Crowned and Dangerous (A Royal Spyness Mystery) (4 page)

F
RIDAY
, N
OVEMBER
30

Driving back to London alone. My poor Darcy on his way to Ireland. I just pray things turn out all right for all our sakes!

My drive south went quite smoothly. The snow had vanished by the time I drove out of Yorkshire and a wintery sun shone, drying up wet roadway. The motorcar handled easily enough, but I found myself gripping the steering wheel tightly, all the tension in my body transferring itself into my fingers. There had been a horrible mistake, I told myself. Darcy would find out the truth quickly and his father would be released and thank Darcy for coming to his aid and all would be well. I said this out loud to myself over and over as if speaking the words would make them come true. I did not allow my thoughts to move into the realm of
what if?

Twilight was settling over the city by the time I drove into London. I don’t think I had ever had to drive through city traffic before. Maybe once into a town near Castle Rannoch but not even into Edinburgh, which was a good deal more staid than London.
Lights flashed in my face, horns honked, double-decker buses pulled out in front of me. And I had little knowledge of the roads in this northern part of the city. So I followed the main stream of traffic and prayed. More by luck than anything else I found myself at Baker Street Station. This was now more familiar territory. It was quite dark by the time I reached Oxford Street, then down Park Lane to Knightsbridge. I finally turned into Kensington Gardens with the solid brick shape of the palace ahead of me.

I opened the front door expecting to be greeted by warmth and a maid rushing to take my coat and bag. Instead I stood in a completely deserted hallway and felt a cold draft swirling around my legs. It was reminiscent of my first arrival at Kensington Palace, when it had been equally cold and unwelcoming. A strange feeling came over me, a sense of unreality, that perhaps the last weeks had never happened except in my dreams or imagination. Any minute now a ghostly white figure would waft past me down that hallway, just as it had when I first visited, and I would be back where I started. I stared at the dark hallway and my heart jumped when I really did see a figure coming down the stairs toward me. But she was not white and ethereal. In fact she was all too solid and she didn’t float. She clomped.

“You have returned?” the figure demanded as she came toward me. I sighed. Marina might have left but her cousin, the dreaded Countess Irmtraut von Dinkelfingen-Hackensack, was still in residence. The last person I wanted to see at this moment.

She was regarding me with that critical, haughty stare. “They tell me you have already departed.”

“I only went away for a little while. Not for good,” I said.

She frowned. “What was not good about it? Was it for bad, then? Why would you go away for something bad?”

The countess’s English was annoyingly literal.

“No, I meant I only intended to be away for a couple of days,
but unfortunately the road north was closed by a blizzard and I had to return.”

“A blizzard? What is this?”

“A snowstorm.”

She made a disparaging hmmph noise. “I do not think in England you know what a blizzard is. In Russia we have blizzards. In Germany we have blizzards. Real blizzards. Powerful blizzards.”

“It was enough of a blizzard to close a major road,” I said. I tried to think of a way to change the subject. “So how long will you be staying?”

“I had intended to remain a few more days in England to visit places of culture before I departed for my parents’
Schloss
outside Berlin. But now a military man comes and tells me the apartment is to be closed up and I must leave. He is even more unpleasant than the first military man. He talks as if he is giving orders to me. And I am a countess, related to royal families. This is not right, is it?”

“Absolutely not,” I agreed. I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach. “So when do we have to move out?”

“Tomorrow. He tells me he sends away the last of the servants and closes this apartment in the morning.”

“Oh golly.” On the drive down, I had hoped for a few days to catch my breath before I had to face Fig. Surely Darcy would telephone me with news at the palace. If he rang my brother’s house then Fig was likely to instruct the butler to say that I was not there. She had done it before.

“Have most of the servants left, then?” I asked.

She nodded. “Most inconvenient. I had to ring for a maid to bring up more coal for my bedroom fire.”

“And what about meals?” I had not stopped for food on the way down and was now feeling decidedly peckish.

“I send my maid to collect a tray for me. But it is cold meat and pickles for my luncheon. This is a meal for peasants, not for
aristocrats.” She turned to glare in the direction of the kitchen. “And do you know what they sent up for my breakfast? A kipper. Do you know this fish called a kipper? It is most disagreeable. Full of little bones. Where are the eggs and kidneys and bacon, I ask, but I am told this is what Cook prepared for me. I think they wish to drive me out by serving unpleasant food. It will be the frog in the cave for dinner, you see.”

I had to smile. “You mean toad in the hole? I quite like that. It reminds me of nursery food.”

“I find this place most disagreeable,” she said.

“But Marina’s wedding was lovely, wasn’t it?” I looked back at the stairway, picturing her coming down the stairs with her sisters holding her train and fussing over her headdress. Was that only yesterday? It felt like a lifetime away.

“Yes, it was a fine wedding,” Irmtraut agreed. “But I am not sure she will be happy with this bridegroom. This English prince, there are bad stories about him, I think.”

“He has sown a few wild oats, I agree,” I said and instantly regretted it.

“He has been a farmer? He worked in fields?”

I tried not to laugh. “No, it’s an English expression. It means he has led a wild life in some ways.”

“The English language is ridiculous,” she grunted. “I will never understand it.”

“If you were here long enough you’d get the hang of it,” I replied, again not pausing to consider my use of words.

“What would I wish to hang?” she asked. Then she sniffed. “Another stupid English expression, I suppose.”

“I’m afraid so. But I think that Prince George seems genuinely fond of Marina and I hope he will try to make her happy.”

Irmtraut sighed. “It is the duty of royal persons to accept their marriage, no matter how disagreeable. She will do her duty, I know.” She looked up at me sharply. “But you—you will not do your duty,
I think. You will try to marry this man who is a Catholic and thus forbidden to you.”

“I’m only thirty-fifth in line to the throne,” I said. “I hardly think it will matter to the crowned heads of Europe who I marry. But yes, I do plan to marry for love.”

I don’t know where this conversation would have gone but a door opened behind us and a maid came into the hall. She stopped in surprise seeing me there.

“Your ladyship.” She curtsied. “We didn’t expect you. We were told you had already departed and would send for your maid and your things.”

“I had to return unexpectedly,” I said. “I have to deliver the motorcar back to its owner but then I would like something to eat. Can you tell Cook that I would like some dinner sent up to my room when I return, please. Something warm and nourishing. I have been traveling all day.”

She squirmed in embarrassment. “I’m afraid it’s only leftovers, my lady. We were instructed to clean out the kitchen. They’re shutting up the whole apartment, you know. There was enough stew for the countess here, but . . .”

I hesitated. I was tired. I was emotionally exhausted and I really didn’t want to go out looking for food. I knew that other apartments in the palace were occupied by my royal great-aunts; in fact the Prince of Wales referred to them as the “Aunt Heap.” They would undoubtedly be sitting down to good meals tonight. But I also knew that those royal ladies were hot on protocol and one did not visit uninvited.

“I’m sure Cook will do her best and find something for me when I return,” I said. I was going to ask her to send for my maid to have my suitcase carried up to my room, but in the current circumstances it seemed easier to carry it myself. Heaven knew what Queenie had been up to while I had been away. Two days would have been long enough for a few disasters. I went up the two flights of stairs and
opened the door to my room. I didn’t really expect to find Queenie there. But I did expect to find a fire burning in the grate. Instead my trunk was sitting on top of my bed, the curtains were closed and the room was freezing. Hardly a warm welcome home.

I went over to the wall and tugged on the bellpull, feeling decidedly irritated now. It was the maid who had spoken to me in the front hall who appeared long before Queenie—naturally.

“My lady?” she asked. Then she went on before I had a chance to say anything. “Oh dear. You’ll want your fire, of course. I’ll send someone up to lay it for you. And your bed needs to be made up again.” She gave me a bright smile. “Don’t worry. It will all be done by the time you come back.”

I deposited my suitcase on the floor and turned to leave again. There was no point in lingering. It was too depressing for words. To have gone from the high excitement of a royal wedding followed by an elopement to Gretna Green to this cold and lonely room almost brought me to tears. Just as I opened my door I heard the sound of feet approaching. Not the gentle tap of feet but full-blown gallumphing. I think the pictures on the walls shook a little as Queenie appeared at the top of the stairs, panting as she attempted to run. She was a big girl and not what one would describe as light on her feet.

“What the blooming heck are you doing back here?” she demanded. “That Mr. O’Mara told me you’d be gone and I should go back to your brother’s place to wait for you.”

“I had to return unexpectedly,” I said.

She put her hands on her broad hips and sighed. “Now I suppose you’ll want your bags unpacked again?”

“It is your job, Queenie,” I pointed out. “Where were you when I rang for you?”

“Down in the kitchen having a late cup of tea,” she said, “and finishing the seedy cake.”

“It’s a good thing we are leaving,” I commented. “Your uniform is about to burst at the seams.”

“I needed to eat to keep up me strength,” she said defiantly. “All these ruddy stairs to go up and down. But what are you doing back here? I thought from what Mr. O’Mara said that you’d be in a nice hotel somewhere having a bit of the old how’s yer father.” And she accompanied these last words with a knowing wink.

“Certainly not,” I replied haughtily, although I think I might have blushed. “Besides, what I do is none of your business, Queenie. I told you many times a good lady’s maid never questions her mistress or her mistress’s behavior.” I looked at her, standing there with her blouse buttons bursting, hair frizzing out from under her cap, traces of past meals streaked liberally down her front and her usual vacant and cowlike expression on her face, and I sighed. “I had hoped you might have learned a thing or two from the other maids here.”

“I have,” she said, still defiant. “Didn’t you notice I said ‘bloomin’ heck’ instead of ‘bloody hell’? One of the other maids said that swearing wasn’t proper and she’d be fired if she ever said a swearword. So I thought I’d better watch me language a bit.”

“Quite right,” I said. “You know I’ve been far too lenient with you. I let you take too many liberties, but I expect you to shape up from now on or I really won’t be able to keep you. I have to return the motorcar to its owner now but I expect my room to be warm and comfortable by the time I get back.”

“Bob’s yer uncle, miss,” she said, never having learned after two years to address me by my proper title. Then she added, “So what happened, then? You and Mr. Darcy didn’t have a falling-out, did you? He didn’t jilt you, did he?”

“Certainly not. Mr. O’Mara had a family emergency and had to return home to Ireland unexpectedly.”

“Oh, does that mean we might be going to Ireland? I’d rather do that than go back to your right cow of a sister-in-law.”

I was about to tell her, for the hundredth time, that it was not her place to criticize her betters, but it never seemed to sink in. “We will not be going to Ireland. Mr. O’Mara does not want me there at the present.”

Then I walked away, afraid that she might spot the despair on my face.