The Duke of Olympia Meets His Match

by Juliana Gray

  “I quite agree. I am shocked to the core. I will demand a full investigation and apology from the White Star company—”

  “That’s hardly necessary.”

  “Yes, it is. In fact, if you’ll excuse me, I shall see to the matter straightaway.” He hesitated and smiled. “With, of course, the utmost discretion and the most exact regard for your privacy and delicacy, Mrs. Schuyler.”

  He was gone so quickly, Penelope felt a vacuum of air in his wake.

  She lost no time, because the stewardesses on board the Majestic were wonderfully efficient. As soon as Olympia’s step disappeared down the corridor, she shut the door and turned to the trunk at the bottom of her bed.

  The contents weren’t badly disturbed; at least the intruder had made some effort to disguise his rooting about. Her fingers dug along the side and found the tiny catch at the bottom, to spring open the mechanism.

  The portfolio was still there, thank God. Her shoulders sagged in relief.

  But now Olympia’s suspicions would be awakened. She’d seen it in his gaze, the speculative quiet with which he’d surveyed the room, noting the peculiar details of the intrusion. What a fool she’d been, letting out that silly little cry. A ninny. And now she’d wasted her only natural advantage over the duke.

  And yet.

  When he’d burst into the cabin, shouting her name, crackling with a kind of competent male vitality that promised doom to her enemies: no, she couldn’t deny the little thrill that had shot through her veins at that instant. The pure pleasure of his unexpected entrance. Quashed at once, of course, because she was fifty years old and had no business feeling thrills of any sort, least of all for an oversized English duke of cunning and charm, the chosen matrimonial target of her benefactors . . . and least of all for a man who appeared to be her primary opponent in this task with which Madame de Sauveterre had entrusted her.

  She gazed down at the portfolio in her hands. So much fuss for a few pieces of paper, a mass of wood pulp and ink.

  But it was better this way, wasn’t it? Because without the need to protect those few pieces of paper, she might actually find her head turned by the so-mighty Duke of Olympia, owner of beautiful mistresses and prospective husband of American heiresses. She might actually find herself falling under his spell.

  And that would never, ever do.

  ***

  By the time the Duke of Olympia reached the main saloon, the charades were nearly finished and his heart was quite nearly under control.

  What a shock, to find himself still capable of the kind of tawdry green emotion of which he had thought himself cured in youth. What a shock, to find himself galloping down a corridor to render chivalrous duty to a woman in distress. Except that she hadn’t really shown much distress, had she? Mrs. Penelope Schuyler had, in fact, been absolute mistress of the situation.

  Surely it wasn’t possible. Surely the identity of the French agent had not simply fallen into his lap, like a ripe American peach.

  Because, for one thing, if Mrs. Schuyler was the agent carrying the French documents, who the devil had searched her room?

  The saloon had fallen into a reverent silence as he passed through the doorway, or at least as much silence as two hundred Americans could possibly contrive together. The long communal tables had been pushed to the side, and the heavy chairs were arranged in rows, the backs toward the entrance, facing the scene of action, where a tall, plainly dressed woman enacted a mesmerizing pantomime that Olympia decided was meant to resemble either the coronation of a cannibalistic queen or opening day at Ascot.

  He ran his gaze over the tops of the hats assembled before him. They belonged mostly to women and children, but a few doughty chaps had braved the occasion for the sake of civilization, God preserve them. Every single face was attuned to the performer with utmost attention, except for one: the figure of Mr. Morrison, who had apparently declined to sit in the chairs provided. He stood instead off to the side, arms crossed, and had allowed, over the course of the past hour, an expression of dull irritation to take over his face. It disappeared at once when he caught Olympia’s gaze. He uncrossed his arms and edged around the rows of chairs to the duke’s side.

  “What a spectacle, eh? Thank God it’s almost over.”

  “Dear me.” Olympia consulted his watch. “Have I missed it all?”

  “’Fraid so. The starboard side is winning handily, thanks to my daughter. If her mama didn’t have other plans, I’d start her on the stage and make our fortunes, eh?” He let out a whispery chuckle.

  “An elegant plan, indeed. How I admire modern American parenting.”

  The woman finished her pantomime and stood expectantly at the left-center of the stage, imploring her side to guess.

  “The ‘Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves’?” someone hazarded.

  Olympia continued, in the same hushed voice, designed to be heard at a distance of exactly one foot. “Does Mrs. Schuyler not choose to participate?”

  “Mrs. Schuyler?” Mr. Morrison looked about, as if just noticing her absence. “Why, I guess not. She’s not much hand at parlor games.”

  “A great shame. One wonders why not. Surely she doesn’t disapprove of such innocent diversions?”

  “Oh, no. She’s no Methodist. Just—I don’t know—shy, I guess, that’s the word. Keeps to herself. Now, she’s the perfect chaperone for our Ruby, straight as an arrow and that kind of thing. No trouble at all. But I tried to make talk with her one evening after dinner, friendly word or two, and . . .” Mr. Morrison shook his head.

  “Unimpeachable?”

  “I’ll say.”

  As he spoke, Olympia regarded each figure before him, examining and discarding. This practice had become so automatic over the decades, he hardly noticed how he operated these separate and concurrent lines of thought: the one holding conversation with Mr. Morrison, the other picking rapidly and effortlessly through the possibilities before him. At the exact moment his eyes came to rest on the tall woman occupying the makeshift stage (“Fish and chips!” someone exclaimed) he was able to observe to the other man, somewhat acidly, “A sensible position, I would imagine, for a woman in such a vulnerable situation.”

  “Eh? I don’t quite follow you.”

  “May I ask you a question, Mr. Morrison? Do you happen to know the year in which Mrs. Schuyler’s husband was called to his eternal rest?”

  “Why, I understood him to have—well, you know”—Mr. Morrison made a gesture to his temple, as of shooting oneself—“when Cooke’s bank went belly-up in seventy-three. They were old friends, you know, and he kept all his money there.”

  “I see. Twenty years of this sort of life, then.”

  “Nearly so, I guess.”

  The mood of the audience was turning impatient. “The Panama Canal?” suggested a hesitant voice, from the back of the room. The tall woman closed her eyes.

  “One minute more, the port side!” the purser called cheerfully.

  “That explains a great deal,” said Olympia. “By the by, do you happen to be acquainted with that woman at the front of the room?”

  Morrison startled. “Her? I don’t suppose so. I believe she’s the attendant to poor old Miss Crawley, in the invalid’s chair.”

  “Yes, I know that. But where is the large-throated Miss Crawley now? I don’t see her here.”

  Morrison looked about the room. “That’s curious. I guess she’s resting.”

  “No doubt.”

  “Time!” called out the purser.

  The tall woman planted her hands on her hips and glared accusingly at her side through those round thick-lensed spectacles. The afternoon light fell through the great glass dome onto her hair. “For God’s sake!” she told them. “‘The Charge of the Light Brigade’!”

  Olympia turned and inclined his head, amid a chorus of groans and recrimination. “If you’ll
excuse me, Mr. Morrison.”

  He made his way thoughtfully up the main staircase to the promenade deck, where a man might have a smoke and a think. On the way, he paused at the deckhouse to send a message to Mr. Simmons: the Duke of Olympia requested the favor of a moment’s conversation at the first officer’s earliest convenience.

  The deck brimmed pleasantly with walkers, the agreeable sort of people who didn’t go in for charades and instead bundled in tweeds and scarves to go tramping about in the sharp air. Olympia nodded and smiled and chose a spot in the corner, amidships, where he could observe the goings-on along the second-class portion of the deck. He removed his cigar from his inside pocket and lit it slowly, sucking the air inward, until the flame had caught properly. There was no sign of Mr. Langley among the mill of second-class passengers on the other side of the rail, but he hadn’t really expected to see the young man. Langley was probably composing sonnets in his cabin.

  “Your Grace!” Mr. Simmons appeared at his elbow, pink-cheeked. “I’m glad to find you.”

  Olympia removed the cigar from his mouth. “Thank you, my good man, for answering my little summons so quickly.”

  “Your summons, sir?” The first officer was bemused.

  “You didn’t receive the message?”

  “No, sir. I’ve just come from the ship’s safe, sir, because a certain matter has arisen in which I thought you might have some interest.” He lowered his voice and cast the old furtive glance, just in case someone might not have suspected him before. “It’s Miss Morrison, sir. Miss Ruby Morrison.”

  “Yes, someone’s been inside her room,” Olympia said impatiently. “That’s what I mean to talk to you about.”

  “Been inside her room? Are you certain?”

  “Yes, not an hour ago. I shall want a full list of—”

  “Of course, sir. I shall command a thorough investigation. But there’s more—it’s why I came to find you—you see, Miss Morrison herself has just had some papers placed in the ship’s safe. A leather portfolio, that’s all.” Mr. Simmons ducked his head. “I thought you’d want to know, sir.”

  “Miss Morrison, did you say?” Olympia drew on his cigar. His heart made a series of eager movements beneath the neat woolen breast of his coat, or perhaps it was just the freshness of the breeze, which was now blowing in gusts, catching in little white pockets atop the surrounding sea. “How very resourceful of her.”

  “Yes, sir. I do wonder if the two events are possibly related?”

  “I think it very likely. In fact, I propose that we proceed at once to the safe in question and examine these papers.”

  Mr. Morrison’s expression turned to shock. “Examine the papers?”

  “Why, yes. Of course. That’s the object of our mission, isn’t it? To close the case, to bring the matter in hand. If these papers contain the information we suspect, why, we may sit back and enjoy the rest of the voyage in perfect ease.”

  The first officer drew up his nose. His shoulders followed proudly. “But that is impossible, Your Grace.”

  “Impossible?”

  “I’m afraid so. I stand ready to assist you by any means in my power, but the White Star Line does not violate the sacred trust of its passengers. I regret deeply to inform you that if Miss Morrison has placed her personal property inside the ship’s safe, why, it must remain there undisturbed until she chooses to remove it.”

  At that instant, a familiar straight-backed figure appeared at the doorway of the deckhouse, dressed in a plain coat of cream-colored wool and a small navy felt hat. She turned her head in his direction, widened her eyes in a flash of recognition, and stepped onto the deck, followed immediately by Miss Ruby Morrison.

  Olympia watched them stagger up the long reach of the deck, arm in arm, white skirts swaying against the wooden boards and catching the briny wind, and they made him think of sails.

  Sails, filling with air, leaning exuberantly into the clear blue future.

  The cigar had burned to a stub. He tossed it over the rail and tucked his scarf a little more closely about his neck. “I quite understand your predicament, Mr. Simmons. You may consider the White Star safe quite sacrosanct.”

  “And the papers, sir?” asked Mr. Simmons, quite pained.

  Olympia smiled and turned his attention once more to the two female figures, now disappearing around the front of the deckhouse. The freshening air tingled his lungs.

  “Never you fear, Mr. Simmons. I have the matter well in hand.”

  Day Three

  SS Majestic

  At sea

  When Penelope found her deck chair in the hour before breakfast, she discovered there was only one passenger aboard the Majestic foolish enough to brave the frigid air that morning: herself.

  The weather, which had begun to turn the previous afternoon, now blew in long diagonal gusts against the starboard side of the ship; the ocean had developed a restless swell. The steward, arranging the chair on the more sheltered port side, turned and faced her with an expression that might have been admiration (those pointed eyebrows!) or foreboding (that curled mouth!). She thanked him with a smile and a silver quarter, which he slipped into his pocket before hurrying back inside, leaving her in solitude.

  Blessed, immaculate solitude.

  She drew the thick plaid blanket up her lap, almost to her chest, and unfolded her book with mittened hands. Another gust of wind numbed her cheek, but by God it was worth it, just to be alone for an hour, without a single demand upon her atten—

  A deck chair clattered down beside her.

  “Right here, now, sonny,” said a deep voice, which ought to have been familiar, except that it arrived in brusque American accents.

  “Certainly, Mr. Penhallow,” said the steward, and the legs of the deck chair scraped against the wooden boards.

  “Now, you don’t mind, do you, Mrs. Schuyler? Misery loves company?” There was a hearty laugh, and Penelope looked up into a pair of dancing blue eyes, framed by a set of extravagant brown whiskers and a woolen cap set low on a weathered forehead. “And there’s no misery on earth to beat the howl of a good solid mid-Atlantic gale, I always say.”

  “I don’t know,” said Penelope. “I can think of a few.”

  The steward stood back. “Here you are, Mr. Penhallow. The coffee’s on its way.”

  “Thank you, thank you.” The chair creaked under the weight of Olympia’s long frame. A pair of polished boots plopped over the bottom edge, well below the utmost reach of the blanket. “Ah, that’s the business. Brisk March wind, healthy salt air, lively company. What more could a man ask for?”

  The steward disappeared. Penelope said, “Privacy, perhaps?”

  “Now that’s a fine thing to say, after I went to so much trouble to gain an audience with you.”

  “I can’t imagine why.”

  “Why, you said you couldn’t be seen with His Grace, the Duke of Olympia, that poor aristocratic duffer. I thought perhaps Mr. Elias Penhallow of Buffalo might be more the thing.”

  “You can’t possibly mean to fool anyone with your wretched disguise.”

  “Can’t I?” His voice slipped into a confidential murmur. “I have always found, my dear Penelope, that people invariably see what they expect to see. In fact, the more obvious the disguise, the more heartily they fall for it.”

  “I didn’t fall for it, as you so charmingly put the matter, for a single second.”

  “So I observed. Which means you must have been expecting me. Or else . . .” He paused, and Penelope looked up to see the steward approaching once more, this time bearing a silver tray on which a pair of thick ceramic cups teetered dangerously. “Here we are,” the duke said cheerfully. “One for me and one for the lady. No, don’t bother leaving the tray. Only slide overboard.”

  The cup was placed between Penelope’s palms, allowing her no possibility of refusal.
The steward bowed and left. She bent her face over the hot steam and felt her nose thaw. “Or else?”

  “Or else you already know me better than anyone on this earth. Cheers, my dear.” He clinked her cup with his.

  Penelope sipped and sputtered. “My God!”

  “Is something amiss?”

  “This isn’t coffee!”

  “Oh, I had the chap add a splash of additional fortification to keep the blood warm.” Olympia set the cup to his lips. “I see they followed my instructions with enthusiasm.”

  “There are spirits in my coffee? At this hour of the morning?”

  “Spirits? Only the finest cognac on board this ship, my dear. An ancient mariner’s remedy for the bitter March wind. Drink up, drink up. In a minute, you won’t feel a thing.”

  “Is that supposed to recommend it?” But she sipped again anyway, and this time the warmth tingled pleasantly along her rib cage, matching the tingle that had begun in her fingertips when she spotted those lively blue eyes underneath the woolen cap, sharing a secret only with her. He smelled of cigars and cognac, a sturdy masculine scent that went well with the salty air. “I suppose, for form’s sake, I should ask why you went to all this trouble,” she said. “Did you have something important to communicate?”

  “Me? No, not at all. I wanted to hear more about you.”

  He was still speaking in that low and confidential voice, English tones rather than American, and the intimacy of the moment—bundled up side by side on a deserted ocean liner at dawn, sipping twin cups of fortified coffee, breathing in each other’s particular scents (what did she smell like to him? she wondered), speaking in these private voices—sank into her bones.

  “How ridiculous,” she said. “There’s nothing to tell. I lead a life of unrestricted dullness. You, on the other hand . . .”

  “Me?” (Innocently.)

  “You, Mr. Penhallow. I imagine your adventures began early and haven’t let up since. We have led very different lives.”