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Eliza gasped. “I did see her! I didn’t know who she was, but I feared the poor thing had lost her fortune and had been forced to fashion her own mask.”
Caroline giggled.
“Lady Elizabeth has forty thousand pounds a year, you know,” Hollis announced without looking up from her notes. “Lady Katherine has only thirty thousand pounds a year.”
Eliza and Caroline looked at each other. Their silence prompted Hollis to look up, too. “What?” She was clearly surprised by their surprise. “Did you think you’re my only source of information, Caro?”
“I assure you, I was under no such illusion,” Caroline drawled.
“All right, darlings, we must decide what will be recorded in the gazette about the ball!” Hollis said brightly. “Firstly, we must make comment on the gowns. I’ve made a few notes.”
“There was a peculiar mix of them,” Caroline began. She leaned to one side to allow a footman to pour tea into her cup. “Some of them so beautiful and some of them rather plain. I especially liked the Alucian gowns.”
“Oh, they were beautiful,” Eliza agreed. “But if I had to choose which gown dazzled more, I would say Hollis’s.”
Hollis gasped with delight. “Would you?”
“I would!” Eliza reached for a blue ribbon in Hollis’s hair, which was so darkly brown it almost looked black. The ribbon had been missed in their blurry-eyed disrobing this morning. Hollis’s gown, currently draped over a chaise upstairs, was made of the most gorgeous sapphire blue silk, trimmed in black, with a dramatic skirt that cascaded to the floor in panels. Poppy had worked several nights to bead the bodice with tiny black crystals. Hollis had added a stunning collar necklace made of black onyx, a gift from her late husband.
“The mask suited her, too, didn’t it?” Caroline agreed, smiling at Hollis. “Mrs. Cubison was right about the blue. She was quite right about everything, really. If only she’d told me who was behind which mask! Now I’m cross all over again.”
“So tight-lipped,” Hollis agreed, also appearing to be cross with a modiste whom she’d never met.
“I’d hoped she might give me a hint of how certain people would be disguised, but alas she was a soul of discretion. She said, ‘Lady Caroline, what is the point of a masquerade if you know the identity behind every mask?’” Caroline mimicked Mrs. Cubison’s apparently deep voice.
“A valid point,” Eliza agreed.
“Nevertheless, I persisted,” Caroline said. “I always persist. Frankly, I begged her and I should think she would have obliged me as she owes me a small debt of gratitude.”
“Why?” Eliza asked.
“Why!” Caroline blustered. “Can you not imagine how many clients I’ve sent to her in the last year alone?”
“How many?” Hollis asked curiously.
“I don’t have a number, obviously, but I recommend her to anyone who asks. It doesn’t matter, for she’d not divulge a thing about who’d commissioned what.”
“What in bloody blazes is this? It looks like a harem in here, Caro!” a male voice thundered.
Lord Hawke, Caroline’s brother, he of the handsome visage and trim figure, the gentleman who kept all the young ladies of London and their mothers guessing as to whom he might eventually take to wife, strolled into the dining room. He’d been out, apparently, or was going out, as he was wearing his greatcoat. And he looked quite refreshed, as if he’d had a full night’s rest. It hardly seemed fair.
“Are you only just out of bed?” he asked incredulously, looking at each of them in turn.
“Of course!” Caroline said. “It was dawn before we finally stumbled home. Had you stayed on, you’d still be abed, too.”
“I would not have stayed on. It was personal sacrifice enough that I was forced to escort the three of you against my will. I don’t care a fig about balls, and certainly not for the purpose of amusing some foreign prince. Even so, I am generally in good health and do not need much sleep. You should take your walks, the three of you. It’s good for stamina.” He reached across Caroline and helped himself to a slice of ham. “You’re all too pale, really.”
Eliza and Hollis took no offense. Beck had known the Tricklebank sisters since they’d been children, and tended to view them as children to this day. He paid them no heed, and they paid him even less.
“You won’t believe it, Beck—I met the crown prince!” Eliza crowed.
Beck looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “And?”
“And he’s unmarried.” Eliza winked at him before fitting a cherry into her mouth.
“Dear Lord,” Beck said with alarm. “Surely I needn’t explain to you gooses that none of you, not even you, Caro, have the sort of dowry or connections or the appeal that such a match would require. You’re whistling in the wind! Frankly, if you ask me—”
“No one has,” Caroline pointed out.
“If you ask me,” he said a bit louder, “you’d all do well to be more practical in your dealings about town.”
“Meaning?” Caroline asked.
“Meaning, set your sights on gentlemen who are more suited to your situation. A baronet or knight for you, Caro.” He looked studiously at Hollis and Eliza. “I don’t know, perhaps a clerk of some sort?” he suggested, just in case Hollis and Eliza thought so highly of themselves that they might have set their sights on a lord or, heaven forfend, a prince. “Instead of wasting your time worrying over ball gowns, endeavour to do something useful, such as learning about the care and feeding of a husband and children. You should not be chasing princes and certainly not writing your gazette,” he added with much disdain and a pointed look at Hollis.
“There is not a single gentleman in our acquaintance who appreciates the work or the appeal of Honeycutt’s Gazette,” Hollis said pertly. “Am I the only one to notice this?”
“Trust me, Mrs. Honeycutt, you are not the only one to notice,” Beck said.
Hollis was very protective of her enterprise and looked as if she might launch herself at Beck. But Caroline was quick to step in before anything untoward was said or done. “Thank you for your advice, dearest brother,” she said sweetly. “Surely now that you’ve imparted your vastly superior wisdom, you’ll want to find someone else in need of your advice and leave us to finish our breakfast?”
“You’re dismissing me, are you?” Beck asked casually as he helped himself to bread. “Then you must not care to hear my news.”
“What news?” Hollis asked.
“No, no,” he said, wagging a finger at her. “This is not for your gazette, Hollis. This is strictly confidential. Do I have your word?”
“Really?” Eliza asked, perking up. “What is it? Has Mr. Clarence’s wandering eye wandered again?”
“Nothing as mundane as that,” Beck said, clearly disappointed by her guess. “Do I have your word?”
“Yes!” the three of them cried in impatient unison.
“Very well,” Beck said, and ate a berry before announcing, quite casually, “This morning, the crown prince’s personal secretary was found murdered in his bed at Kensington.”
There was a moment of stunned silence. And then a burst of questions.
Beck held up his hand and looked around at them. “His throat had been cut as he lay sleeping. I suppose he lay sleeping. All I know is that he was found in his bed, dressed in nightclothes, from which one could deduce he’d been sleeping.”
Caroline, Hollis and Eliza looked at one another, their mouths agape.
“But which one is his secretary?” Hollis asked. “They all wore identical masks.”
Beck shrugged. “They say his hand was deformed—”
Eliza gasped. “No!” she croaked.
“Yes.”
“But he was the one who managed the introductions to the prince! You remember, Caro, I pointed him out to you.”
“Well, he won’t be making introductions now,” Beck said carelessly.
Caroline slapped her brother’s arm as he reached across her again. “How can you be so heartless?”
“Really, Beck!” Eliza said, appalled by this news. “The man spoke to me! He asked if I’d been harmed.”
“That’s right,” Hollis chimed in. “A man has lost his life and you are making jests.”
“It’s not a jest, it’s fact. I’m not heartless, but I have no personal knowledge of this man. It is therefore difficult for me to spring tears of grief for his demise.”
“But why?” Hollis asked.
“Because I don’t know him—”
“No, no, I mean why would someone kill him?”
“Well, that is the question on everyone’s mind, isn’t it? I suspect it has something to do with the rumors of rebellion that circulate. Perhaps the murderer meant to slay the prince and mistook his secretary.”
“No,” Eliza said. “The secretary was a slight man. The prince is tall and robust.”
“I suspect they will know soon enough. Someone is bound to have seen something. One simply cannot go wandering about Kensington cutting throats and not be noticed. All right then, stop eating and dress. It’s near to teatime and I’m expecting callers. I won’t have a harem lounging in my dining room.” Beck took another berry and sauntered out of the room. “Please do as I ask, Caro,” he called over his shoulder before disappearing into the hall.
Caroline rolled her eyes and pulled a hunk of bread from a loaf and began to butter it.
“I can’t believe it,” Eliza said. “I can’t believe that poor man was murdered.” She thought about how earnest he was in making his introductions to the prince. How intolerably disgruntled the prince appeared to be, scarcely looking at the ladies. How kind he had been to her when she’d boasted of meeting a prince. He’d said she’d made an indelible impression.
“Why would someone murder him in a royal palace? Where there are guards and people and so many opportunities for capture?” Hollis added. “Beck is right—someone is bound to have seen something.”
“But if one managed to evade capture, suspicion would fall to English and Alucian. Think how difficult it will be to sort it all out,” Caroline remarked.
“Yes, but—”
Hollis’s argument was never heard, for they suddenly heard Beck bellow for Caroline in a voice that clearly conveyed displeasure. “Caro! I will have an explanation for how you came to spend so much for one dress!”
“Oh dear,” Caroline said. “My brother has discovered how extraordinarily generous he is.”
Caroline had long been famous for spending Beck’s money. He generally huffed and he puffed, but really, he could never truly say no to her.
“CAROLINE!”
“Well, then,” she said, quickly gaining her feet. “I think it best if we retire at once to my rooms.” She began to walk so quickly that her dressing gown billowed out behind her as she fled the scene. Hollis and Eliza scurried after her.
As the three of them dressed, Hollis couldn’t contain her curiosity about the murder. She ran through several scenarios that would have led to the poor secretary’s death. As she babbled on, Eliza wondered how the prince with the green eyes had taken the news.
OVER THE NEXT few days, the whole of London was abuzz about the sensational news of a murder at Kensington Palace. Hollis was a frequent visitor to the house in Bedford Square, updating her family on the most recent theories as to who or what had befallen the gentleman, whose name, she’d discovered, was Mr. Matous Reyno. At first it was suspected the culprit was English, perhaps someone opposed to the trade agreement, for who would have access to that part of Kensington but an Englishman? And yet all the servants at the palace had been questioned and no clue had emerged.
The queen herself had offered a reward for anyone with information who came forward.
When no one came forward, suspicion shifted to the Alucians—there was turmoil in their part of the world, everyone said, and surely it had to do with that. But the whereabouts of the Alucians, including their serving staff, were accounted for on the evening of the ball.
“One could conclude that poor Mr. Reyno cut his own throat,” Hollis said drily. She reported that the Alucian princes were made distraught by the crime, and understandably so. “But the crown prince has conducted himself admirably in the course of the meetings in spite of his tragic loss,” she said confidently. “He continues to push for the trade agreement.”
Eliza thought of the green eyes behind the mask and tried to imagine them distraught.
“And now I’ve nothing for the gazette.” Hollis sighed. “It seems rather gauche to speak of fashion in light of the tragedy, does it not?”
“Of course,” Eliza agreed.
“Oh, well,” Hollis said. “Mrs. Pendergrast gave me a lovely pattern for sewing a baby’s christening gown.”
The lack of tantalizing content for Hollis’s gazette did not remain a problem for long, however. It changed one morning when Mr. French, who normally delivered the post, did not appear at the house in Bedford Square. In his place came a stout little fellow who was scarcely taller than a child, wearing a greasy cap and dirty coat. Eliza had seen him around a time or two lurking near the Covent Garden Market.
He handed the post to Eliza.
“Where is Mr. French?” she asked curiously as she gingerly took the post from hands that were gray with dirt.
“Dunno, miss.” He seemed anxious to be on his way, and indeed, once she had taken the mail, he hurried down the steps and across the square as quickly as he could.
In that stack of mail was a handwritten note that would change the course of Eliza’s life.
CHAPTER SEVEN
THERE IT WAS, in black-and-white—a rumor implicating Rostafan, printed in a women’s fashion gazette, of all things.
The pomp and gaiety of the Royal Masquerade Ball was marred by the tragic death of an Alucian principal. While it would be untoward to speculate, one cannot help but wonder why or where a certain high-ranking Alucian official, with a generally large presence, would absent himself before the last set of dances?
And neither should one speculate on what a recently wed lady, lithe in appearance and light of heart, will do when she discovers her husband has taken a keen interest in her dearest friend. Therefore, we will not speculate.
—Honeycutt’s Gazette of Fashion and Domesticity for Ladies
“A generally large presence,” Caius repeated, his brow furrowing. “Generally? General? A high-ranking general? Is it meant to implicate Rostafan?”
Caius, Sebastian and Leopold were bent over the gazette that Leopold had brought to Sebastian. Leopold said a friend had pointed out this rumor, this accusation, very plainly printed. But who would say such a thing? Based on what information?
Sebastian flipped through the pages of the gazette, looking for anything else that might inform him. The pages were mostly advertisements for ladies’ dresses or products such as teething syrup for babies or pomade guaranteed to produce a thicker, longer head of hair if rubbed into the scalp three times a day. There were ads for household products that would make a home sparkle and a husband smile. There was a brief article detailing the proper way to set a table and instructions for making a child’s christening gown.
But here, on the last page, under the heading News About Town, this...rumor? Jest? False clue? “I want to speak to whoever has seen fit to publish this rubbish,” Sebastian said, pushing the gazette away with disgust. “What sort of person profits from gossip?” He focused on his foreign minister. “Who would allow such rubbish to be printed without any evidence whatsoever?”
Caius looked at Leopold. Leopold shrugged.
“Find out,” Sebastian said curtly. “Bring him to me. I would speak with the author.”
“You?” Leopold shook his head. “You can’t speak to him, Bas. Anyone but you.”
There was nothing Sebastian hated worse than being told what he could or could not do. “Why in bloody hell not?”
“You know why. The English authorities are handling the investigation. You can’t undertake one of your own. Think of how it would appear if the crown prince of Alucia was chasing around London in search of clues like a common constable.”
Sebastian flicked his wrist at his brother. He didn’t care what anyone would say of him. He was devastated by Matous’s murder. He had to do something.
“All right, you don’t care,” Leopold said curtly. “But think of what our father the king would say about it.”
That gave Sebastian pause. His father very much cared about appearances. King Karl believed that the appearance of fair and impartial rule, and his projection to the world as a true and just monarch were what kept him on the throne when there were whispers that Felix’s claim was legitimate.
Sebastian looked out the window. He couldn’t erase the image of Matous lying on that bed with his throat cut. He couldn’t stop feeling the ravage of guilt for not having come back to his rooms that night. Had he come when he’d said he would, Matous would have been with him. “Find who wrote this,” he said quietly.
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