Velvet Undercover

by Teri Brown

  Maxwell bends over the box and I wonder what he’s looking at, when the prince suddenly calls to him.

  Max startles.

  “Could you please escort Fräulein von Schönburg to her quarters?”

  “Of course.” Maxwell hurries back and helps me to my feet.

  Surprisingly, the prince stops me with a hand on my arm. “Thank you for your quick thinking with the children. I’ll speak to Wilhelm before he goes to sleep tonight.”

  I bow my head. As we’re walking, I see Maxwell’s eyes dart back to the small alcove. I follow his gaze and notice that the rug on the shining wooden floor is not in its place and neither is the toy box that sits on the rug. I spot the almost undetectable outline of a square cut in the wood.

  The trapdoor.

  Shocked, I glance back at Max, but his face reveals nothing as we leave the room.

  My mind races. Max said the tunnels went to the schoolroom, but I haven’t thought about the conversation since and never looked for the trapdoor. I would have spotted it earlier except that the rug and the toy box were always sitting on top of it, no doubt to keep inquisitive children from tumbling down into the tunnels.

  But everything had been moved, which could only mean that someone had used it recently.

  Perhaps even this afternoon while I was in the park with the children.

  I look at Max’s face again. Why hadn’t he pointed it out to the captain? My brain, swift and logical, comes to the only conclusion possible.

  Because Maxwell was the one who had gone down it. Hadn’t I seen him earlier hurrying out of the Grand Hall? My stomach lurches.

  Could Maxwell have killed Lillian?

  Even as my heart rejects the possibility, my mind turns the idea over and over, examining it from all angles. Maxwell had been called a hero after the incident with the assassin, but perhaps that’s not the way it was at all. By the time we reach my door, I’m shaking.

  He pauses, placing a gentle finger under my chin and tilting it upward so he can see my face. The dark eyes searching mine are filled with sadness.

  “I am sorry about your friend, Sophia Thérèse.” He takes my hand and kisses the tips of my fingers so tenderly that tears spring to my eyes. “I suggest you rest. You’ve been through a lot.”

  I nod and he leaves. Shutting and locking the door behind me, I collapse onto the chair and cover my face with my hands. I can’t get the image of Lillian lying on the floor out of my mind. Could Maxwell really have killed her? I remember the look in his eyes just moments ago and I feel that he isn’t capable, but then I remember how he and the assassin had faced off in the reception room and how angry he’d been with me earlier.

  My heart constricts and I realize that I don’t know Maxwell Mayer at all. No matter how much I wish things were different, we didn’t meet in my real life.

  I pace the room, my thoughts whirling about in my head like ribbons round the maypole.

  If Lillian was Velvet, La Dame Blanche and the Allies just lost what may have been their most important asset. What if Lillian was killed because she was discovered? How long before someone discovers me? Panic swirls in my stomach.

  No. If Abwehr did discover that Lillian was an undercover agent, they wouldn’t just kill her, would they? Wouldn’t she be worth more alive than dead?

  I plop down on my bed and rub my temples. I have to do something. Even if Lillian was Velvet, she didn’t deserve to die. And if she wasn’t . . . But who would want her dead if she wasn’t Velvet? Who would want to kill a governess? I close my eyes, thinking. Mathilde hated her, but not enough to kill her. Not with a gun. As far as I know, everyone else adored her.

  Mathilde did tell me that Lillian’s nose was out of joint because she and the duchess were close until Marissa showed up. Could there have been bad blood between Lillian and Marissa? If so, I never noticed. The only one I’ve ever seen arguing with Lillian is . . . Suddenly an image of Mrs. Tremaine’s face flashes before my eyes. Mrs. Tremaine knows something. I’m sure of it.

  Throwing caution to the wind, I leap up and hurry to the servants’ lounge. If there’s one person who knows where Mrs. Tremaine is staying, it’ll be Mathilde.

  I find her, along with several other servants, all knotted together in the middle of the room. Her face is streaked with tears. “Oh, isn’t it horrible?” she wails when she sees me. “That poor woman. How could this happen?”

  Mathilde seems to have forgotten her dislike of Lillian in the midst of all the drama. I shove away my aversion. “Can I speak to you alone?” I ask.

  “Of course.” She flashes the others a smug look over her shoulder. “This must be so difficult for you,” she says, following me from the room.

  “I need your help,” I tell her before she can go into how sorry she is about that poor teacher.

  “What do you need?”

  “I need you to show me to Mrs. Tremaine’s room.”

  Mathilde raises an eyebrow.

  “Mathilde, it’s important.” I’ll offer her a bribe if I have to. I need to see Mrs. Tremaine before I lose my nerve.

  She doesn’t hesitate. “Follow me.”

  Mathilde takes me to the west side of the palace, far away from the family quarters. I wonder if that was the prince’s doing—as if keeping his lover far away from his wife would fool anyone.

  “Thank you, Mathilde,” I say. “I owe you.”

  “That you do,” she says cheerfully.

  I wait until she leaves before I face the door, my heart pounding. Now that I’m here, it doesn’t seem like such a good idea. I know Miss Tickford certainly wouldn’t think so, but then Miss Tickford isn’t here. Or rather she’s in Berlin somewhere, but she certainly hasn’t been that helpful so far. For all intents and purposes, I’m on my own.

  How can I confront Mrs. Tremaine without giving myself away?

  Very carefully, that’s how.

  I rap sharply on the door and Arnold opens it almost immediately.

  “Who is it?” Mrs. Tremaine calls from the other side of the room. “Tell whoever it is that I’m very tired and to go away.”

  I muscle my way past Arnold and then stop short, almost gasping at the opulence. The room looks somewhat as you would expect heaven to—all white and gold. If there had been a harp in the corner, I would not have been surprised. Heavy velvet draperies hang at the windows, snow-color lambskin rugs dot the floors, and the furniture has been finished in gold leaf so brilliant it almost makes me blink.

  Mrs. Tremaine is lying on a divan across the room with a washcloth pressed to her forehead. Penny barks.

  “Well, you don’t listen very well,” Mrs. Tremaine says, sitting up. In spite of the dark circles marring her face and her auburn hair a mess, she’s still languidly beautiful. “I really wasn’t expecting company.”

  She smooths her venetian-blue tea gown trimmed with Valenciennes lace and waves toward a tea cart next to the divan. “I was just going to have some tea. Now that you’re here, you might as well join me. Arnold, please get Miss von Schönburg a cup.”

  “I’m fine, thank you, Arnold.”

  “Oh, please, you’ve interrupted my rest, the least you can do is have tea with me.” Her lilting voice belies the fatigue I see in her blue eyes.

  “Of course.” I sit on the stiff Louis XVI chair across from her and reach for the cup of tea Arnold hands me. Taking a sip, I peer at Mrs. Tremaine over the rim of my cup. Is she really who she presents herself to be? When we first met, I thought her an Australian version of the French femme fatale—a seductress only interested in dalliances with rich men, and in gossip and court machinations. But after discovering that she and Lillian were involved in some sort of intrigue, I began to doubt my original assessment. Could this vain coquette be a spy? If so, who is she working for? It certainly can’t be Germany.

  Whatever she and Lillian were arguing about this morning made Mrs. Tremaine angry—but angry enough to sneak back hours later and kill her in cold blood?

  “So wh
at is the purpose of your visit, Sophia Thérèse?” Mrs. Tremaine asks.

  I bite my lip, thinking hard. How can I get her to tell me what I need without giving myself away? “I’m concerned about the argument you and Lillian were having this morning,” I finally say.

  If Mrs. Tremaine is surprised, she doesn’t show it. “And why would that concern you?”

  I swallow. “Well, the children . . .”

  “What do they have to do with anything?” She shrugs a petulant shoulder. “They weren’t even there.”

  “They might have come in, and I think it’s highly inappropriate, considering the circumstances. . . .” I let my voice trail off and give a delicate shrug. I don’t say considering that you’re sleeping with their father, but my meaning is clear. I give her a withering look, hoping to provoke her.

  It works.

  She glares at me. “If you must know, Lillian was going to do something for me and then backed out of it. I was angry. That’s all.” Her eyes slide away from mine and I know she’s hiding something. The sudden tension in her shoulders and the pinched look about her mouth confirm my suspicion. Then her gaze returns to me and unease slithers up my spine as her eyes narrow. “And how dare you waltz into my boudoir and pass moral judgment on me. You don’t know anything about me.”

  She leans forward as if she’s going to spring across the low table separating us and attack me.

  The hair on the back of my neck prickles. Why didn’t I think to bring a weapon? Especially since I came here to confront her. If Mrs. Tremaine did kill Lillian, what’s to stop her from attacking me? The only person here to witness it is Arnold, and he’s devoted to her. I glance at him, my eyes widening. Of course! Arnold must be the one I saw talking to Lillian the first night I came to the palace. I grip my teacup and plow on. “What was she going to do for you?”

  She brings herself back under control and leans back on the divan. “I fail to see why that’s any of your business.”

  It’s time to bluff, Sam.

  I take a deep breath and will my voice to remain firm. “You can tell me or you can explain it to the guards.”

  Mrs. Tremaine stills and her blue eyes regard me like those of a cat watching a mouse. A hushed silence descends upon the room and even Arnold seems to have stopped breathing. “And all this time I thought you were a silly debutante. Why would the guards be interested in my argument with Lillian?”

  I raise an eyebrow. “They’re going to be interested in anyone who spoke to Lillian just before her death.”

  The teacup in her hand crashes to the floor and her eyes widen. The horror on her face is so real that I know it isn’t a ruse.

  “You didn’t know,” I whisper.

  She shakes her head. “No. When?”

  “Today. I found her in the schoolroom.”

  Her hand covers her mouth and tears fill her eyes. “That poor girl. What am I going to tell her family?”

  I stare at her, my pulse racing. “Her family? You know her family?”

  Penny leaps into Mrs. Tremaine’s lap and tries to lick the tears now rolling down her mistress’s face.

  “I met them in France before coming here. They asked me to try to get Lillian to return home. They were so afraid for her.”

  My mind scrambles to put the pieces together. “Is that why you’re here? For Lillian?”

  She nods. “But not just for Lillian. There are several others I was to make contact with. Lillian was just the easiest to get to because of the circumstances.”

  “Who sent you?” I ask.

  “Their families. How . . . how did she die?”

  I hesitate, and then tell her the truth. “A gunshot to the head. The guards think it was suicide.”

  Mrs. Tremaine goes white as a sheet and Arnold rushes to her side. “It is my fault, then,” she whispers.

  I carefully set my own cup down and take a deep breath. My mother would be proud of my composure. “How is it your fault?”

  “She was going to leave last night,” Mrs. Tickford whispers. “I paid someone to get her out of the country, but she backed out at the last moment. I’d given her a gun for the journey.”

  Her eyes meet mine.

  “So it’s my fault. I should have left well enough alone. I thought she would jump at the chance, but she loved the children so much. Apparently, she was more conflicted than I ever suspected.”

  Mrs. Tremaine breaks down in tears and Arnold looks up at me. “I knew this would happen,” he says. “She’s far better suited to gossip than to being a war hero.”

  Mrs. Tremaine sobs against his shoulder. “I just wanted to help,” she says. “I thought it would be amusing!”

  Arnold pats her back. “Don’t worry. We won’t be here long.”

  “I would wait,” I tell him, and I stand. “It’ll be less suspicious if you hold off until things calm down a bit.”

  He nods, and I leave an inconsolable Mrs. Tremaine in Penny and Arnold’s care.

  By the time I reach my room, I feel as if I’m going to be sick.

  So Lillian did kill herself.

  My chest constricts and I feel as if I can’t breathe. Moving over to the window above my bed, I push it open to let in some fresh air.

  It doesn’t seem possible that Lillian could do such a thing. She seemed sad, yes, but desolate enough to turn the gun on herself? Especially knowing that I would return with the children and they would see?

  Something isn’t right, but no matter how much I think about it, I can’t come up with the solution. The window looks out onto a side street where deliveries are made and the servants’ door is located. As I idly watch people coming and going, I’m wondering what the prince and the duchess are going to do with me now that their children’s governess is dead. I don’t have the qualifications to be a head teacher.

  My mind moves on to Miss Tickford and I remember how I felt when I saw her in the theater. What is she doing here? Why hasn’t she contacted me?

  I suddenly remember the note in the pocket of my coat and the man who delivered it. Is it from Miss Tickford? With everything that has happened since, I’d completely forgotten it.

  As I’m turning to get the note out of my coat pocket, I notice Marissa Baum’s neat bob coming out the servants’ door.

  The sight of her is like an explosion in my mind and I can’t believe I didn’t think of it sooner.

  If Lillian wasn’t Velvet, then Marissa most certainly is.

  Snatching up my coat, I race down the stairs, hoping to catch her. I nod at the guard on my way by. Curfew isn’t until dark, so he’ll probably wait until then to ask for bribes.

  I spot Marissa rounding the corner and I cut across the street, slowing when I near the intersection. Peering around the side of the building, I hurry after her. She has crossed the street and is moving west toward the setting sun, making it more difficult for me to track her. Her pace slows as we move into the shopping district, and I stay across the street and several stores behind her so she won’t see my reflection in the display windows.

  I scan the people around me, but see nothing unusual. I’m so busy watching the pedestrians that I almost miss seeing Marissa slip into a millinery shop. I watch for a moment and then hurry across the street. I stay outside the window, hiding behind a display of cartwheel hats with flowers dripping from their brims. For a moment, I don’t see anything, and then I make out Marissa at the counter, talking with a woman dressed in black. The woman nods and points through a door to what looks like the workshop.

  Marissa’s slipping out the back way.

  My heart skitters in my throat as I hurry down the street and around the corner, hoping to find the back alley before Marissa gets away. Marissa either knows I’m trailing her or is taking special precautions to be discreet. In either case, if you take this behavior along with the false travel papers, it’s clear that she’s far, far more than just a rich American debutante who came to Germany on a lark.

  Towering heaps of garbage dot the narro
w alleyway and the smell of rotting refuse assaults my nose. The sun is just setting as I pick my way carefully around the piles. Hearing the low murmur of a woman’s voice, I frantically dart into a deep doorway.

  The voice is joined by a male voice. I carefully peer around the corner of the doorway, only to find a stack of barrels obscuring my view. Heart in my throat, I tiptoe out of the doorway and then pause, listening. The woman speaks again and I take in a deep breath.

  It’s Marissa.

  I can’t hear well enough to discern what she’s saying but I know it’s her. It’s hard to disguise the American twang mangling German pronunciation.

  If only I could see who she’s with. I take another cautious step toward the edge of the stack of barrels. As I do, I accidentally kick a piece of metal pipe on the ground. I freeze, my heart shooting up into my throat as the pipe clatters across the ground. There’s a sudden silence and I hold my breath, wondering if I’m suddenly going to see a hand coming round the barrels to grab me by the throat. I clench my fists, knowing I would fight if I had to.

  After a moment, the conversation resumes, and I breathe a sigh of relief. Then I stiffen again as Marissa’s voice takes on an obvious pleading quality. I frown, wishing I could make out exactly what she’s saying.

  I’m stepping a bit closer to the edge of the stack of barrels when I hear her say, “But do you think the prince will really do it? Couldn’t he be tried for treason if it’s discovered?”

  I stand frozen, waiting for a reply.

  The prince? Is she talking about Prince Wilhelm?

  My God!

  I hear the quiet murmur of a man’s voice and then Marissa says, “You spoke to the prince. I know he’s appalled by the general’s tactics and can’t believe the kaiser agrees, but then, Haber is persuasive.”

  The man whispers something and, heart pounding, I lean forward, straining to hear more clearly.

  “It’ll change the entire war,” Marissa says. “All those men in the trenches will be smoked out like rabbits out of a warren.”