Another Scandal in Bohemia (A Novel of Suspense featuring Irene Adler and Sherlock Holmes)

by Douglas, Carole Nelson

  “As for my marrying, and marrying so modestly, I console myself by regarding the husbands and lovers of women such as yourselves. They leave much to be desired, as you have noted yourselves by observing my husband. I shall never have to embrace some overstuffed sofa of a self-satisfied duke, or kowtow to a prince of industry for the reward of a few costly baubles. I shall never have to contemplate the ceiling—or anything else—in boredom. In truth, I have chosen the better part, which is why I am a subject of such fervid interest to your gossiping circle. I have no pretensions of any sort, which is what offends you. And you are quite right. I am a dangerous sort of woman.

  “Now,” Irene finished grandly, flourishing her borrowed crop like a wand, or a scepter, “You may resume your petty discussions. It will amuse me to overhear what you have to say on my withdrawal. I will even have Miss Huxleigh take notes. Perhaps you will be worth a paragraph in my memoirs.”

  They looked as one toward me for the first time, as I gasped, and scowled horribly. Had Irene and her whip not been present, I do believe that they would have done me some bodily harm. Witnesses are never cherished.

  Only the sounds of whispers and rustling clothing penetrated our dressing room after our return.

  Irene sat on the edge of the Empire sofa in her frilly combinations, looking like a chastened schoolgirl required to sit through a lecture, rather than like someone who had only moments before had wielded the whip hand.

  I was trembling, in shock and—now—with righteous anger.

  “You have caused a scene!” I charged in a hoarse whisper.

  She nodded.

  “You have paraded yourself in your unmentionables.”

  She said nothing.

  “You have... destroyed your so-called opportunity to become Monsieur Worth’s experimental mannequin.”

  She looked meekly up at me with enormous bronze-colored eyes. “Probably.” She sighed.

  “It is your own fault.”

  “I know.”

  “Such irresponsible gossip is best left undignified by an answer.”

  “True.”

  “You have gained nothing and lost everything.”

  “I cannot argue, Nell.”

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  Irene rose slowly, subdued. She looked around the frivolous little room for her Liberty silk.

  “Very wise,” I said. “The best thing is to go quietly home and forget the entire episode.”

  She moved toward the hook.

  The hook holding the violet velvet gown.

  “Irene—?”

  She lifted it down, then cast the hanger onto the sofa seat. “Will you help me into it, Nell? Or shall I call the vendeuse?”

  “You will persist in this madness?”

  “Since I have already made a scene, I might as well make another, only with a better costume.” Her lips quirked with rue. “It would be rude to leave without showing the Worths what they wished to see. I believe you’ll have to tighten my corset strings, Nell; I wore them quite loose for the Liberty.”

  I would not waste my breath in arguing. I approached her and pulled the corset strings very tight indeed.

  Shortly after I was trailing the violet gown, watching the bejeweled train dragging down the hall ahead of me like a gaudy lizard’s tail.

  Where Irene passed, voices choked and stopped in midsentence. Eyes fixed on her, not with the sly glances of an hour before, but with bald, hostile curiosity. A subdued vendeuse intercepted us at the bottom of the stair to the Worth quarters. I braced myself for a public rebuff.

  Irene did nothing but pause, the same slight smile on her face that she had given the King of Bohemia when he had revealed himself without honor.

  Of course she looked magnificent in the Worth gown, like a queen, and worth ten of the women in the salon put together, be they patron or mannequin or “double” of a world-famous beauty.

  The vendeuse stepped aside without a word, and Irene’s heavy velvet skirt swayed up the stairs, myself in its wake. At the top we heard twitters and laughter break out behind us. Or least I did; Irene gave no indication of apprehending anything.

  The old spaniel greeted us at the salon door and waddled away. Mr. and Mrs. Worth still sat—or sat again—on the sofa with grave faces. Irene paraded for them without being asked, ending in a breathtaking swirling turn before them.

  “I have no accessories, of course,” she said without preamble. “No gloves, no hair ornaments—”

  “No jewels,” Monsieur Worth barked out suddenly.

  They knew. Of course they knew. A man who catered to the aristocracy would be sensitive to every undercurrent of his business. A public scene in a dressing room would effect such a genteel enterprise like a tidal wave.

  My cheeks flamed, but Irene’s remained cool and pale as vanilla ice. Only one word described such an incident. “Scandal.”

  Monsieur Worth looked at his wife. A severe expression made her heavy features seem implacable.

  “Few jewels,” Irene corrected modestly.

  “What do you think?” Monsieur Worth asked his wife, who could have been a pillar of disapproving salt.

  “No jewels,” she said slowly, as if reading a verdict.

  Irene had told the women in the dressing room that jewels didn’t matter, that rich men didn’t matter. But they did, they both did in this artificial world of the rue de la Paix and Paris and France and Society with a capital “S” everywhere... Now she would discover again the power of that terrible truth, as she had on a darker day at Prague Castle more than a year before.

  I wrung my gloved hands, unable to prevent the bitter lesson, and bit my lower lip.

  Madame Worth glanced at me, attracted by my gesture (Irene remained as still as an elegant statue). Amusement tickled her stern features.

  “You are right,” her husband told her. “I want nothing to distract from my work. I will create jewels. A waterfall of jet and beads. And emerald satin gloves, I think. A dash of the unexpected.” He glanced at Irene as if remembering that she was alive. “This gown is destined for the Queen of Italy, but I will make a duplicate for you, and another for you alone.”

  “I wanted only a single gown to begin with—” Irene said.

  “Two.” Worth held up one imperious, and inaccurate, finger. His bulging eyes narrowed, a trick that did not flatter them. “I see feathers, many feathers.”

  “Like your peacock gowns,” Madame Worth prompted.

  “Peacock feathers!” Irene repeated in the same tone as she had stood dreaming before this dress when it was undonned. “I love those colors—”

  He nodded. “I have done this twice. Once, long ago, when crinolines made skirts into canvases for the dressmaker’s art A complete gown of peacock feathers, and more recently, for Lady Curzon, a gown beaded overall in the likeness of individual feathers.”

  “With iridescent green beetle shells as the eye of each feather,” his wife added.

  “Oh, yes,” Irene cried rapturously, extending her clasped hands like an ingénue in an opera viewing her beloved for the first time. “Wonderful.”

  “No. Not for you,” Monsieur Worth pronounced.

  Now it would come. The denouncement. The end.

  ‘Too gaudy for you,” he went on. “Something... different. Come back Wednesday and you will see.”

  “Wednesday? That soon?” Irene was too amazed to argue.

  I was astounded by the grace with which she relinquished the peacock feathers.

  “I waste no time. Now, we must discuss a less pleasant matter: your performance in my dressing room.”

  “I thought you would refuse to work with me,” Irene admitted.

  “So I should have, yet you still came up.”

  She shrugged with a soubrette’s charm. “The gown was too tempting not to try on.”

  Monsieur Worth stood, which frankly did not add much dignity to his figure.

&nb
sp; “I am English,” he said, “yet I have become French, and my custom, my family and my fame lie in this land I have adopted. You are American and have adopted other lands. I am a genius. I have changed the façade of fashion for over three decades, until empresses bow to my wishes, but only because in matters of the toilette, I am always right. You are a performer, and something of a genius at solving human mysteries, I have heard. I am a tradesman. No matter how the world echoes my name, I am never, and never will be, on an equal footing to my patrons. I am both their inferior and their superior, and I understand that position well.”

  He smiled suddenly, though it was hard to detect the change of expression under the cover of his enormous mustache. (Thank heavens that Godfrey—and Quentin Stanhope— restrained themselves.)

  “I mentioned that I do not always like them,” he went on, “and that some I like quite well. It is your good fortune, Madame Norton, to have irritated those whom I do not like, and to have intrigued one of those of whom I”—he glanced at his wife with a smile—“we, are quite fond. When you have redonned your own clothes, I would like you to call in my chambers upon a personage who requests your confidential attendance, the Queen of Bohemia.”

  Chapter Four

  THE QUEEN’S CONFESSION

  “I cannot withstand so many rapid changes of fortune in one afternoon,” I complained in the dressing room as I unhooked the line of rear fastenings that closed Irene’s velvet bodice.

  “Two,” Irene repeated in muted glee. “Two Worth gowns. And now this!” She whirled on me before I was done, her face aflame with twin triumphs. “Do you remember her, Nell?”

  “You speak as if we had met. I remember seeing her portrait in the newspapers. Rather unflattering.”

  Irene began to pace, despite the gown that was ebbing farther down her shoulders at every step.

  “Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen.” The long foreign name tripped off of Irene’s tongue like the syllables of an aria sung about a bitter enemy. “The King of Scandinavia’s daughter, that His Royal Highness, Wilhelm Gottsreich Sigismond von Ormstein, was compelled to wed by virtue of becoming King of Bohemia.”

  “Which title he assumed,” I reminded her, “on the death of his father, whose murder you proved.”

  “That was a mere chamber murder, Nell, solved in private in the late king’s own bedroom, No one knows what happened but the family circle and we two—and the poor, deluded servant girl who was the victim of rebel and royalist alike in that affair. I wonder what ever became of her?”

  I captured Irene during a restless swing past and firmly resumed my unhooking. Sometimes it was best to treat Irene as an errant schoolroom charge.

  “Nor,” said I, “can I keep up with your change of subject. Surely you will not see this Scandinavian woman?”

  “If you mean the Queen of Bohemia,” she intoned with relish, “how can I refuse the royal command?”

  “Easily. Say no.”

  She sighed, drawing several still-fastened hooks all the tighter. “I can’t disappoint Monsieur Worth twice in one day. I will have to go through with it.”

  “But you... you loathe this woman, Irene! Because of her, the King spurned you. You should have been queen; even he admitted it, to the very last, in front of myself and Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.”

  “The road to hell is paved with ‘shoulds,’ Nell.” She shrugged out of the bodice, then raised her bare white arms while I lofted the gown over her head.

  Irene soon had inserted the hanger and installed the dress on its hook. She patted the velvet skirt in farewell, then turned toward the Liberty silk at last.

  This unconventional gown required no help in donning; in moments Irene was her respectable, clothed self. I had never expected to regard the aesthetic mode of dress as a kind of return to sanity, but so I did now.

  She resumed pacing. “I suppose I must not light a cigarette in Monsieur Worth’s environs; how frustrating. At any rate, the question is not how I feel toward this usurping princess, for Willie was himself at fault in not telling me that his fate was locked into a royal marriage. The question is, what does this woman want of me?”

  I shook my head. “I cannot begin to guess.”

  “Then we must see her.”

  “No treat, that,” I said stoutly. “From her sketch, she is a long-nosed creature as bland as milk.”

  “Yes.” Irene sighed happily at the remembrance. “And just think! Sketches can be—and usually are—enhanced by the artist.” She turned to survey herself critically in the mirror from toe to top-knot, ending with a satisfied smile.

  “Let us go and pay our disrespects to another royal personage, my dear Nell. We are becoming rather good at it.”

  Monsieur Worth—along with his spaniel and compress—no longer occupied the upstairs salon, but Madame Worth was present. She led us with soundless steps down a thick hall carpet to a closed mahogany door.

  “Her Royal Highness wished to see you alone,” Madame Worth noted, favoring me with a glance.

  “Miss Huxleigh is more discreet than a church mouse,” Irene said quickly. “I am sure that the Queen will not object when I explain Miss Huxleigh’s vital role in my... enterprises.”

  Madame Worth looked dubious, but opened the door for us herself. Evidently no servant was to know of the meeting, an ominous sign.

  The parlor within was papered in green velvet flocking and furnished with many polished wood pieces, so it seemed very English, after all.

  A tea table glittered between a matching pair of sofas upholstered in shiny sable horsehair. On the farther sofa sat a figure wearing a lightweight steel-blue cloak, the hems of its floor-length skirt and waist-length over-cloak edged in gray ostrich feathers. A gray felt bonnet brim trembled with more of the simpering feathers, and pink velvet roses massed against the wearer’s hair and cheek on one coy side.

  Altogether an insipid ensemble for one whose coloring was as pallid as whey, I thought uncharitably. Queen of Bohemia or not, Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen had far to go if she was to make me forget her role in destroying Irene’s fondest expectations, if not breaking her heart.

  This so-called Queen was self-conscious enough to start at our entrance and move as if to rise. Irene restored the situation to its proper tone by executing a small curtsy. I managed an uncivil bob, but the Queen seemed little interested in social courtesies.

  “Madame Norton.” She looked unerringly toward Irene. “Please be seated, but your companion, I fear—”

  “No one fears Miss Huxleigh,” Irene said, stepping around the sofa to take the indicated seat. “I never consult without her; she is the soul of Prudence, even though her Christian name is the classical Penelope. Besides, who is to pour if we have urgent matters to discuss? I cannot manage teapots and think at the same time.”

  “Oh, I as well!” the Queen exclaimed in a tone of pathetic relief. Her French had a slight, Scandinavian singsong, and she eyed me nervously. “Miss... Hussey may stay if she will swear to say nothing of what we discuss.”

  Irene smothered a hoot at this latest corruption of my surname. “Oh, she will be as silent as the grave, our Miss Hussey. Depend upon it. I do, however, ask her to take notes on occasion. You must warn her if any matter is of such sensitivity that she dare not write it down.”

  The Queen slid me another uneasy glance from dismal gray-green eyes. “Miss Hussey will recognize such a juncture, I fear, only too well.”

  Her nod admitted me to the society of the sofa. I came around the one Irene occupied and found myself neatly finessed into position behind the Georgian silver teapot that I would command.

  Now that I was seated, and virtually ignored as the two women warily eyed one another, I could further examine the Queen’s appearance. When Irene and I had studied her likeness in the newspapers at the time of her engagement to the King of Bohemia—and “studied” is too scholarly a word; we had dissected her like a biological curiosity—our verdict had been unflattering.

&nbs
p; I saw nothing before me to change it. Queen Clotilde was a vapid blond woman, a sort of human daisy who looked as if she would shed her petals at the mildest breeze. Her pale hair, so fine it shone like wet satin, made her oval face seem browless and lacking eyelashes. True, this gave her large, limpid eyes a certain sad prominence, like a spaniel’s, for they drooped at the corners.

  And her nose! This long, unlovely feature ended too short a distance from her upper lip. She had one of those overpraised rosebud mouths, small and bowed, but with little natural color. Apparently she lacked the artifice to enhance a single one of her unfortunate features. I am not in favor of artifice, but could see its need in this case. Her eyes were rimmed with the red that should have warmed her cold lips and cheeks, not from weeping, but by virtue of her almost-albino nature. Even her hidden ears, I suspected, would be awkward in some way.

  I made my observations, all the while fussing with the tea things. Most domestic chores are a perfect disguise for a wandering mind or eye. I couldn’t help clattering spout to cup and spoon to dish; did the Queen know of Irene’s former connection to the King? As soon as I offered a cup of tea to her gloved hand, the Queen, in fact, seemed to forget me, and saved her nervous glances for Irene. What did Clotilde know?

  My friend suddenly took the conversational reins that had lain slack for far too long.

  “And how may I assist Your Majesty?” she asked outright. “Monsieur and Madame Worth said that you wished to consult me.”

  “Consult you,” the Queen repeated. “You make it sound like a transaction. Perhaps it is. I could not help overhearing you... admonish the ladies in the dressing room.”

  “Ah. The flaws of theatrical training. My voice, I am told, carries well."

  “Superbly, Madame, but so did their voices beforehand. I am curious about these puzzling affairs they mentioned, in which you take an interest, and about your cleverness. These women implied that you had aided the future Princess of Monaco in avoiding a scandal before her forthcoming marriage.”

  “That is true.” Irene leaned forward to take the Meissen cup, thin as a butterfly wing, that I offered her. “I of course cannot tell you the exact nature of her difficulty—”