train leaving late that evening from St. Pancras.
“Nothing more specific?” I asked.
The duke shook his head. “No. Make of that what you will.”
Stoker scoured the rest of the timetable. “We know from this that she must have been heading north, so that lets out Bristol or Southampton or the Continent, unless she meant to double back. If she were traveling directly, then she might have gone to Liverpool or Edinburgh.”
“From Edinburgh she might have traveled back to the Continent,” I surmised. “And from Liverpool, Ireland or even America.”
I turned to the duke.
“Why not show this to the chancellor or the baroness?” I asked. “It at least confirms that she was not abducted, and you might have saved them some worry.”
“I gave Gisela my word, Fraulein,” he said, picking up the empty glass and staring into it. “She wanted no one to know where she went, and that is why she would not even tell me where she was bound. Take that to the chancellor and the baroness if you must, but it will accomplish nothing except anger them because I did not convey it myself. That is in no one’s best interests.”
Stoker tucked the timetable into his pocket. “There is no reason they need to know just yet. In fact, not having to worry about such an occurrence will free you to see to it that Miss Speedwell has all the support she requires this evening and makes a success of it.”
The threat was unmistakable. Stoker was holding on to the timetable as insurance that Duke Maximilian would render me whatever aid he could during the course of the banquet and signing ceremony.
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