The Royal Assassin (3 page)

“This is Mary Thomas,” Sir Broderick said. “She wants our help in finding those responsible for the murder of her brother, Robert Thomas, a footman for Lord Shepherdston.”

“Yes, please. He was all the family I had left, and I miss him. I can't pay you much—” She dabbed at her brown eyes.

“Don't worry about that,” Emma said, brushing the thought from the air with one hand. “We're happy to help. I remember you from last year. You were a maid in our house in Mayfair. I was the lady's maid.”

“And you're part of the Archivist Society? You let servants help you?” Mary sounded equal parts amazed and overwhelmed as she gazed around the room.

When she spotted the duke, she gasped out, “Oh, Your Grace,” and took a step back.

“It's all right, Mary.” Blackford spoke in a surprisingly soft voice.

“I'm really a clerk in a bookshop.” Emma raised her voice slightly to get the girl's attention. “I played the role of a lady's maid for that investigation. In the end, we found out how your mistress died and saved your master from the gallows.”

The girl's sad eyes showed their first spark of hope. “I'm glad. They were a nice couple. I hope you can help me that way. Nothing will bring Robert back, but I'd like the evil man who shot him to pay for what he did.”

I'd lost my family at seventeen, and Mary didn't appear much older. My heart ached in sympathy for her and for the child I had been. “You have our condolences on your brother's death. Do you want to stay and hear what we've learned so far?”

“Yes, please. Your Grace?” Mary asked, taking a small step forward.

Blackford nodded.

Sir Broderick gestured toward a chair. Mary sat on the edge as if afraid at any moment we'd shout at her for sitting.

At a nod from Sir Broderick, Grace Yates, Archivist Society member as well as Lord Barnwood's secretary and librarian, said, “We've learned the identity of everyone who entered the marquis' home in the ten days before the explosion. The only people who were not regular visitors were a firm of interior decorators removing wallpaper. But the marquis has used the same firm for years.”

“Scotland Yard's analysis said too much explosive was used on the safe, causing the heavy damage. There aren't many who can blow a safe properly. They think this was the work of new villains. Amateurs,” Adam Fogarty told us.

“But one of them appears not to be an amateur with a gun,” Sir Broderick said. “When the footman, Robert, stood between the two men and freedom, the taller man shot him through the heart and escaped. Expert shooting.” He grew silent for a moment.

I glanced over at Mary. She stared at the floor, her lips pinched closed.

“If the lady's maid hadn't been sent to fetch her mistress just before the explosion, she never would have had a good view of the two burglars or the shooting. Too bad the villains wore masks.”

“Masks?” Mary looked up, her eyes widening.

“Yes, half masks such as are worn at a ball, plus caps pulled low on their heads,” Sir Broderick explained.

“The lady's maid isn't involved?” Emma asked.

“Unlikely. She's been with the family for years. Scotland Yard's report included the woman saying after the shooting, ‘The shorter man shouted something to the shooter in a foreign tongue.'”

I looked at Sir Broderick when he surprised us with this news. “Any idea what language he was speaking?”

“None. Mary, when was the last time you saw your brother?”

“It had been more than a week before—” She took a deep breath before she could continue. “I'd rarely been in the servants' hall at Shepherdston House, not in months, so I'm afraid I can't help with the investigation.”

Sir Broderick nodded and then looked at each of us in turn. “It's getting late and we'll all be busy tomorrow. Thank you for coming, Miss Thomas. We'll find the man who shot your brother. You can count on us.”

“And we'll find you at the Duke of Blackford's household, miss?” Adam Fogarty asked.

She slipped on her coat as she said, “Yes, I'm a parlor maid there.”

“Wait with the coachman, Mary, and we'll get you home,” Blackford told her.

Once she left, Sir Broderick said, “Let's get back to the problem of the Russian princess.”

“I'll be glad to check on security with the patrolmen,” Adam Fogarty said. Chances were he knew most of them and they'd introduce him to the rest of the bobbies.

“Jacob, I want you to question the Russian embassy about the guard and the details of his burial. Say you're from Whitehall, sent by a minister to ask if any assistance is needed. Find a clerk who'll talk to you.” Sir Broderick turned to Blackford. “I know it's a long shot, but it's worth the effort.”

“Anything else?” Emma asked.

“Not yet,” Sir Broderick replied. “We don't have the resources to track a killer who might have come over from Russia and returned home already. I suspect there won't be much for us to do on this investigation.”

I'd be glad to quickly return to my bookshop, but I wished I could spend more time with the duke.

As we prepared to leave, Sir Broderick said, “Would you please stay a moment, Georgia?”

I nodded to Emma, who followed the others into the hall while I returned to sit uncomfortably close to the fire, which was still burning fiercely behind Sir Broderick. The heat counterbalanced the cold that had settled over me when he asked me to remain.

His appearance in a room he'd not visited since the attack that left him in a wheeled chair told me those events couldn't be far from his mind. And Sir Broderick was the sort who, if he thought about something, would take action. “What have you learned?” I asked.

“We know that the owner of the property where your parents died was indeed in Egypt when the attack happened, but he's currently in London. I spoke to him recently. He's always admitted he'd been on his estate only a few weeks before the atrocity that claimed your parents' lives and my health.” He slapped his hands on the arms of his chair. “Now that we know the villain's name, I asked him if he knew Count Farkas. It turns out at that time the man was his houseguest.”

Count Farkas. The sound of his name made me feel ashamed. If I'd been smarter, faster, stronger, perhaps my seventeen-year-old self could have saved my parents' lives and protected Sir Broderick from the building collapse that destroyed his legs. But as angry as I was at my own failure, I was furious at the man who killed them in his search for a Gutenberg Bible. I wanted to catch Count Farkas and watch him hang.

Setting aside my anger with a deep breath, I said, “No wonder the count knew about the cottage where work was ongoing. Had he known it would be empty of workers?”

“Yes. The owner told Farkas he was abandoning work until
he returned from overseas.” Sir Broderick gripped the large back wheels of his chair, his eyes blazing with pent-up frustration.

I leaped up and began to pace the room. The space was too small and too crowded to contain my furious steps. “He had the perfect place, out in the country, undisturbed, where he could torture my parents for information about his Bible.”

I'd kept an eye out for my parents' killer for a dozen years before I spotted him from an omnibus over a year before. I'd given chase but lost him on the crowded pavement. After that, I'd redoubled my efforts to find him despite Sir Broderick's doubts.

Since then I'd received taunting letters from the killer and spotted him a second time, leading to the discovery of his name. Sir Broderick now believed me that this was the man who caused the fire that led to his crippling accident.

“Now all we need is for Count Farkas to return to London,” I said. “I want to see him brought to trial.”

“Now all you need,” Blackford said as he stepped forward into the room, “is to find out where he is and lure him back to London.”

Sir Broderick and I had been so focused on our hushed conversation that we hadn't noticed Blackford slip back into the parlor.

“Do you know?” I asked. I wouldn't be surprised if Blackford had learned something about Count Farkas the rest of us couldn't discover. I hoped he'd give me the information I needed to continue the search.

Blackford glowered away my hope. “No. And right now, we need to concentrate on these Russians.”

•   •   •

I SPENT THE
next day at the bookshop dividing my time between waiting on customers and studying our books on painting.
By the end of the day, I thought I could tell the difference between a Renoir and a Rembrandt. Maybe.

Painting had never been an interest of mine. I needed to make up for lost time. Or practice making noncommittal remarks. In French.

On the following morning, I arrived at Hereford House at precisely ten o'clock. I was let in by the butler and directed down the hall to the back of the house. The weather was pleasant enough that I hadn't worn a cloak, so I only needed to unpin my hat and leave it with my gloves on the table. Another hat and darned gloves had already been placed there by the daughter's governess. What time did that woman begin work?

Not my business. I hurried to the morning room and sat down with the typewriter and a piece of what appeared to be scrap paper. The typewriter was much newer and nicer than mine, but filthy. I set to work at once cleaning it after putting on an apron and accountant's sleeves over my own to protect my shirt.

A half hour later, the duchess knocked and walked into the room. She glanced at my work and nodded. “I'm afraid I left you with an unplanned chore. I fired my last secretary and haven't looked at the machine since.”

Curiosity made me ask, “Why was she fired, Your Grace?”

“The state of the typewriter should tell you about her work habits. I'm glad to see you take pride in your tools.”

I did, and I was glad the duchess noticed.

“I came down to tell you we've had a message from the Duke of Sussex. He and the princess are traveling by train and should arrive in about an hour. The whole household will turn out in the front hallway to greet them. We'll use the dressing gong to signal everyone to assemble. You'll stand after my daughter and her governess.”

Never before had I been part of a line of household help, put on parade, ranked by their status in the house. Just thinking about it annoyed my middle-class soul.

“We'll have luncheon as soon as the princess and her chaperone are settled into their rooms. I'll try sometime in the afternoon to bring her down to introduce you and to tell her you'll be her secretary as well as mine. I'll also suggest you'd make an excellent English tutor.”

“Why can't we just tell her I'm to be her English tutor as well as your secretary?” I asked.

She held my gaze. “I suppose that would be for the best. I'll make it sound as if this was already decided by our government.”

She was a duchess, unused to middle-class independence. “Thank you. I'm going to have to rely on you to back up what I say if we're to keep the princess safe.”

“I'll do my best.” The duchess walked to the door. With her hand on the knob, she faced me and said, “Ranleigh told me to trust you. That you are the very best person for this job.”

My chest swelled at the praise from Blackford. “I hope I am. We don't yet know the source of the danger or the intended target.”

“I'll pray that Ranleigh's right about you. Otherwise, I've put my family and staff in danger.” She sailed out of the room on a cloud of lavender scent and self-assurance.

A
FTER
the duchess left, I returned to my task. Sometime later, an otherworldly echo rang through the house. Deciding this must be the gong, I pulled off my apron and extra sleeves and walked to the front hallway.

Various members of the household dashed past me to fill in lines on either side of the hall. From her mother's painting, I recognized the young girl as the duchess's daughter and stepped next to the young woman I guessed was her governess.

“Are you the new secretary?” she asked in a murmur.

“Yes,” I replied and looked down into her dark eyes. “Governess?”

“For the time being.” She smiled up at me, displaying a rosebud mouth and even, white teeth.

I sensed another person in the household who didn't belong, and that made her someone I wanted to get to know better.

The butler called for our attention as the duchess arrived down the stairs. As soon as she was in place, we heard the sound of
door chimes. The butler opened the door and the young, blond princess strolled in followed by a scowling, middle-aged dragon. There was so much bowing and curtsying going on I didn't notice the portly man with the thinning fair hair walk in until I saw who was standing behind him.

The Duke of Blackford.

My heartbeat rapped harder in my chest when I saw him. His dark hair was ruler straight; his ever-vigilant eyes as black as his perfectly cut suit. His regal bearing and stern expression grabbed all of my attention.

The governess's as well. I heard her purr like a cat when she saw him. I wanted to tell her he was spoken for, that he was mine, but that would be an obvious lie.

I would never be able to say he was mine. My heartbeat slowed and my stomach sank.

The aristocrats greeted each other while the household stood silently by in case someone was needed. The princess's Russian lady's maid stood just inside the door, holding several small packages and staring at the floor.

Finally, after several tedious minutes, they marched upstairs to the sitting room or boudoir and we were free to go back to our usual duties. I heard the princess speak in Russian to her maid and the young, dark-haired woman followed her up the stairs.

They had nearly reached the landing when one of the maids turned and ran into another. “Watch out,” the injured maid said.

Both the princess and her Russian lady's maid swiveled around to look. I watched them, wondering if their attention was captured by the maid's startled tone or the words she spoke. In English.

A commanding voice called me away from my thoughts. “I'm Amelia Whitten, the governess. And this is Lady Daisy.”

“Milady,” I said and gave an appropriately deep curtsy to a
little girl who was studying the artwork on the ceiling. “I'm Georgia Peabody, Her Grace's new secretary.”

“Milady, give Miss Peabody a curtsy.”

“Miss Peabody.” Reminded of her manners, the little girl spoke gravely as she curtsied. I guessed her age at six years, her blond hair flowing down her back in ringlets.

Amelia nodded to me and led Lady Daisy up the stairs. I walked down the hall and finished my work on the typewriter before eating my solitary luncheon and reorganizing the writing supplies.

At a loss for any other chores, I stood looking out the window at the greenery along the edge of the back garden, when I heard a tap at the door. I spun around as the duchess walked in, followed by the lovely young woman and the fierce middle-aged one. The princess and the chaperone avoided looking at each other or even letting their skirts brush each other's as they walked in.

“Princess Kira, Lady Raminoff, this is my secretary, Miss Peabody,” the duchess said, in a far better French accent than mine.

I gave them a deep curtsy.

“She will act as your social secretary as well as mine, and will be your English tutor.”

“What?” Lady Raminoff squawked. Her French truly sounded as if an angry parrot were speaking. “Has this been approved by my government?”

“The tsar and the queen discussed Princess Kira's need for English lessons and it was decided this was the best solution,” the duchess said. I was impressed with how smoothly she lied. “Princess, when would you like your lessons to begin?”

“Not for several days,” Lady Raminoff said. Every time the woman opened her mouth, I wanted to giggle.

“Now,” Princess Kira said. “You may leave us for half an hour.”

The older woman's mouth worked but, thankfully, no sound
came out. The duchess gracefully gestured for Lady Raminoff to lead her from the room.

Once they were gone and the door shut, the princess sat on one of the armless, straight-backed chairs and nodded for me to sit on another. “Thank goodness she's gone. She spies on me every hour of every day.”

Her French was rapid and precise. I took a moment to translate her words in my head before I answered, “Isn't that the job of a chaperone?”

“She is extra vigilant. So, please, teach me some English. I want to carry on conversations the dragon doesn't understand.” The princess sounded desperate, making me think her reaction to the maid's words in the entrance hall was due only to the tone of voice.

“What do you want to discuss that Lady Raminoff mustn't know about?” Did the princess have a Russian lover she needed to keep secret from the duke? She was certainly pretty enough and wore enough jewelry to interest any number of men.

She started at my words. “Nothing. I simply want a little privacy.”

I could understand that. I valued my solitude, too—and I hadn't grown up in a palace where it might be in short supply.

Giving her a smile, I said in French, “The time is after luncheon and before dinner, so you would say”—here I switched to English—“Good afternoon.”

“Good afternoon,” she repeated.

She had an accent, but her smile would make up for any lack in her pronunciation.

“Teach me more,” she commanded.

I could tell she was smart. And from the considering glances she gave me, I suspected she was judging whether she could trust me. She was learning English for more than a little privacy. I'd just have to wait and see what else she wanted to know.

When the dragon returned in exactly one-half hour, the princess had learned greetings and her numbers and a few basic nouns. I had no idea how many of these new words she'd remember by the next day.

“Lady Raminoff,” she said in French as she stood, “I've made good progress for today. I shall meet again tomorrow afternoon with Miss Peabody for another lesson.”

The chaperone said something in Russian that began a heated discussion. The older woman still sounded like a parrot; the younger one acted like no one had ever dared disagree with her before. This went on for a few minutes and all the time I cursed my lack of Russian. I heard the name “Lidijik” once. Were they giving clues to the murder of the imperial guard in front of me while I stood by in ignorance? I wanted to stomp my foot in frustration.

Finally, Princess Kira turned to me and said in French, “We will continue my lessons tomorrow afternoon. Alone.”

•   •   •

THE NEXT MORNING,
I heard a tap on the morning room door and watched Princess Kira slip in, shutting the door behind her. “Miss Peabody, could we do our lesson in the National Gallery today? So I could learn the English names for painting techniques?”

“I'll try. I'm afraid I'm not as versed in painting as you are,” I replied in French as I dipped a quick curtsy.

She either didn't notice or didn't care that my curtsy was not the deep reverential one she should expect from employees. “That is fine. The duke will come with us, and he'll be able to help.”

“What about your chaperone?”

“We won't tell her.”

“How will you leave the house without her knowing?”

“Leave that to me. Just don't ask questions. Be ready to go as
soon as we finish luncheon.” The eagerness in her voice told me how much she wanted to escape her chaperone. Then she looked me over. Her lower lip curled in scorn. “That is what you wore today?”

I was dressed in a peach blouse with a gray skirt. No ruffles, no silk, no jewels. I liked the outfit; the shirtwaist didn't war with my auburn hair color. I held her gaze as I said, “Yes.”

There was a small sigh. “No matter.”

I was going to have a hard time putting up with the princess. “What time will you finish luncheon?” I asked in French.

A smile crossed her face. “Two,” she said in clear English.

After she left, I waited with mild impatience for my meal to arrive. I ate faster than usual, concentrating not on my food but on what Princess Kira had planned once she left the house. Did she have a flair for espionage and a dislike for her chaperone, or was something deeper going on? A Russian political feud? A plot to sabotage the princess's wedding?

And where did the murder of her imperial guard, the only other member of her entourage besides her chaperone and her lady's maid, fit into her plan?

I paced the room. Ideas bounced through my mind and were quickly discarded for lack of evidence. When the clock showed it was nearly time, I went into the back hall. I had my hat pinned firmly in place when Princess Kira appeared, her hat and gloves already on.

She waved frantically to me and hurried into the garden. I grabbed my gloves and followed.

Leading the way along a path past a fountain and then next to the kitchen garden, Princess Kira arrived at the coach house. She entered without knocking and walked along the far side of the Hereford coach. I could hear the grooms working in the stables but no one cried out an alarm.

The princess didn't speak English, but she'd learned the secrets
of the house in a day. “How did you know how to get off the Hereford property and into this back alley?” I asked as I exited the coach house.

She gave me a smile and walked over to the coach with the Sussex crest waiting in the alleyway. The footman lowered the steps and helped the princess in. I climbed in after her to find not only the Duke of Sussex waiting for us, but the Duke of Blackford.

Sussex tapped on the ceiling with his cane and we drove off. Just an everyday outing, with two dukes, a princess, and a middle-class shop owner. I was underdressed and under-titled for our excursion.

I wanted to question Blackford on what he knew about this trip, but the presence of the princess and Sussex stopped me. Blackford met my stare across the carriage with a tiny shake of his head before he glanced away. Apparently, we were not to act like we knew each other.

“Today I wish to go to the National Gallery,” Princess Kira said in French to Sussex. “I will improve my English by learning painting terms.”

“I'd be delighted to escort you, milady,” Sussex said, an infatuated grin on his pudgy face.

The princess continued, “You and Blackford will follow us. If Miss Peabody doesn't know the English word, you may step in.”

“I'd be glad to.” He really did sound glad. For two social equals, the princess was leading the royal duke by his cravat.

“There are a lot of paintings there,” I said. “Where would you like to start?”

“Are there any French paintings of this century?”

“Several,” I guessed with feigned confidence. “Am I not right, gentlemen?”

“I hope you'll be pleased with them,” Sussex said.

Blackford turned to look out the window, pursing his lips together.

The princess gave a regal nod. “When we arrive, please escort us there.”

“With pleasure.” Sussex reminded me of a loyal hound.

Sussex's coach was well sprung in comparison to Blackford's ancient vehicle. I looked out the window and enjoyed the rest of the ride.

When we arrived, the dukes handed us down and started toward the beautiful classical front of the gallery. Princess Kira stopped, transfixed by the sight. “What a perfect building.”

She studied it for so long, slowly turning from left to right, that Sussex finally said, “It's even prettier inside.”

The princess finished her perusal and nodded to him. “We shall go inside.” She gave Sussex her arm and he escorted her up the steps and through the massive front doors.

Blackford held out his arm to me. “Miss?” he said in English.

“Thank you.”

“Are you her chaperone this afternoon?”

“I suppose I must be, since her chaperone doesn't know she's out of Hereford House.”

Blackford raised his eyebrows. “Whose idea was that?”

“Hers.”

He murmured so quietly I barely heard him say, “What is she up to?”

Once inside, blinking in the dark after the bright sunshine outdoors, we wandered a bit before we stumbled across recent French paintings. Apparently, that was Princess Kira's cue to begin her lesson. She said words in French; I gave the English translations. When a painting term was too obscure for me, one of the dukes supplied the English equivalent.