A Perilous Undertaking

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  The princess, whose sense of grandeur ought to have rebelled at having her hand held—even by the son of a peer—touched her eyes with the handkerchief and began to speak.

  “I was rather rude to Miss Speedwell,” she told him.

  He leaned closer to her, his attitude one of conspiratorial coaxing. “I daresay she deserved it.”

  She smiled in spite of herself, a tiny smile, but a smile nonetheless. “The fault lies with me.”

  “Miss Speedwell is a stubborn and provoking woman,” he said solemnly. This time the smile was real.

  “I suppose she is at that. But I was peremptory with her when I did not mean to be. I need her help, quite desperately. And yours. I am so frightened, so terribly upset . . .”

  “You are anxious and fearful,” he said. “And I daresay not sleeping as well as you ought.”

  She closed her eyes and gave a nod of assent. I opened my mouth, and even though he never turned his head to look at me, he must have sensed I wished to speak. He made a single flicking gesture with his forefinger, warning me to silence just before she opened her eyes.

  “That is true,” she told him, leaning forward and pointing to her face. “You must see the shadows beneath my eyes. I have not slept properly since this business began.”

  “It is the most natural thing in the world that you should be gripped by violent feelings,” he assured her. “And all the more reason that you should share them. It is not good for people, particularly ladies of gentle birth, to keep such tempestuous emotions locked up within them. It leads to bad health,” he told her with the faintest touch of reproof.

  It was an astonishing performance. With just a few words he had not only calmed her but made her feel as if she had done right in behaving rudely to me. Realizing that Stoker had the situation well in hand, I sat back and watched, as good as invisible to them both.

  She nodded, dabbing at her pink nose with the handkerchief. “You are quite right, of course.”

  “Indeed I am.” His tone was soothing, the sort of voice one might use to an injured animal or a querulous child. I wondered which the princess might be. Stoker moved marginally closer, increasing their intimacy as he settled himself upon a hassock at her feet. “Now, I have said I will help you, but I want you to have a greater assurance than that. You have my word as a gentleman that I will do whatever I can to unmask the villain both for your sake and that of Miles Ramsforth.”

  “Oh, you are kind,” she told him as I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “I know you have seen the ledger. I nearly collapsed when you told Ottilie that you had discovered it. I was so terribly afraid that you had seen my name.” She broke off, her color high as she chose her words carefully. “I ought to explain about the grotto, how I came to be there.”

  “I know what purpose it served,” he urged gently. “I have seen the place in all its glory.”

  She gave a grim nod. “Good. Then I needn’t describe it. You must know how dreadful it’s been, knowing that there was evidence I visited the grotto, that it might be discovered and brought into evidence at his trial. And then everyone would know . . .” She broke off again, pressing the handkerchief to her mouth as if to stifle rising sickness. “I understood precisely how bleak it would look for me, how salacious the press would make it seem. The newspapers, the headlines, it was a nightmare. And it was all quite innocent! Miles was simply being Miles. He amused himself by shocking people. I think he expected me to disapprove, to be like my mother. She would have been outraged,” she said with a shudder. “But it was so blameless. He merely guided me through his little collection of art, showed me the ledger with all the naughty little details,” she finished earnestly.

  It occurred to me then that she might well be telling the truth. If she had engaged in a little sordid lovemaking with her friend’s husband, it would be a scandal of immense proportions—but so would the mere appearance of impropriety. The very fact that she had been in the grotto and viewed the collection would have catastrophic repercussions for herself and the throne. Married women did not conduct themselves in such a fashion, and married princesses with Puritanical mothers were held to a higher standard still. The newspapers would make the most of the indiscretion, hounding her and the whole of the family, I had no doubt. And it would not be long before questions were raised, as they inevitably were after every royal scandal, whether England needed a monarchy at all. It would be terrible enough to endure such consequences if one had actually committed flagrant adultery; how much worse if one had not? It was the conundrum of Caesar’s wife, ruined for the illusion of misconduct but not the act of it. The irony was too cruel.

  Stoker made soothing noises and patted her hand.

  “My marriage has not always been a happy one,” she went on. “We care for one another, you must believe that. But my husband and I are the subject of gossip, very painful gossip which makes the round in Society circles. And every crumb of it would have been made public if I were exposed in such a fashion.”

  “I understand,” he consoled her. “You were simply having a harmless bit of amusement, and you are entitled to a few laughs with your friends.”

  “How well you put it!” she said. “You understand, but the average person on the street would read those words, those horrible vulgar words, and think the worst of me. I cannot bear to think what it would do to my mother.” She went white to the lips, and I realized then how completely the queen ruled her own family. She must have had Bismarck’s iron fist to keep her own daughter in such fear of her.

  The princess went on. “I was not only thinking of myself, but of Lorne,” she insisted. “If the popular press decided I had taken Miles Ramsforth as my lover, then they would dredge up all the worst of the stories about my husband, his neglect of me, his disinclination for my company. And they are not true,” she said fiercely. “He loves me in his own way.”

  Whether that was fact or wishful thinking, I would never know. No one would ever know, I supposed. But in her peculiar fashion, Louise loved her husband, and in saving Miles Ramsforth, she was really saving him.

  Stoker patted her hand again. “Of course his lordship loves you,” he said with a firmness that brooked no argument. “And if he only knew what agonies you have suffered on his behalf, he would treasure you all the more.” He changed his tone subtly. “Now, in order to help you, I must know what happened the night Artemisia was killed. You visited the grotto. And Miles wrote your name in the ledger?”

  She clutched his hand. “Yes. As a sort of joke since I had toured his collection. You didn’t see it there?” she asked swiftly.

  Stoker shook his head. “We had no opportunity to examine the ledger before Miss Speedwell lost custody of it,” he told her, neatly portioning responsibility for the loss to me. I deserved it, and no doubt the princess was convinced of my culpability, but it rankled a little nonetheless.

  Stoker went on in his soothing voice. “Were you with Miles Ramsforth when Artemisia was murdered?”

  She nodded, closing her eyes and pressing the heels of her hands hard into them. “Yes,” she whispered.

  “And is that why Miles has no alibi? Because he was with you?”

  “Yes.” Her voice rose a little.

  “He refuses to tell anyone the two of you were together in order to protect you,” Stoker pressed.

  “Yes.” The voice rose higher still, verging on hysteria.

  “He would rather dance at the end of a hangman’s noose than betray you? That speaks to a connection more intimate than mere friendship,” I put in.

  They both turned to look at me, Stoker wearing an expression of exasperation while Louise’s was one of mingled astonishment and dislike. “I do not expect someone of your class to understand,” she said dully. “One is brought up to honor the dictates of loyalty.”

  I opened my mouth, but the sudden, certain futility of it all came crashing over me, and I
said nothing.

  Stoker resumed his masterful handling of the interrogation. “Did Miles always keep the ledger in the grotto?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “I do not know. It was out when I arrived. He made a little joke about how valuable the thing was—he said even Ottilie didn’t know of its existence because it would be worth thousands in the wrong hands. You must not think he would ever have used it against his friends,” she hurried on. “Miles is not like that. He could have spent his last farthing and the ledger would never have seen the light of day. It was an aide-mémoire of sorts, something to remember the naughty escapades he had got up to in his youth. There was no real harm in it.”

  Either the princess did not realize how recently he had got up to those escapades or she was deluding herself as to the extent of Miles’ cheerful debaucheries. But I suspected she was correct in her assessment of his character. If Viscount Templeton-Vane’s revelations about the dwindling Ramsforth coffers were true, Miles had sat upon a potential gold mine without ever once attempting to make use of it. It spoke to a certain loyalty in the man, I decided, and I rather liked him for it.

  Stoker continued on, guiding the conversation.

  “Well, now someone has found the ledger and realizes that you were there, that you would pay dearly to keep this information private. And we must discover who that someone is. It is entirely probable this villain and the murderer are one and the same.”

  She gave a shudder. “It is a terrible thing. One reads sensational fiction, thrills to the horrors on the page, but when it is real, when it comes into your life and threatens to destroy everything . . .”

  “We will recover the ledger,” Stoker promised her. “And we will find the killer.”

  “You oughtn’t promise things we might not be able to deliver,” I put in sweetly. “And I am not at all certain we are the proper people to help.”

  “Veronica,” he said through gritted teeth. The princess was regarding me with active loathing, but I did not care. I went on, recklessly.

  “Before this, we had only your word that the police had got it wrong, but this,” I said, holding up the note, “is proof of blackmail. That is a hanging crime. It ought to go directly to Sir Hugo Montgomerie.”

  “Sir Hugo!” Princess Louise fairly spat the words as she thrust herself to her feet. “He has been utterly useless. He would not even attempt to reopen the investigation when I begged him.”

  “I believe Sir Hugo was trying to protect you,” I corrected, irritated that she would display so little appreciation for a man whose entire career was devoted to clearing up her family’s messes.

  “Protect me!” Scorn dripped from the words. “From what?”

  “Any hint of scandal,” I suggested. “As you just pointed out, if you were intimately linked with a man whose mistress was murdered in his bed, it would be a scandal of historic proportions. I imagine Sir Hugo was only too conscious of how it would look for Your Royal Highness,” I told her flatly.

  She curled a lip. “I do not care for the opinions of tea merchants and tailors,” she said loftily.

  “Of course you do,” I said, striving for patience. “You care very much indeed or you would not be so terrified of the newspapers. But your greatest fear is of your mother, is it not?”

  She said nothing, but it was easy to deduce how little she liked my forthright speech.

  “Ma’am,” Stoker began in a far more deferential tone than the one I had employed, “if you were so worried about your name appearing in the ledger, why did you not tell us about it at the start? It would have saved time and bother to know there was more to your request than saving Miles Ramsforth from the noose.”

  She hesitated a long moment before answering. The only noises to be heard were the soft ticking of the various clocks as they marked the seconds. “I did not know if I could trust entirely in your discretion,” she said, very nearly but not entirely apologetic. “I told you as much as I dared. My hope was that the ledger had been lost or destroyed. No one knew where he kept it, and he would never tell. It was entirely possible that it would never see the light of day, and my secret would not be exposed. Then when you told Ottilie that you found the ledger and lost it again, all I could think was that it was in your power to destroy me. That is why I sent you away so quickly. I needed time to think. I decided that if I kept very quiet, you might still find the real murderer so that Miles would not hang.”

  “He shall if we cannot get to the bottom of this,” I reminded her with brutal finality.

  She said nothing but set her chin stubbornly as Stoker returned to the subject of the blackmail. “Give us them,” he said. “We will hand over the jewels in your place.”

  She hesitated. “No police?”

  “No police,” he vowed, and I wondered precisely how I would be able to reconcile that with my promise to Sir Hugo. Stoker went on. “Miss Speedwell lacks your inches, but it will be dark. If the villain is about, waiting to collect his reward, he will most likely think she is you.”

  I folded my hands over my chest, wondering what else Stoker had planned for me since I was apparently little more than a puppet in his theater of detection.

  The princess was thoughtful. “It might be dangerous. Miss Speedwell might be harmed.” She did not sound unduly dismayed at the prospect, and Stoker hastened to reassure her.

  “Better Miss Speedwell than you, Your Royal Highness!”

  She nodded slowly. “I suppose you are correct. After all, she is an active person, experienced in this sort of thing.”

  “She is,” he agreed. “I once saw her single-handedly extricate herself from a boat full of miscreants bent upon abducting her.”

  The princess roused herself to look at me, peering at me as if I were an oddity at a fair.

  “I can believe it,” she said at length. “She has a decidedly masculine quality,” she added vaguely.

  “Quite,” Stoker said. “And this sort of thing requires such a quality. A delicate and feminine lady, particularly one of exalted rank, could only ever play the most marginal of roles,” he assured her.

  She gave him a long look. “What about my jewels? If something should go wrong, I would hate to lose them. How could I possibly explain their disappearance?”

  Her manner had changed, and I detected a note of calculation behind her question. Stoker either did not notice or pretended he had not.

  “I shall be at Miss Speedwell’s side the entire time. They will be safe under my protection,” he vowed.

  She gave him a reluctant nod. “Very well. I suppose it is the best possible plan.”

  Stoker pressed no further. He patted her hand again, this time with something approaching reverence. “Do not trouble yourself further, ma’am.”

  Louise gave a nod and drew in a deep breath. “Wait here. I will retrieve the jewels for you.” She proceeded from the room, and I did not even look at Stoker. I was too infuriated to speak and turned to study a landscape of Louise’s hanging on the wall. It was bleak and uninspiring—Canada or Siberia or someplace equally cold and devoid of interesting butterflies. I left him to study it while the minutes ticked by. Stoker puttered about with the mantelpiece, picking up bric-a-brac and putting it down again, plucking a postcard from a litter of cards and invitations and reading it with absolutely no shame.

  When Louise returned, she seemed more composed, and I caught the faintest whiff of brandy. She had clearly paused for a stiffener, and I rather resented she hadn’t thought to share. She carried a small case which she handed to Stoker. He hesitated, raising a brow in inquiry. She nodded.

  The case was a simple affair of blue morocco. It might have held letters or trinkets or anything at all. But instead it contained magic. Fitted into a nest of white velvet, the emeralds shone with unearthly light that shimmered and chased over the surface of the stones, diving into their hearts and exploding outwa
rds again in an eruption of viridian splendor. The tiara, taken from its frame, curved around the other jewels protectively, gathering a fortune within its glittering embrace.

  “Stunning,” I pronounced.

  “Irreplaceable,” she corrected, reaching out and snapping the case closed. This she bundled into a small leather bag before handing over the lot of it to Stoker. “There is no way to explain what has become of these jewels if they are lost. The cost is incalculable.”

  “So is a man’s life,” I reminded her.

  “We will exercise the utmost care,” Stoker put in swiftly. “Do not worry, Your Royal Highness.”

  She straightened, raising her chin as no doubt an endless series of governesses and deportment teachers had taught her to do. “Thank you, Mr. Templeton-Vane.” She gave him her hand to shake as she afforded me a curt nod of farewell. “Miss Speedwell.” With that she rang the bell and the butler came to show us out of the palace.

  As soon as we were outside the royal premises, I whirled on Stoker. “That was an utterly appalling display,” I began.

  He gave me a cheerful smile. “It was rather, wasn’t it?”

  I gaped at him. “You didn’t mean it?”

  “Not a word, which you ought to know,” he said, his tone mildly aggrieved. “I am rather disappointed that you didn’t, actually. You know my feelings about royalty and the general fragility of women.”

  “That royalty ought to be abolished and women are every bit as capable as men?”

  “More so,” he corrected. He tipped his head. “I oughtn’t to be proud of that performance. It was frankly revolting. But it got us what we wanted. We now know why Miles cannot provide an alibi. And we are commissioned with handing over the jewels, the best lead we have had yet on unmasking the murderer. A good half-hour’s work, I would say.”