Ever a Princess

  "Have we?"

  "Yes, indeed. I seldom mistake a person's character." Lord Everleigh sketched another bow.

  "We are very glad we were able to help." Victor grinned.

  "I'm sure Her Majesty will be most grateful to know that you have been so forthcoming."

  "Will you be sending your report soon, Lord Everleigh?"

  "I shall have it ready for the next post," he answered.

  Prince Victor nodded. "If there is nothing more—"

  "There is one other thing," Lord Everleigh told him.

  "Yes?"

  "I must confess to a certain amount of curiosity as to what happened to that small gilt table. I thought I heard a crash upon my arrival...." Lord Everleigh nodded to the remains of the French cabriole.

  The prince regent attempted a boyish shrug. "You must have been mistaken. You see, the anarchists invaded this part of the palace and wreaked havoc the night our aunt and uncle were murdered. It remained closed and sealed until we chose to use it for this meeting. We did not realize it had not been properly cleared and cleaned."

  The special envoy glanced around the room. Except for the gilt table that lay splintered on the marble floor, the room was clean, the surfaces of the furniture, dusted. If the anarchists had wreaked havoc upon the room, they had done it very neatly, for nothing else was disturbed. No china smashed or paintings slashed. No obvious signs of looting. "Thank you for indulging my curiosity, Your Highness."

  "Good day, Lord Everleigh." Prince Victor dismissed him.

  Lord Everleigh bowed to the prince regent, then respectfully backed out of the room.

  Three quarters of an hour later the marquess of Everleigh sat down at the desk in his borrowed office in the British Embassy to write his report. He would follow up his written report with a face-to-face audience with the queen and the marquess, but first he had to relay the details of his audience with Karolya's acting ruler to the marquess of Temples-ton.

  "Lord Everleigh? Am I disturbing you?"

  Lord Everleigh looked up from his writing to find Lord Sissingham, the British ambassador in Karolya, standing in the doorway. "No. Please, come in, Sissingham."

  "How did it go?" Sissingham asked.

  Everleigh put down his pen and invited the ambassador to sit down and help himself to the tea tray. "I believe you have accurately judged the situation."

  Sissingham raised an eyebrow. "Then you agree?"

  "Most definitely," Lord Everleigh replied. "There are no anarchists."

  "We were suspicious when we heard rumors that Prince Victor was inciting young men of the ruling class to denounce Prince Christian's support of a constitution and a Declaration of Rights for the Masses."

  "Your suspicions appear to be correct," Lord Everleigh said, grimly. "Prince Victor has usurped his uncle's throne."

  "Have we any idea what has become of Her Serene Highness Princess Giana?"

  Everleigh shook his head. "Prince Victor is a desperate man. Desperate to hold on to the Crown—a Crown he has stolen first from his uncle and from his cousin, Princess Giana."

  "Do you think he has her?" Sissingham asked.

  Everleigh thought for a moment before he replied, "I don't think so. He wasn't wearing the royal seal."

  Sissingham was impressed. "You noticed."

  "Victor didn't appear nervous, but he kept glancing at his right hand. It struck me as odd until I recalled that Prince Christian shook hands with me at a meeting in Geneva once and the state seal cut into my hand. Prince Christian apologized by saying that he rarely shook hands because the seal tended to bruise him and maim the handshake recipient. He laughed and said he'd made an exception in Geneva because he didn't want to appear to be a stuffy old monarchist at a meeting on the modernization of Europe. He always wore the seal of state on his right hand. Victor's right hand was bare."

  "Have you had an occasion to read a copy of the Karolyan Charter?" Sissingham asked.

  "On the journey here from London."

  "Then you're aware that Victor cannot be crowned unless he abides by the Law of Succession. He cannot marry until the traditional period of mourning for the late ruler is over and he cannot be crowned until he is married."

  "The traditional period of mourning is one year," Everleigh said. "He can govern for seven more months before he's required him to marry a princess of Karolyan blood."

  "The only available princesses of Karolyan blood are Victor's sisters and Princess Giana."

  "In order to be crowned His Serene Highness, Prince Victor IV of Saxe-Wallerstein-Karolya, the prince regent will have to marry Princess Giana or submit proof of her death and produce the seal of state." Lord Everleigh ran his fingers through his hair. "He's desperate to find her."

  "So are we," Sissingham said.

  "Yes, but he wants the crown and the iron ore deposits. We only want to see that she is safely returned so that we can help her reclaim her country and her crown."

  "How much damage can Victor do to the country in seven months?" Sissingham wondered.

  "If he finds Princess Giana before we do, Victor could force her into marrying him."

  "I don't think the princess would ever agree to marry her parents' killer," Sissingham said.

  "Under normal circumstances, I don't think she would either. But these aren't normal circumstances. If she is being held captive somewhere, she may not know who is holding her or who is responsible for her parents' deaths," Everleigh expounded. "And if she's in voluntary hiding and Victor finds her, she may not have a choice. Marriage and the opportunity to regain your country are preferable to death."

  Sissingham frowned. "And even if he chose not to marry her, Victor could coerce her into handing over the seal..."

  "We are, of course, assuming that she is still alive and that the seal is in her possession," Everleigh interrupted. "And that she wants to regain her crown . .." Deep in thought, Everleigh rested his elbow on the desk, propped his chin on his thumb and lightly tapped his lower lip with the tip of his index finger.

  "We might try negotiating," Sissingham volunteered.

  "With imaginary anarchists?"

  "No, with Victor."

  Everleigh looked askance at the ambassador.

  "Hear me out," Sissingham said.

  Everleigh nodded.

  "Suppose the princess is in voluntary hiding and suppose the price of her freedom is her signature on the rights to the Karolyan timber and iron ore deposits, do you think there is any chance that she might come forward?"

  "Would you with every newspaper in Europe and Britain, including The Times, carrying the latest news of Victor's search for the missing princess?" Everleigh asked.

  The ambassador frowned. "What if we promised to protect her?"

  "We can promise," Everleigh admitted, "but I don't know if we can ensure her complete safety if Victor sets assassins on her. And if we were successful in our negotiations, what is the likelihood of Prince Victor honoring such an agreement with her?"

  "None." Sissingham admitted. "Her life would be forfeit."

  "Agreed," Everleigh said. "The only way Victor can rule is if she's his wife or if she's a corpse." He glanced at Sissingham. "You are more familiar with the princess than I am. Do you think she is politically well-versed or intelligent enough to arrive at the same conclusion we've come to?"

  Sissingham nodded. "Especially if Maximillian Gudrun is with her."

  "Suppose she is alive and Lord Gudrun is with her. Where would they go? Is there anyone in Europe—any relatives she can trust?"

  The ambassador met the special envoy's gaze. "Princess May was an only child and all of her family, except distant cousins, are gone. The only close relatives Princess Giana has left are Prince Victor, his mother, three sisters and two younger brothers."

  "She wouldn't turn to them. And even if she did, it's doubtful that any of them would hide Princess Giana from Victor." Lord Everleigh sighed. "What about her paternal aunt? Prince Christian's older sister?"

&n
bsp; "Princess Pauline lives in Saint Therese's Convent outside Salzburg."

  "Could Princess Giana seek asylum there?"

  The ambassador shrugged. "I don't think so. Women seeking sanctuary at Saint Therese's are admitted only if they intend to remain there. Princess Giana has no immediate relatives to turn to except Victor's family and a few distant cousins who've married into the other royal families of Europe."

  "Some of whom are negotiating to buy iron ore and timber and who may or may not be in league with Victor," Lord Everleigh said.

  "That leaves her godmother. Our gracious queen."

  "Who remains secluded at Windsor." Everleigh looked at the ambassador.

  "If Victor is searching for her, he's sure to have men in London and around Windsor."

  "What about Scotland? The queen will make her annual trek to Balmoral in August. Do you think Princess Giana is aware of the queen's schedule?"

  "Of course she is," Sissingham said. "She and her parents have visited the queen at Balmoral." He met the special envoy's gaze. "But so has Victor."

  "True," Lord Everleigh nodded. "But if I were Princess Giana and I were hiding from my enemies, I'd do my damnedest to obtain an audience with someone I knew I could trust and someone I knew could protect me and who better than my godmother, the queen of England?"

  "And it would be a great deal easier to obtain an audience with the queen in Scotland than it would be at Windsor..." the ambassador agreed.

  "I think we would be remiss if we didn't begin a discreet investigation of the towns and villages within a day's journey of Balmoral."

  Several blocks away at the Christianberg Palace, Prince Victor Lucien sent for his equerry. "Find a goldsmith," he ordered.

  "Sir?"

  "Find a goldsmith," Prince Victor repeated his order. "And every tall blond female bearing a resemblance to our princess that you can find." He pointed to a miniature of Princess Giana that sat on what had once been Prince Christian's desk. "Take that with you for comparison."

  "I do not understand," the equerry replied.

  "What is there to understand?" Prince Victor demanded. "We've given an order we expect you to follow. We require a goldsmith." He stared as his equerry. "The British government is snapping at our heels. Time is running out. We need the Karolyan State Seal, and if we cannot locate the original, we must produce a well-crafted replacement. The same is true of the princess."

  Chapter 15

  The Bountiful Buron is a man who is keenly aware and always in control of his surroundings.

  —The First Installment of the True Adventures op the Bountiful Baron: Western Benefactor to Blond, Beautiful, and Betrayed Women written by John J. Bookman, 1874.

  Wake up boyo, or you’ll be missing your breakfast." O'Brien burst into Adam's bedchamber carrying a tray with a pot of tea, a kettle of boiling water, and a cup and saucer on it in one hand and a pair of Adam's trousers and a white linen shirt over his arm. He set the tray on the table beside Adam's bed, then tossed his trousers and his shirt at him.

  Adam shoved his shirt off his face and sat up. "What time is it?"

  "Half past six." O'Brien poured Adam a cup of tea and handed it to him, then carried the kettle of water to the basin in the shaving stand and filled the bowl.

  Adam accepted the tea. "Where's yours?" he grumbled, glaring up at his friend and drinking companion, who was perfectly groomed and showing no ill effects from the previous night's indulgence.

  "I had mine earlier this morning."

  "What are you doing up? I ordered breakfast served at half past eight."

  "The staff eats before they begin their workday," O'Brien recited. "In a well-run household a proper gentleman's gentleman rises with the rest of the staff to prepare for his employer's awakening."

  "Was that the topic of this morning's lecture?"

  "Aye."

  "And you stood for it?"

  "I suffered through it," Murphy replied. "I am supposed to be a proper gentleman's gentleman, remember?"

  Adam took a sip of tea, grimacing as the hot, sweet liquid burned its way down his throat to his stomach. He wasn't sure what had happened to the cook, because he specifically remembered asking the woman if she knew how to brew coffee. But if someone didn't teach her how to make a pot of coffee soon, he was going to have to give up drinking coffee and learn to drink the scalding and disgustingly sweet tea she sent up to him every morning—or find another cook. "Where do I have to go to get a cup of coffee?"

  "Kinlochen."

  "Why is that?"

  "Because proper households serve tea."

  "I don't care about being proper. I want a cup of coffee. I need a cup of coffee!" Adam growled. "And so do you. You couldn't have had more than three hours of sleep."

  "Closer to two," O'Brien admitted. "But your proper household is running smoothly. The question is who does it run to suit? Because it does not run to suit Adam McKendrick."

  "No, it does not," Adam replied. "And it's about time I did something about it."

  O'Brien smiled.

  Adam swung his legs over the side of the bed, but kept his grip on the covers, anchoring them across his lap. He was naked except for a pair of dark woolen socks.

  "You're wearing socks."

  "Of course, I'm wearing socks," Adam said. "It's as cold as an icehouse in here." He shot his friend a dirty look. "So get the hell out of here so I can cover the rest of me before I freeze to death."

  "A proper gentleman's gentleman assists his employer with his dressing."

  "I can dress myself," Adam reminded him. "I've been doing it for quite a while now. I'm going to get breakfast. You go back to bed."

  "And miss all the fun when you take on the household staff? Not on your life."

  "At least have the decency to turn your back."

  O'Brien obliged.

  Adam stood up, stepped into his trousers, and pulled his linen shirt over his head. He walked over to his shaving stand and dropped a towel in the hot water. He took out his razor, removed it from its case, and stroked it against the razor strop. When he finished stropping his razor, he laid it aside, then wrung the hot water from the towel and placed the steaming linen over the lower portion of his face. "Ah ..." He closed his eyes and allowed the heat from the cloth to clear his head, penetrate his pores, and soften his whisker stubble.

  "Shall I attend to your shaving, sir?" O'Brien couldn't keep the note of laughter out of his voice when he asked the facetious question.

  "It may surprise you to learn that I can dress and shave myself," Adam shot back. He removed the cloth and opened his eyes. "I've been doing that for quite some time now, too." He stared into the mirror as he dipped his shaving brush in the basin of hot water, then into his shaving mug where he worked the spicy sandal wood soap into a frothy lather. Adam coated his beard with the soap, then lifted his razor and began to carefully scrape away his whiskers.

  "You're the one who accused me of being a valet." Murphy still loved baiting Adam over the whole valet misunderstanding. It was practically a daily ritual now. He went to the armoire and took out a collar and tie from one drawer and a waistcoat from another, then turned his attention to the selection of coats and jackets. O'Brien held up two coats—a dark green and a heather tweed.

  "I didn't accuse you of being a valet," Adam corrected. "I told you Isobel thought you were my gentleman's gentleman." He glanced at the jackets O'Brien held.

  "You could have set her straight," Murphy said.

  "I did set her straight, but she chose not to believe me because you arrived with a wagonload of new and expensive luggage—something she said only a valet would do. You decided to masquerade as one." Adam finished shaving and donned his collar and tie.

  "And I'm becoming quite good at it, don't you think?" He winked. "Solid or tweed?"

  Adam shrugged into a brown waistcoat that contrasted very nicely with his buff trousers. 'Tweed."

  O'Brien took the jacket off its hanger and held it out for Adam to sl
ip into, then tilted the cheval glass so Adam could inspect his appearance.

  Adam raked his fingers through his hair and laughed at his reflection. "Well, what do you think? How do I look?"

  O'Brien grinned. "You look like the lord who's about to retake his manor."

  “Good morning, sir," Albert greeted Adam as soon as he entered the dining room.

  "Good morning." Adam took a plate from the stack on the sideboard and filled it with an array of food warming in the silver chafing dishes, then walked over to the dining table and sat down.

  Albert filled a cup with steaming hot tea and set it down beside Adam's plate.

  Adam picked up the cup of tea and handed it back to Albert. "I don't drink tea."

  The butler took the cup of tea, removed it to the sideboard, then returned to the dining table and silently placed a cup of hot chocolate beside Adam's plate.

  Adam frowned at it. "I don't want chocolate." He looked up at Albert. "I drink coffee."

  Albert shook his head. "No coffee."

  "Why not?" Adam demanded. "I drink coffee. Hot, black coffee. Every morning. Not tea. Not chocolate. Coffee." He knew he was running the risk of sounding like a spoiled child, but it was time he began enforcing his authority in his home and now was as good a time as any to begin.

  "No coffee," Albert repeated.

  "Then find some," Adam ordered, raising his voice loud enough to be heard in the next room. "Can't a man get a cup of coffee in his own house?"

  Max came running. "Good morning, sir."

  Adam acknowledged him with a quick nod. Trust Max to come translate Adam's simple, but largely ignored, instructions for his brother.

  "A mail packet arrived for you from London," Max continued. "I placed it on the desk in your study, and I took the liberty of giving the newspapers to Albert to iron for you." Max turned to Albert and questioned him in a language Adam didn't understand.

  Albert nodded.

  "He says he ironed them well so there's no need to worry about the ink smearing your hands or clothing. They are neatly stacked on your desk. I hope that meets with your satisfaction."