“My escapade? Do you seriously put this at my door, Mr. Holmes?” she demanded, anger effectively replacing the previous glow in her expression. “I have no control over the criminal element in London any more than you do!”
Sherlock looked over her shoulder, his mood moving from approval—although he would never reveal that to Miss Belle—to hawkish intensity in a moment’s time.
Mirabella glanced in the same direction to see what he observed: police officers attempting to lead the princess of Montenegro into a ‘paddy wagon.’
“Watson,” Holmes looked back at his friend, “Is your Webley reloaded?”
“No Holmes, the counterfeiters are caught, so I thought it unnecessary.”
“Always be prepared, my good man. Please reload it, and follow me. I do not like the look of these bobbies.”
“The princess will have diplomatic immunity. It will no doubt be cleared up at the station,” Watson replied, inserting new cartridges into the heavy revolver even as he protested. “Should we directly involve ourselves, Holmes?”
“How strange,” Mirabella murmured, peering in the direction of Princess Elena.
“What is it, Miss Belle?” Sherlock asked.
“The Bobbies are carrying weapons. British police do not carry weapons.”
“Ah, yes,” Sherlock replied. “But we do. Watson, the policemen are armed. American Schofield revolvers, if I am not mistaken. I know you see the import of that.”
“Imposters!”
“Indeed, let us make haste.”
Sherlock and Watson were both now at a running pace. Princess Elena was not one to be manhandled and was resisting the two men attempting to drag her into the horse-drawn barred wagon. One of the policemen drew his pistol in an attempt to persuade her just as Holmes stepped between him and the princess.
The man raised his forearm so that the gun aimed directly at Sherlock’s face.
“I’ll take that, my good man.” No sooner had the gun swung upward than Sherlock had slammed the edge of his left hand into the man’s inner elbow while his other hand slapped the weapon out of the imposter’s hand.
CLANG! The revolver fell, sliding underneath the paddy wagon.
The man deprived of his weapon pulled back his arm to strike Sherlock, only to be met with a flurry of rapid Chinese boxing strikes to his face and throat. The stranger toppled over backwards, stunned and bleeding.
The other assailant had recovered from his astonishment at the unexpected attack, drawing his own firearm when he felt the cold barrel of Watson’s Webley pressed rather aggressively into his ear.
“Go ahead, my friend,” Watson stated in tone of encouragement. “I’m having a bit of a peevish day, and removing a vile assassin from the world might cheer me up immensely!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
32
In the darkness Elena met Prince Amadeo, Duke of Aosta and former King of Spain. He was a large man, six foot six.
He looked all about him and pulled out a rifle. She swallowed hard.
“This is for you, your Highness,” he stated. He motioned with his head to his manservant, who handed her clothing.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “Why are you helping me?”
“For family, of course,” he replied. “I do not wish an unhappy marriage for my nephew.”
She did not know how to read Prince Amadeo’s expression, whether or not he wished her as far from here as Hades. But regardless of his intent, she would take this opportunity and turn it to her advantage.
She did not wish to marry a man who did not love her.
***
“AIEEEE!” She picked up her rifle and fired, racing over the rolling hills surrounding Althorp, the lands belonging to The Honourable Charles Spencer, the fifth Earl Spencer and the Liberal MP.
“I have to say, Uncle Amadeo, this young friend of yours is truly motivated to wring the most out of life, is he not?” Prince Vittorio asked his uncle, chuckling.
“Indeed.” Amadeo replied, pursing his lips. “If one likes exuberance.”
“One does.”
The uneven ground beneath her horse necessitated both an excellent horse and great riding skill—and fortunately Princess Elena Petrović-Njegoš had both. Initially the party had wished to go to Hatfield House in Hertfordshire, the Seat of the Marquis of Salisbury, but Lord Salisbury was an advocate of "splendid isolation" for Great Britain, with no wish to be part of European affairs or shaping European alliances.
And this was an exotic alliance indeed.
“Who is this madman you found, Uncle Amadeo?” Vittorio asked, laughing. “He is insane. He is a wild man!”
“Do you like him?” Amadeo asked.
“Of course! Why shouldn’t I? I would like to enlist him into the Italian army. We would be undefeatable.”
“Ah, you would like to keep him close rather than far?” Prince Amadeo pressed.
“Naturally.”
“You may have your wish,” Prince Amadeo muttered.
Elena returned to the party with the hare and the birds. She took the hat off her head and her long black hair fell to her shoulders. In a moment’s work she removed the false moustache.
Vittorio stared at her in shock. “Elena! It is you!”
“Do you still wish to marry me, now that you have seen who I am?”
“My love,” Vittorio exclaimed, dismounting from his horse. He took her hands in his, looking at her with the true light of love in his eyes. “I didn’t think it possible to want you more, but I find I want to marry you more than ever.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
33
“Why are we stopping?” Princess Elena asked. She kneeled before the man who stood with her.
The men who were supposed to be feeding the coal into the fire had ceased their activity, their hands on their hearts as they faced the flag. The boat swayed with the waves under the moonlight despite having come to a sudden stop.
“We will finish our business here,” the robed man stated. “We are in the middle of the Adriatic Sea between Montenegro and Italy. It is a beautiful symbolism.”
I am not afraid of death.
Princess Elena knew very well that she would not be safe until the wedding ceremony was performed. Once she and Vittorio were married there would be no reason to kill her and the Ottoman threat would be no more. The alliance between Italy and Montenegro would be sealed.
Princess Elena Petrović-Njegoš of Montenegro bowed her head, completely dressed in white, luminescent in the moonlight. The Bishop of Naples laid his hands on her, praying for her and asking that she receive the gift of the Holy Spirit, a confirmation ceremony performed for those who expressed their desire to be part of the Roman Catholic Church.
She prayed with him, for her husband, for her new country, and for the deliverance of her soul.
Amidst the solemn ceremony, Princess Elena smiled, remembering the course of events which had led to her choice of a husband. She recalled the ball at St. Petersburg and all the attention she had received—which she had not wanted.
But she had met Vittorio. That had made it all worthwhile.
She remembered her fear at entering Miss de Beauvais’—and how it had been the experience which had taught her that she could be queen.
Elena remembered the day Mirabella saved her life. The young woman who would be her friend, carried always in her heart, until she died. Without Mirabella there would be no marriage to Vittorio, no children, no life to live.
That was a bond of friendship forged in blood.
She recalled with trepidation how she had snuck out dressed as a boy and gone hunting with the prince and his party. She had been fairly certain Prince Vittorio would not wish for such a bride.
Her heart had burst with joy when he had pledged his love to her on the spot.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and Holy Ghost.” The Bishop made the sign of the cross in front of her. “Amen.”
Her heart still overflowed with h
appiness.
When Elena stepped foot onto Italian soil for the first time, she would be a Catholic, eligible to marry Prince Victor Emmanuel III, crown prince of Italy and the prince of Naples.
The queen of Montenegro had been so angered by her daughter’s decision that she had refused to attend the wedding.
Sigh. It was a shame since they were cut out of the same cloth.
Princess Elena rose, looking up at the moon as it cast its light on the Italian flag—green, white, and red—depicting the royal dynasty of the Savoy. A tear filled her eye when, in her mind’s eye she saw the flag of Montenegro, a two-headed golden eagle holding the coat of arms, the lion of Judah, in the center. She thought of her father, the warrior king, and her brother, Danilo, her best friend from birth. She was forever joined to Montenegro, and now she would be joined to Italy.
I will be so happy to see Vittorio. She sighed. She did not look forward to the jewels, the gowns, the palace, the parties, or the royal court.
Only Vittorio.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
34
The Christmas Ball
December 1881
Miss de Beauvais Finishing School for Distinguished Young Ladies
“The Emperor Waltz,” Mirabella pronounced as Sherlock led her onto the dance floor. “How lovely.”
“As is my partner,” Sherlock murmured as he positioned her close to him with arms stronger than she expected.
She felt herself blushing as he held her firmly in his grasp. “I can see why some protective Mamas once objected to the waltz.”
“Not at all, those days are gone. Everyone does the waltz,” Sherlock pronounced, swinging her across the floor but somehow missing all the other pairs of dancers. “And as you know, Miss de Beauvais is an icon of fashion and taste.”
“Naturally.” Mirabella giggled.
Sherlock’s lips curved slightly in amusement.
Despite having a marvelous time, Mirabella wished she were dancing with John Watson instead of with Sherlock. John was highly intelligent—but without all the strangeness that went along with Sherlock.
And John Watson is a notorious flirt. She glanced over to see John surrounded by ladies, casting his lure particularly at Jacqueline. He was standing near to the kissing ball made of mistletoe and ribbons—no doubt on purpose!—and it annoyed her more than it should. Tanned and blonde, tall and athletic, it was ever evident that Dr. Watson had been involved in competitive sporting events prior to his injury in Afghanistan.
Sherlock twirled her once. He was actually a decent dancer. John, on the other hand, with his injured leg which gave him a slight limp, did not dance. Even so, standing there in a full tuxedo, Dr. Watson’s most elegant formal dress, she might be able to overlook it.
“Hee hee hee!” Jacqueline giggled, and at that moment Mirabella decided she did not care for that French miss at all, who had been her friend only five minutes ago.
“Are you not enjoying the dance?” Sherlock asked. He frowned as he glanced in the direction of the kissing ball. “What has captured your attention, Miss Belle?”
“Oh, nothing.” She sighed, returning her gaze to look into the stern eyes and unrevealing expression of her dancing partner.
She had yet to meet the woman who could turn Sherlock Holmes’ head.
That the temptress existed was clear from Sherlock’s reaction to Dr. Watson’s recounting of the scene in the police report—but she had never met the woman who could cast a spell on the great Sherlock Holmes.
Mirabella’s lips quivered, fighting a smile. She could not care for the idea of the female counterpart to Sherlock Holmes.
One is more than enough. There was a dark side to Sherlock. And she didn’t mean how hard he pushed her. That she could forgive because he perceived his demanding ways to be for her own good.
And possibly he was right.
No, the dark side of Sherlock Holmes was in how he pushed himself.
In point of fact, most of the time Sherlock tortured himself. And then went in for the kill. And if the danger he threw himself into were not enough, he made a point to torture himself where the criminal element left off.
She looked up and saw him smiling down at her. Sherlock Holmes. Smiling. At her.
“It’s rather like a father-daughter dance, isn’t it?” asked Mirabella, as she floated across the floor. They danced past the Christmas tree decorated with apples, gilded nuts, birds’ nests, small baskets, and paper decorations which the debutantes themselves had made.
Looking into silvery grey eyes, strangely intent upon her, there was none of the usual torment she saw there. He was almost . . . jolly! She suppressed a giggle. Sherlock Holmes, jolly indeed!
“A father-daughter dance? I hadn’t quite thought of it in that manner,” Sherlock frowned, his expression dark again. He had shaved for the occasion, his hair was parted on the side and under control, and he was looking particularly handsome in spite of his characteristic sternness.
“How did you think of it then, Mr. Holmes?” she asked as she glided in the muscular arms which held her surprisingly close. His reply had been vague—Sherlock Holmes was nothing if not direct—which ignited her curiosity.
“Rather like dancing with a beautiful young lady,” he replied matter-of-factly, turning her once.
She smiled up at him; it was one of the rare times he had complimented her rather than subjecting her to a barrage of criticisms. “You’d better be careful, Mr. Holmes, or I’ll expect flattery instead of insults.”
“I won’t make a habit of it, Miss Belle.”
“Of that I am certain. I am accustomed to your calling me fat simply because I do not have a twenty-inch waist.” She only pretended to be offended. “It is most unfair!”
“I have never called you fat, Miss Belle.” He suddenly distracted her by whisking her through the waltz. Sherlock too wore a tuxedo, white gloves and a white bowtie, but his was a dinner jacket tuxedo with a shawl collar and satin facing as opposed to Dr. Watson’s more standard attire. Sherlock Holmes had always to be different.
“But you are certainly not a feather, Miss Belle,” he added.
She glared at him.
“You are far too . . . um . . . well-proportioned . . . for that.” He cleared his throat. “And your dress, it is . . . most . . . becoming.”
“It is wickedly revealing, isn’t it?” she giggled.
“It is,” he agreed, a smile forming on his lips along with a scintillating glimmer in his eye. “Most wicked.”
Mirabella sighed. She supposed that was as close to a compliment as she would receive from Sherlock Holmes.
“But, honestly, Mr. Holmes, as much as I like being called ‘pretty,’ I would prefer that you pronounce me capable on just this one occasion. I have risked my life, fooled everyone as to my true identity, exhibited advanced fighting skills, officially become a debutant, overcome a grown man in a fight—several!—and done all this in a corset while subsisting on very little nourishment. And the only compliment I have received is that I am becoming—like every other young lady here. The entire ordeal almost killed me—literally! Do I not deserve to be commended?”
“In the first place, Miss Belle, you are far more beautiful than ‘becoming’. And, in the second place, the fact that you are competent is a fact so much in evidence that I did not think it needed to be mentioned.”
“Certainly you mention it when I do not exhibit competence,” she murmured, but she did not know if she was heard over the music.
And yet, I have received all the reward I need. She glanced at the girls huddled in a circle with Bethany, all giggling and admiring each other’s gifts. All the presents had been opened amidst squeals of delight. Susan had received her blue velvet dress with white satin ribbon (and a new badminton racket!), a gift from the Duchess of Glazebury. A piano had also been delivered to the orphanage, complete with a large red ribbon, a gift from King Nicholas and Queen Milena of Montenegro. Gloria had received her tuxedo kitten—named S
herlock—and enough fabric, wool, and embroidery thread to keep her busy sewing for a while, a gift from Bethany’s merchant father. Candice had been given oodles of seeds for her garden from the Earl of Kilburn—enough to feed the orphanage—and a beautiful doll with black button eyes in a red-checkered dress made by Jacqueline. Amity had been given a set of paints and a tablet—and even a microscope from the Great Detective himself. A window into yet another world.
And all had been given big sisters.
“So, they were all counterfeiters?” asked Mirabella, barely believing the words herself, as she regained her breath while Sherlock walked her to the punch table.
“Yes,” nodded Sherlock, taking her elbow. “The orphanage was merely a front for the scheme.”
Mirabella shook her head as a sadness washed over her. “I was so sorry for Miss Bickers’ past suffering. She had a terrible life.”
“Not a terrible life, a terrible childhood,” Sherlock corrected. “She was never able to leave that place of suffering and enjoy the good fortune in which she had found herself.”
“If my own family had all died, I might be the same—or worse.”
“Feeling sorry for the criminal, are we?” Sherlock smirked. Suddenly his expression softened as he looked at her, a strange longing in the depths of his eyes which she had never before beheld. “She would have killed you, Miss Belle. And the children.”
“I know,” she replied softly.
“The horror of her upbringing did not make her any less dangerous,” Sherlock stated sternly, and her employer was back. Just a moment ago she had been dancing with a man. A handsome, grown man, who appeared to enjoy dancing with her.
She sighed. Sherlock Holmes was probably one of the ten most intelligent men, not in England, but in the world. For a moment she had felt the union of emotion and intellect as he held her, and it had been exhilarating, though she hated to admit it to herself. But now the feeling had subsided—unless bossiness was an emotion—and she was, once again, talking to a giant brain. In the shape of a judge’s gavel.
Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Sword Princess Page 23
