The Daughters Grimm

by Minda Webber

  “Don’t be absurd,” she replied curtly. “I am not studying my own reflection.” Then, realizing what she’d just revealed, she swiftly shut her mouth. A frown formed on her brow; the man was too clever by half.

  He scowled. “You’re looking for vampyr.”

  “If I am,’ tis my own business.”

  Rolpe chuckled. “What a droll and foolish woman you are. Vampyrs, indeed. May I take it that this, your impression of a statue, means you haven’t spotted any? No undead lurking around Fürst Gelb’s home, bloodthirst in their eyes?” This woman vexed Rolpe, made him laugh, but also made him impatient and excited. Her imprudence could get her in serious trouble. Fortunately there were none of the undead lurking about; he had made sure of that fact. There were, however, other creatures in the Black Forest just as deadly.

  “I’m not foolish, but I have been known to be droll upon occasion. When people understand my jokes.”

  Her anger darkened her eyes to the color of misty bottomless lochs, and he stared at her in fascination. Then, annoyed with her magnetism, he stepped back a pace. Since the cemetery incident, he had thought upon Miss Greta Grimm more than once, and that irritated him. She was a virgin of a good family, and he was a hardened rogue, a sensuous lover and a hardened (and hardheaded) bachelor. And this infuriating beauty made him, or parts of him, even harder.

  His scowl deepened. “Come, admit it, you’ve spied nary a vampire in Wolfach. Simply one missing corpse.”

  Greta fought back annoyance. She had been staring hard into the mirror and then back out into the sea of dancers, trying to spot someone, anyone, whose reflection was not shown. Now she had a headache, and the ball was only beginning. “Not yet, but the night is young.”

  “What do you really want to find?” he asked crisply.

  She gulped, staring back at the handsome prince, wishing with all her heart that fairy tales could come true. “In Wolfach? A legend come to life, a good man, and mayhap a troll or two. I also wouldn’t mind seeing an ogre.”

  He shook his head. “You should be dancing and hatching plots to wed some unsuspecting gentleman, not searching out supernatural secrets,” he chided, licking his lips as he stared at her mouth. Her own lips were quite lush, firm and full and pink, and more than a little inviting. Leaning over, he chucked her gently on the chin. “You don’t make a very good wallflower. Too pretty, and much too spirited. Go dance.” And with those words he strolled arrogantly away, leaving Greta to stare after him.

  “He’s a maddening, cocky fellow, I do declare.”

  Hearing her comment, Herr Nietzsche, who had just arrived with a cup of punch, followed her gaze. He shrugged his shoulders delicately. “He’s a prince. They’re all like that.”

  Herr Nietzsche wasn’t the only one who had noticed Greta’s interest in the handsome prince. Her Aunt Vivian, who was chattering jovially away in the midst of the dowagers, was watching both her nieces like a hawk. She had noted that Greta had not danced as of yet, and had been speaking with Herr Nietzsche again, a friendship she did not approve of. The man was nothing but a frustrated writer, and an old gossip who stirred Greta’s interest in all that unseemly fairy-tale nonsense. Alas, just what she didn’t need if she was to encourage her niece to marry. If the baroness hadn’t grown a little fond of her eldest niece, she would have washed her hands of the whole affair.

  Yes, she had found that she did like her eldest niece, and noting the girl’s interest in Fürst von Hanzen, the Baroness Snowe shook her head, her chins wobbling. The prince was too high in the instep to marry Greta. Still, if Greta was interested in that man, she might find she could be fond of another. Perhaps a writer would be a good match, so that the two would have something to talk about after their marital duties were done. Just not a writer like Nietzsche.

  One of her companions made a comment about Rae’s gown, and the baroness turned her attention in the direction her companion was staring. She said, “Of course Rae looks radiant tonight. I picked the gown myself. Cost a small fortune, but then what could I do? The gels arrived on my doorstep practically without a stitch of suitable clothing. It’s to their great fortune that I am older and wiser. I also happen to have splendid taste and am much admired for my style, if I may dare boast.”

  The other Prussian ladies murmured something back, something appropriate, and Baroness Snowe turned to see Fürst Gelb ushering her niece, Rae, along with Lady Lentel, an old family friend of the house of Gelb, down the red hallway that led to his treasure room. At this sight Baroness Snowe sniffed disgustedly, her heart freezing. Evidently the old scoundrel was intending to show off the many gold odds and ends in his famous Gold Room. It was more than obvious that he was trying to impress Rae with his wealth, and that could only bode ill. She was torn between arranging such a smashing marriage—Gelb was part of the upper nobility of Prussia—and protecting her niece from his lechery.

  Gloating, she imagined the years of boastful letters she could write. Yet, as Rae walked with the aging prince, Baroness Snowe suddenly recognized that she absolutely could not allow Prince Gelb’s suit to be pressed. Not with her niece, of course. She’d leave it to the dry cleaners.

  Unaware of her aunt’s feelings, Rae entered Gelb’s Gold Room with a sense of wonder. Her mouth opened and her eyes went wide. The room was almost blinding in its splendor, with every manner of ornament made of gold, many encrusted with rare and monstrous jewels.

  “Oh,” she gasped. The prince was obviously a very wealthy man. Perhaps knobby knees were not so high a price after all. Not for such glittering beauty. After all, she did not do poor well: it was so unbecoming.

  Enthralled, she walked to the large glass shelves that housed more than sixty golden objects of every description and from every land. There were golden elephants from India and golden vases from China. Another whole row was filled with eggs: golden eggs, jewel-laden Faberge eggs from Russia. She examined them in awe, unaware that Lady Lentel had excused herself.

  “I take it you like my pretties?” Prince Gelb asked.

  “They’re wondrous. I’ve never seen anything like this in my life. Such lovely baubles.”

  Her response made his sly little heart beat faster. “Yes, those bubbies are quite pretty,” Prince Gelb commented. A leer covered his face as he stared hungrily at her decolletage, which pushed up her breasts. Tempting morsels they were, surrounded by delicate ivory lace. She was mouth-watering. “Quite pretty.”

  Not paying attention to the older man’s words, Rae nodded absently, still admiring the collection.

  “Come, you must see my harp.” The prince took her hand and guided her to a shadowy corner where the harp sat alongside a couch done in gold brocade. “It’s solid gold. I bought it from a collector in Greece. He says it dates back to Spartan times.”

  Rae nodded eagerly and reverently touched the golden harp. “It’s lovely.”

  The prince leaned in closer, his breath caressing her shoulder. “Not as lovely as you, my little goose, so plump and pretty. Perchance you’d like to pluck my strings.”

  Fortunately, Rae was not enraptured by the harp, as she had never been a big fan of harp music; thus, she caught his tone and words, which were absolutely fraught with lecherous intent. She gasped and glanced over at him, noticing with alarm how his eyes were burning with that fire men sometimes got around her.

  Oh, drat! she thought, irked. Now she would have to cut her viewing of his treasures short, for she was certainly not going to be plucking anything of his on this night—or on any other night. Of this she was quite certain.

  The old man counted to three, then tried to play patty-cake on her dimpled knee. Rae had played it as a child with her sisters and brothers, but this old roué didn’t have innocent games in mind; rather naughty ones, she suspected.

  Glancing desperately about the room, Rae looked for aid from Lady Lentel only to discover that the lousy lady had left. “We’re in here all alone. That isn’t proper in English society, and I doubt it is in Prussian so
ciety either.” She had never really thought long or hard onMay–December romances, but as the prince puckered his lips for a kiss, she found herself repelled. She moved to step back from the old randy goat, but was prevented as he grabbed her shoulders.

  “You must not flee, my pretty little goose. So soft and plump and fine. I just want a small kiss to make my heart sing.”

  “I prefer to remain on speaking terms,” Rae replied. Shaking her head, she added forcefully, “We must leave before my aunt realizes I am not in the ballroom.” She did not want Prince Gelb’s thin dry lips to touch her own. Greta, of course, had been right all along: This decrepit prince was too old to be her husband, even for a hundred gold carriages and a thousand golden eggs.

  Ignoring her protest as one of maidenly modesty, the prince leaned down to kiss her. Rae jerked back, knocking into a large fern that was nesting in the corner. As she did so, a large cockroach scurried up her leg, and all at once she found the strength to shove the prince back. Leaping and screaming, Rae leapt upon an ottoman sewn with Turkish designs in golden thread. “Help, it’s on me! Oh no, this is horrible! I have something crawling up my pantaloons!” she shrieked.

  Though no Prince Charming, Gelb valiantly came to the rescue, lifting her skirt and hoop to search for the offending insect. His eyes lit with lustful glee as he took in the fine lace underthings and the shapely legs they encased. Forgetting the bug, he leaned forward to bestow a kiss.

  Shocked and half-crazed, Rae screeched. First the skittering of the little bug’s legs, replaced by searching fingers and lips on her legs—it was all too much. She cried out for the prince to leave her be, trying desperately to force her skirts down over the despicable lecher’s head.

  It was at that moment that Fate played its hand, and Baron Schortz hurried into the room. When he took in the scene, his expression turned to an angry scowl. After three steps, he routed the prince by throwing him across the room, lowered Rae’s skirts and threatened to tear the prince’s rotten head off if he remained present even a moment longer.

  The dazed Prince Gelb quickly left the room, tottering a bit as he did. Once outside, he hurried down the hallway, straightening his jacket. His ruffled appearance caught the attention of Baroness Snowe, who only moments before had seen Baron Schortz entering the hall. A scheme popped into her mind, a scheme to make sure her niece did not marry above her.

  While the baroness was busy plotting, Fen glanced up at the vision in blue damask silk before him. Instead of the gratitude he expected to find upon her lovely visage, he instead found disgust and horror. Disappointment filled him, but then he reminded himself sternly that this was a shallow woman.

  “He’s gone. You are safe now,” he said.

  “No, he’s not. He’s there, and I can still feel him crawling up my leg!” This said, she began a strange little dance on the ottoman, jumping up and down. “Oh, do something, you big oaf. He’s climbing higher, and I can’t stand it one minute more.”

  The poor English lady was a bit overset. “Nein, Prince Gelb is gone!” he said.

  “Oh, you ninny! Before the prince accosted me, a cockroach accosted me first. From that dusty fern over there. It ran up my pants!” Rae snapped. Then she went silent and started weeping, raising her skirts, hoop and all, hastily over her head once again as the scurrying bug came preciously close to the slit in her drawers. “It’s so crawly and creepy. Please Baron Schortz, you must get it off me!”

  Finally understanding the awkward situation, and rather valiantly ignoring her offhand insults, he gallantly began the search. His eyes quickly caught the brown bug scuttling across the slit in her Parisian pantaloons and back out of sight. In the back of his mind he noted the shapeliness of her legs and the other flesh exposed. His mouth watered.

  Courteously he reached inside the pantaloons and grabbed the offending bug. Unfortunately, as he tried to bring his hand back out, his onyx cufflink caught on the lace of the slit in the pantaloons. He cursed. She cursed. And pandemonium ensued.

  The pantaloons ripped. Huffing and puffing, Baroness Snowe scurried into the room, her own matrimonial plans in mind. Fast on her stylish heels were seven of her bosom beaux, gossips one and all. Greta was also there, for she had noted her aunt’s look of evil intent, which was the same look their mother wore when she was scheming. Prince von Hanzen also arrived, having noted the crowd and decided to investigate the commotion. And last but not least was the proud owner of the Gold Room, Prince Gelb, who couldn’t stand to miss anyone’s reaction to his impressive collection.

  One by one and one and all, they stood enthralled, or titillated, or scandalously appalled. Yes, to a one they stood inside the magnificent Gold Room, staring at a most magnificent sight—and that sight wasn’t the golden harp or any golden eggs. No, the particular golden goose cooked here was Baron Schortz.

  Miss Rae Grimm was standing on an ottoman, her skirt over her head, and Baron Schortz’s head was half under that skirt, his hand coming out of her pantaloons. Yes, the baron’s goose was royally cooked—as voiced by Prince von Hanzen’s bout of pithy cursing.

  Greta, stunned, glanced from her sister and the baron to the handsome prince, still so shocked by the compromising situation that she took only a mild interest in the curse words she’d never heard before.

  Prince Gelb frowned, shaking his head in regret. Rae would have made him a fine wife. Alas, fate was against him—as well as Baron Schortz.

  Rae stared wide-eyed at the group before her, feeling more humiliated than she ever had. This couldn’t be happening. But it was.

  Swinging back around to face the music, and whatever else awaited him, Baron Schortz forced himself not to shudder. Everyone was staring at a piece of lacy drawer in his hand, still attached to his cufflink, and his own pants were somewhat tented in front.

  “You cocksure son of a…” Baroness Snowe trailed off, her chubby finger pointing, denouncing him as a lecherous bounder he wasn’t.

  “Cockroach,” he tried to explain, but his mouth was dry and he felt a disaster of momentous proportions overtaking him. What a cockamamie mess. He was cocked up for sure.

  “Ha!” the baroness snapped scornfully. Secretly, she was delighted. Her vain niece would marry the baron, and their social standings would be equal. As well, Rae would soon be out of her hair. And the marriage would be high enough—especially since Baron Schortz had blue Norwegian blood—to cause her sister, the Baroness Grimm, to see red. Oh, happy days were here again. Never was she more relieved that she had followed her instincts, gathering her companions and hurrying here. She’d hoped that luck would be with her and she would catch the baron in a compromising position; but never had she thought she would find them in such a compromising position. As compromising positions went, this one was deliciously wicked.

  This couldn’t be happening to her, Rae thought again. She stood looking like a dazed doll, the picture of perfection, perhaps excepting her pantaloons. This was a horrid, heinous and hideous nightmare, and soon she would wake up. Perhaps she ought to swoon.

  One of Aunt Vivian’s companions commented, “Impetuous young men have been leading innocent and foolish girls astray from the beginning of time.”

  “And witless, don’t forget witless,” Baroness Snowe added, enjoying her natty niece’s discomposure.

  Glaring, Rae snapped, “I am not witless. It was the bug that’s stupid.” Then, turning her attention to the pale-faced nobleman, she added, “Baron Schortz only tried to help.”

  “Help himself to your womanly delights,” Gelb said.

  This time, Rae’s glare pierced the prince. “Talk about calling the kettle black, you old roué.”

  Prince Gelb ignored her outburst, and again accosted the baron. “How could you—seducing a young innocent in my home? And all in the guise of lending a hand.” How he wished he’d had the foresight to stage a compromising situation so that the delightful Miss Grimm would have been his. She would have fit in beautifully with his gold and his Gold Room.


  “It really was a huge cockroach,” Rae said, her voice high and unnatural as she tried to explain again. She stepped off the ottoman. “It was the biggest roach I’ve ever seen. A king cockroach, or some such thing.”

  “I imagine so,” one of the older ladies said, with a glint in her eye. She had noted the baron’s rather impressive bulge. “A giant to be sure.”

  “Do something,” Rae urged the baron, adjusting her skirts, which had been lowered some time after the offending insect had been squashed beneath the baron’s heel. Yet the baron remained silent, his face pale. If she were not mistaken, he was praying, his usual aplomb deserting him.

  Greta came to her side, and Rae was glad of her sister’s support. She was horribly embarrassed and annoyed, and her face was a shade of bright red bordering on scarlet. “A horrible, awful cockroach—truly, Greta.”

  One of Aunt Vivian’s companions, who was rather deaf, shook her head sadly. “Never mind, my dear. They’re all awful at first, but you’ll get used to them. Some ladies even find them awe-inspiring, I’ve been told.”

  Greta stepped closer to her sister’s side, and Prince von Hanzen moved to stand nearer the baron. The prince said, “If this hasn’t all gone cockeyed. He might as well cock up his toes. Fen’s done for now. Wedded, without the bliss!”

  Greta turned and gave him a fierce glare.

  “Enough! No more cocks or cocking or cockroaches. It’s marriage we speak of,” said the Baroness Snowe.

  Greta scowled at their aunt and her entourage of busybodies, while Rae looked embarrassed and dazed. Fen wasn’t in much better shape, but he nodded abruptly. Von Hanzen’s scowl matched Greta’s.

  Baroness Snowe clapped her hands with glee. “Prince Gelb, may I ask a boon? Perchance, may we borrow your study to discuss this rather odious situation? Youth is impetuous, but we must outlast the stink.”

  “I must give the girl a point for her imagination,” said the baroness’s youngest friend, a woman of a spritely sixty-five. “A cockroach as a wedding trap! What won’t they think of next?”