Royal Blood (21 page)

Chapter 24

I was left alone in the cold, drafty hallway. I hadn’t had time to consider what I should do about my big discovery. Whom should I tell that Prince Nicholas was the intended victim? Obviously not the two English ladies. They had caused enough trouble already. In fact, if Lady Middlesex hadn’t spoken up, Pirin’s death might well have been considered a heart attack and we wouldn’t be in this uncomfortable situation with that horrid man Patrascue snooping on us. I couldn’t tell Prince Anton because it was just possible that he was the murderer—although I found that hard to believe. But he did have knowledge of chemistry, he was agile and, as Belinda had said, he was reckless and loved danger. That left Siegfried or Matty and I rather suspected that Siegfried would report anything straight to Patrascue. Matty would probably think it was all a huge joke and not want to take it seriously. So the only person I could talk to was Nicholas himself. He had a right to know and he might have his own suspicions.

I was on my way to seek him out when a clear, melodious voice echoed down the hallway. “Yoohoo, darling!” and there was my mother, hurrying toward me, her long mink coat flying out around her. “There you are, my sweet,” she said. “We’ve been in the same building for several days and hardly had a chance to say a word to each other.”

She caught up with me and we kissed, several inches from each cheek, the way we always did. In spite of the way she showed copious affection to everything in trousers, my mother was not much of a hugger when it came to other women.

“That’s because you don’t like being seen with me,” I said. “It reminds people you are old enough to have a daughter my age.”

“What a wicked thing to say. I adore spending time with you, my sweet, or I would if you led a less boring life. We must do something to liven you up. That dress at dinner last night. So absolutely last year and it hides all the best bits of you. I know you don’t have much bosom, but you should make the most of what you have. You really must let the men see the goods you are offering.”

“Mummy!”

She laughed, that tinkling laugh that had captivated audiences everywhere, and slipped her arm through mine. “You really are so delightfully prudish, my sweet. I put it down to Scottish upbringing. So repressed. Let’s go and have a girl talk somewhere, shall we?” She started to lead me down the hallway. “If I’d known I was going to be cooped up in this dreary place for days on end, I’d never have come. Of course Max had to be here, as Nicholas’s godfather, but I could have popped to Paris on my own. I do adore it just before Christmas, don’t you? So sparkly.”

I didn’t have a chance to protest. I was borne down the hallway and into a small sitting room where a fire was blazing in a hearth. It was actually quite warm and cozy compared to the rest of the building. Trust my mother to find the one comfortable spot. She draped herself into an armchair and patted the bearskin rug at her feet. “Come and talk to me. Tell me all.”

“There’s not much to tell,” I said. “I’ve been at Rannoch House, but I’m hoping to go somewhere else for the winter because Binky and Fig are going to be in residence. Fig’s expecting again.”

“Good God. And they already have the heir. Binky really must be a saint, or blind or desperate. You don’t suppose she could actually be good at it, do you? Secretly passionate when roused?”

I looked up at her. “Fig? Passionate?” I burst out laughing. Mummy laughed too.

“You must come and stay with us in Germany, darling,” my mother said. “Max can introduce you to a nice German count. Come to think of it, why don’t we set you up with one of Nicky’s groomsmen? Young Heinrich of Schleswig-Holstein has oodles of money.”

“I don’t think I’d like to live in Germany, thank you,” I said. “I’m amazed how you can do it and not think of the Great War.”

“Darling, the people we mix with had nothing to do with it. It was those nasty militaristic Prussians. Your father’s wretched cousin Kaiser Willie. No, you’d live well in Germany. Good food, if a little stodgy, and great wine, and Berlin is such a lively city. Or we could find you an Austrian and live in Vienna. Now there’s a delightful city for you. And the Austrians—all so fun loving and absolutely no interest in war or conquest.”

“Isn’t this new chap Hitler an Austrian?”

“Darling, we met him recently. Such a funny little man. I’m sure nobody will take him seriously. And there’s also Nicky’s brother, Anton. Now he would be quite a catch. I rather fancy him myself, but with Max as his brother’s godfather—well, one has to draw the line somewhere.”

“I’m surprised you’re still with Max,” I said. “He doesn’t seem your type at all. He doesn’t seem very lively. You’re much more at home with people like Noel Coward—theater people.”

“Of course I am, but so many of them are like dear sweet Noel—pansies, darling. And let me warn you that a certain prince in this house is one of them too. Because I have heard rumors that you’re being considered for the post of princess.”

“Siegfried, you mean?” I laughed. “Yes, he’s already proposed and let me know that I could take lovers after I produced the heir.”

“Aren’t men funny?” Mother laughed again. “But I rather think your interests lie in another direction. A certain Mr. O’Mara?” She laughed at my red face. “Darling, you have bitten off more than you can chew there. He does have a reputation, you know. Wild Irish boy. I can’t see him settling down and changing nappies, can you? And of course he has no money and money is rather important to happiness.”

“Are you happy with Max?”

Those large china doll eyes opened wide. “What an interesting question. I get bored and think I’ll leave and then the poor dear adores me so much that I simply can’t do it. He wants to marry me, you know.”

“Are you thinking of marrying him?”

“It has crossed my mind, but I don’t think I’d like to be a Frau. I know he’s nobility and a von and all that, but I’d still be Frau Von Strohheim and it simply isn’t
moi
. Besides, I believe I’m still officially married to that frightfully boring Texan chappy, Homer Clegg. He doesn’t believe in divorce. If I really felt strongly I could go to Reno or wherever it is that people go and pay for a quickie divorce there, but I simply can’t be bothered. No, my advice to you, my darling, is that you marry well and keep someone like Mr. O’Mara on the side. Choose someone with dark hair and then the baby will match whoever the father is.”

“Mummy, you say the most outlandish things. I can’t believe how I came to be your daughter.”

She stroked my cheek. “I abandoned you too young, I realize now. But I couldn’t take another minute of that dreary castle. I never realized your father would want to spend half the year there and go tramping about the heather in a kilt. Simply not me, my sweet, although I have to confess that I enjoyed being a duchess. One got such good service at Harrods.”

As she twittered on I sat there uneasily, aware of all the things I should be doing. My gaze drifted from the cracking fire to the portrait above the mantelpiece. Then I blinked and gave it another look. The man in the picture looked like Count Dragomir.

I got up and stood in front of the fire, staring up at it. The man in the portrait was younger than Dragomir but he had the same haughty face, the same high cheekbones and strangely cat-like eyes. But one hardly puts a portrait of a castle servant on the wall. Then I looked at the writing at the bottom. The painter had signed his picture and it looked as if the date was 1789.

“What are you looking at, darling?” my mother asked.

“This portrait on the wall. Doesn’t it remind you of Count Dragomir?”

“They all look similar in this part of the world, don’t they?” Mummy said in a bored voice. “It was those Huns. They were so good at raping and pillaging that everyone now looks like them.”

I was still staring at the portrait. It reminded me of someone else I knew, but I couldn’t quite put a finger on it. Something about the eyes . . .

“Darling, as I told you at dinner the other night, your hair is a disaster,” Mummy said. “Who is your hairdresser in London these days? You should get a Marcel wave. Come up to my room and I’ll have Adele do it for you. She is a whiz with problem hair.”

“Later, Mummy,” I said. “I really have things I should be doing now.”

“More important things than keeping your poor lonely mother company?”

“Mummy, there are plenty of other women who would love to sit and gossip with you, I’m sure.”

“They love to gossip in German and I never could get the hang of that language. And I’m not too hot at French either and I do so love to be the center of things, not a hanger-on.”

“You could always find Belinda. She likes all the things you do.”

“Your friend Belinda?” A frown crossed that flawless face. “Darling, one hears she is nothing more than a little tramp. Did you see how she was virtually throwing herself at Anton the other night? And I gather her bed wasn’t slept in after that.” She gave me a knowing wink.

I was amused at the pot calling the kettle black. Little tramp, indeed. So I suspected it was sour grapes, since Mummy had confessed to being attracted to Anton. “Well, you’ll have to find someone else to amuse you, because I’m supposed to be at the fitting for my bridal attendant’s dress,” I said. “You heard that I was one of Matty’s attendants, didn’t you?” I knew that a dress fitting would count as a good reason for my mother.

“Oh, well, then you should hurry off, darling,” Mummy said. “I hear that the princess has brought in Madame Yvonne, of all people. She’s a trifle passé, but she still makes some divine gowns. What’s yours like?”

“Divine,” I said. “You’ll be pleased with me. I actually look elegant.”

“Then we have hope of snaring a prince or a count for you yet,” Mummy said. “Toddle along then. Don’t keep Madame Yvonne waiting.”

I took the opportunity and fled, leaving her sitting with her legs stretched out in front of the fire. When I came out to the vast entrance hall I paused. What should I be doing? Seeking out Nicholas; speaking with Count Dragomir? It all seemed so pointless. Would Nicholas want to know that someone had tried to kill him? And what about Dragomir? Obviously my mother was right and the resemblance to that portrait was purely a coincidence. He hadn’t been alive since 1789—not unless he was one of the undead. That ridiculous thought flashed through my mind and I tried to stifle it. He had all the qualities one would expect of a vampire count—that pale skin, elegant demeanor, strangely staring light eyes, hollow cheeks. Rubbish, I said out loud, having picked up the word from Lady Middlesex. And as I had decided earlier, no undead person would need to administer poison. Poison at a dinner table bore the mark of a desperate, daring human being.

I wandered along hallways until I heard voices and came upon a group assembled in the anteroom next to the banqueting hall. I spotted Prince Nicholas among them and was making my way through the crowd toward him when a voice said, in French, “Now, who is this charming young person?” and of course I realized that I was among the royals who had arrived earlier. Then, of course, I felt highly embarrassed, because I was dressed for warmth rather than elegance. The embarrassment was doubled when Siegfried stepped forward, took me by the elbow and said, also in French, “Mama, may I present Georgiana, the cousin of King George.”

The elegant, perfectly coiffed, exquisitely dressed woman beamed at me and extended an elegant hand. “So you are the one,” she said. “How delightful. You don’t know how we have longed to meet you.”

I curtsied warily. “Your Majesty,” I murmured.

“And you speak such fluent French too.”

I hardly thought the word “majesty” comprised good French and was seriously worried at the effuse greeting. I had just been introduced to Siegfried’s father, the king, when the gong sounded and I was swept into luncheon without having an opportunity to speak to Prince Nicholas. I was seated between a countess and an elderly baron, both of whom spoke to me in stilted French, and then, when they realized I knew nobody that they did, they spoke across me: “So do tell me, what is Jean-Claude doing this winter? Monte Carlo again? Too overrun with riffraff these days for me. And what about Josephine? How are her rheumatics? I heard she was in Budapest for the baths. I find them so unhygienic, don’t you?”

I managed to eat and answer when spoken to, while at the same time watching what happened behind the table. Servants came and went with such rapidity that I could see there was a chance that an opportune assassin could have darted out from an archway, administered a dose of poison and vanished again without being noticed. Especially if someone were speaking at the time. I looked down the room. If someone at the far end of the table had been making a toast, all eyes would have been on him. The whole thing seemed impossible. I would have been happy to call it a heart attack and leave well enough alone, but for the fact that someone had tried to kill Prince Nicholas and that person was still among us.

I managed to eat my way through a rich and creamy soup, a sauerbraten with red cabbage and some delicious dumplings stuffed with prunes and dusted in sugar. Then, the moment luncheon was over, I tried to intercept Prince Nicholas as he left the room.