The Royal Assassin (4 page)

She obviously loved the paintings. She'd gaze at them and sigh, pointing out the mix of colors and brushstrokes. While she stared at the canvases with admiration, Sussex gazed at her with adoration.

This continued for a half hour, until the men wandered at a distance out of boredom. The princess suddenly said the French word for bus.

“Bus, or omnibus,” I replied.

“Horse.”

I translated. “Why?”

“I must have a general knowledge of English.”

“When does a duchess need to know the word for bus?”

Her answer was “Bread.”

We went through several more common words until the men rejoined us. Then she switched to painting terms again.

Walking into the next room, the princess froze. Then she started talking about the painting to our left in rapid French. To me it was an ordinary painting in the impressionist style, but the princess and Sussex were not the only ones studying it carefully.

A blond woman in her early twenties was also looking wistfully at the canvas. Her mauve-colored dress, with dried mud imperfectly brushed from the hem, was out of style, at odds with her stylish hat with two large feathers and her pristine gloves. She was the same height as the princess and at a distance could pass for her. Up close, however, the two women wouldn't be mistaken for each other for an instant.

I wondered if there was a plan to swap this woman for the princess. It would only work if the impersonator kept at a distance from all who knew her. I found myself looking over my shoulder for thugs to drag off Princess Kira and replace her with this woman.

Was this the reason her bodyguard needed to be killed?

“I need to get back before they miss me. Will you gentlemen please summon the carriage? We'll meet you in front of the building,” the princess said in French.

“Of course.” Sussex bowed over her hand and then he and Blackford left to do her bidding.

I started looking for the threat I suspected was coming, my pulse rushing in my head and my muscles poised to spring. Then I heard a rapid exchange of what I'd begun to recognize as Russian.

I swung back to see the princess and the other blonde standing close together without touching, leaning toward each other, talking in their indecipherable tongue. The princess was getting teary eyed, and the young woman's tone was soothing.

After a scant minute of talk, a well-dressed couple began to approach our alcove. Instinctively, I cleared my throat before I'd made a conscious decision to keep the princess's secret.

With a few parting words, Princess Kira whipped around and marched over to me. “Shall we go?” she said, reverting to French.

I nodded and walked through the gallery toward the front entrance with her. “Who is she?”

“Who?”

“The woman you were talking to.”

“I wasn't talking to anyone.”

“Nonsense.”

“If you say I was talking to anyone, I shall deny it. No one will believe you.” Her tone and her expression were haughty.

“This isn't Russia. I will be believed. However, I'll keep your secret if you'll tell me what is going on.”

“She, uh, was a maid in my parents' house. She packed up and left without a word. I was surprised to see her here. There was a man involved, of course. They came here, but life hasn't
been as easy as they expected.” She looked straight ahead as she spoke, moving rapidly through the gallery's rooms without glancing at the paintings.

That was too easy. I didn't believe her. Not because she didn't look at me—I wasn't of her class, after all—but because she couldn't look at her beloved paintings while she lied.

I was going to have to keep a very close watch on her.

We walked back into the sunny afternoon, blinking at the change in light. As we descended the wide stairs, the Sussex carriage came into view circling Nelson's Column. The princess was handed up into the carriage, I was next, and we rode back to Hereford House.

“Do you want me to go in and smooth things over with the duchess?” Sussex asked.

“No. We'll go in the way we left. Perhaps tomorrow we can go to a park and Miss Peabody can teach me the English names for birds and flowers. Will you escort us, Arthur?” The princess favored him with a smile.

He took her hand and said, “I'd be delighted, Kira.” I thought for a moment he was going to go down on his knees to her in the carriage, but the lack of room, or perhaps the audience, dissuaded him.

“Shall we go out the front door tomorrow?” Blackford asked. I recognized the dry tone. He was finding the princess's dramatic entrance and exit amusing.

“If Miss Peabody can help me persuade my chaperone and the duchess that she is adequate security for my honor. We'll discuss this at luncheon tomorrow.” She patted Sussex's hand with her free one.

“I'll do my best.” I couldn't look at Blackford, afraid my
expression would give away our mutual interest in Princess Kira's excursions.

The princess had Sussex stop the carriage before we reached the Hereford coach house. The footman gave me his hand to help me descend, and I waited in the dust while the engaged couple said their good-byes. Then the princess was helped down and we hurried through the side door into the carriage house.

A gardener stood before us, as surprised to see us as we were to see him. Finally, he gave us a nod and said, “Is everything all right?”

“The Russians don't believe in wholesome afternoon outings, even with chaperones, for young ladies. Being English, we think an engaged couple can enjoy a walk around an art gallery or a park. Properly escorted, of course. We're not so feudal here in England. Agreed?” I handed him a shilling.

“Agreed, ma'am,” he said, nodding his thanks. “You might want to slip in quiet-like. The Russian witch has been shouting the house down.”

I smiled at him. “Thanks.” Then in French, “Lady Raminoff knows you're missing.”

“Well, then, we'll need to be very persuasive.”

We had almost reached the door to the morning room when Lady Raminoff came squawking down the main staircase at full volume in the same strange tongue the princess had spoken in the art gallery. Princess Kira kept her voice lower when she responded, but her tone was no less forceful.

The Duchess of Hereford appeared from upstairs, a dab of paint on one hand and a lock of hair falling loose. “Miss Peabody, what has happened? Where were you?”

“Princess Kira arranged for the dukes of Sussex and Blackford
to pick us up by the coach house and take us to the National Gallery. We conducted our language lesson there and then returned. She has been properly chaperoned and escorted every step of the way.”

The duchess raised an eyebrow. “Nothing untoward has happened to either of you?”

“No, ma'am.” At least nothing I'd share with her until I had to.

“Good. This hysteria has to stop.” Switching to French, the duchess said, “Lady Raminoff, the princess is unharmed and unsullied. Please calm yourself.”

“If anything had happened to her, I would have held you and this English tutor responsible. The tsar will not be pleased when I report this to him.”

“Go ahead. He won't care. Nicholas is very reasonable,” the princess snapped at her chaperone. At least they were now speaking French and no longer yelling.

“And your father?” Lady Raminoff's voice was still grating on my ears.

“My father wants this marriage. He will not object as long as we follow the rules of British society. He knows things are not the same as in Russia.”

Lady Raminoff replied in what I assumed was Russian. I suspected what she said was not flattering to England.

“That is your opinion. I like Britain,” the princess said in regal tones.

“That is fortunate, because your future is here,” the duchess said, staring at Lady Raminoff. “So, how did your English lesson go?”

“Well. I plan to go to the park tomorrow for new words,” the princess said.

I wondered if she'd arranged to meet the Russian girl there. Hiding my unease, I said in English, “She's trying very hard. So far, we've worked mainly on nouns. Perhaps in the park we'll try a few verbs as well. I believe the Duke of Sussex will come over tomorrow to see if he can escort us to the park for our lesson. If that's all right with Your Grace?”

“Of course, Miss Peabody. You seem to have the situation well in hand.”

I wished.

“What are you saying?” Lady Raminoff demanded in French.

The duchess gave her a smooth reply, one that sounded frosty to my ears.

“I must, of course, accompany them to the park,” the chaperone said.

“There's no ‘of course' about it,” Princess Kira snapped at her.

Why was she so against her chaperone coming with us? Was it some personal dislike, which I could understand, or was there a deeper motive?

“I will not interfere with your lesson,” Lady Raminoff huffed out in haughty French.

“There is much to see and do in Hyde Park this time of year. Lady Raminoff could sit on a bench and enjoy our lovely weather while Princess Kira and Miss Peabody take a stroll and practice speaking English,” the Duchess of Hereford said. She spoke with such reasonableness that I might have been the only one who heard the undertone of annoyance at her quarreling houseguests.

“That sounds like an excellent compromise,” I said and earned a quick glance of thanks from the duchess.

“No.” Princess Kira tapped her foot.

“Don't be difficult,” Lady Raminoff said before barking some Russian.

The princess paled and said, “Very well. I will tell the duke our plans at luncheon tomorrow.” She flounced up the stairs.

The duchess gave a small sigh and followed her at a dignified pace.

Lady Raminoff pointed at me and said, “Your office. Now.”

Just what I needed. An argument in French.

I
turned around and walked to the morning room. Opening the door, I gestured for Lady Raminoff to precede me. I shut the door behind me, sat by my typewriter, and waved toward another chair. “Please sit.”

She remained standing, leaned into my face, and snarled, “What were you and the princess up to today?”

I looked up at her, keeping my gaze steely. “Please sit,” I repeated.

“I asked you a question, peasant.”

Once I comprehended what she'd said in French, my temper rose at the insult and I allowed a hard edge to show in my voice. “If you want an answer, you will sit down and ask me like a sane person.”

“Pig.”

“That's no way to get an answer.”

“You are disrespectful. I will get you thrown out.”

“You misjudge your position and your power.”

She opened her mouth, considered my words, and shut it again without speaking. Then she stalked over and lowered herself into the chair. “Well?”

“We rode to the National Gallery. We looked at paintings and went through various English nouns. The Duke of Sussex helpfully supplied painting terms I was unfamiliar with. Then we rode back here.”

“You smuggled her out of this house.”

“Actually, she smuggled me out of the house.”

“Nonsense.”

“No. It's the truth.”

“How would she know how to do that? She has only been here a day.”

“That's a good question for which she didn't give me an answer.”

Her gaze sharpened and her voice dropped. “You asked her?”

“Of course.”

“I want you to act as my eyes and ears. If she does anything out of the ordinary, meets anyone you don't know, you tell me.”

“Why would I?”

“I will pay you.” She named a healthy sum.

Her chaperone didn't trust Princess Kira. Smart woman. I decided to at least pretend to consider her offer. “Why don't you trust her? The princess is a sensible girl. She seems to want this marriage. She wouldn't do anything to jeopardize her future.”

“She is headstrong and flighty. Her parents indulged her. The tsar's mother assigned me this role to make sure she doesn't do anything to upset this marriage or relations between our countries.”

“What could she do?”

“Find another suitor. Wrap herself in scandal. Become
compromised. Insult the royal family, which would be an affront to the tsar's mother. There are infinite ways someone who is both as innocent and as devious as Princess Kira can ruin herself.”

Lady Raminoff was right. The princess was naive and sneaky in equal measure, and that could be a lethal combination. “I imagine any scandal would upset both royal families. They were both involved in arranging this match, weren't they?”

“Yes. The tsar's mother worked with her sister to push for this marriage in both countries.”

Her sister? It took me a moment before I made the connection. “The tsar's mother is the sister of the Princess of Wales.”

“Precisely. A wrong move by Princess Kira will reflect badly on both these royal ladies.” When calm and away from the princess, Lady Raminoff no longer sounded like a parrot. Or perhaps I'd just grown used to her painfully screechy voice. “And what we fear the most. Princess Kira's thoughtless behavior will get her killed by anarchists.”

“Can you possibly believe any of these fears is a real possibility?”

“Yes.”

Oh, dear. She spoke with such assurance she shook my certainty that the princess couldn't be in danger in England. “Are you worried because Princess Kira's bodyguard was killed?”

“Wouldn't you be? Lidijik got on well with her. He could handle her, having known her since she was a child. And he spoke English. Where they'll find another guard to take his place, I don't know.”

So the dead guard spoke English. Was that why he had to be removed from his post? I shook my head. “I'm sure the police are capable of looking out for her safety. They guard the royal family, and nothing has happened to them.”

“But Kira is Russian. Your police know nothing of the anarchists in our midst. We know them. We can smell them nearby.”

“This guard, Lidijik. Were you well acquainted with him?”

“He had traveled with the princess and her family before when Kira studied painting in Paris for a few months. I met him and the princess for the first time at the beginning of this trip, before we sailed to visit your queen and then to travel to London. Kira's father knew Lidijik since he grew up in their village and may have asked for him specifically, but I don't know how they made that decision.”

“You weren't her chaperone on the trip to Paris?”

“No, thank goodness.”

Switching topics, I asked, “Tell me about Lidijik.”

“What is there to tell?”

“Someone managed to kill him in a crowded railway station without anyone noticing. He never sounded an alarm. How did someone get so close to him they could silently kill him and escape without anyone being the wiser? And why was he in the luggage carriage?”

Lady Raminoff pursed her lips as if something tasted bad. “He was in the luggage carriage because the princess asked him to get a small case for her. She'd meant to carry it in our compartment with her. It contained a sketch pad and pencils. When he didn't return, the princess sent a steward after the guard. And so he was found before the train had begun to move.”

“You think Lidijik knew his killer?”

“He had to have. He wouldn't have let a stranger come up and kill him.”

“Perhaps he was approached by someone who didn't ‘smell' like an anarchist.”

Lady Raminoff studied me for a moment. “An Englishman. An
official Englishman. That is the person Lidijik wouldn't have suspected. And the station platform was crowded with them that day.”

Logical, but it moved us no further ahead. “Where did Lidijik learn English?”

“At court. He has served as personal bodyguard to the tsar. The tsar and his wife speak English to each other.” She made one squeaking laugh. “They are more like an English gentleman and lady than most of the people you meet at Balmoral.”

Suspicion niggled at a spot inside my brain. Had Lidijik begun Princess Kira's English lessons? How much did she already know? And if she'd learned English, why was she pretending otherwise?

I glanced at Lady Raminoff and realized the same might be said about her.

I spoke to her in English. “Are you family to Princess Kira?”

She looked at me blankly. “In French, please?”

So she hadn't learned English from the Russian court or the imperial guard, Lidijik. Or I'd have to be cleverer to trip her up. I repeated my question in French.

“No. I'm the widow of a minister who served the tsar's father for many years. Having no place in society and no money of my own, I serve the tsar's mother in whatever position she sees fit to employ me.”

Lady Monthalf, whom I thought of as Aunt Phyllida, had told me of childhood friends of hers who had ended up in the same position as Lady Raminoff. Homeless and penniless once their husbands died, discarded by the new heir, these women became companions to elderly relatives and chaperones to their young in exchange for a place in society and their daily bread.

Instead of distrusting her, I found myself pitying her. And I found I had more questions for her charge. “Where would I find Princess Kira now?”

“Come. I will take you to her.”

Lady Raminoff led me upstairs and down hallways until we came to a door leading to what I thought was the back of the house. She knocked and opened the door to a light-filled wonder.

The large room possessed a skylight and windows across the back overlooking the garden. The space was full of light and air. Beyond the view of the wide expanse of greenery in the garden and the dark-roofed carriage house, Mayfair stretched out under a brilliant blue sky.

A huge table and shelves to my left held paints and brushes; to my right a stack of canvases leaned against the wall. A window was opened near a bottle marked turpentine, but I could still smell the pungent liquid. Two easels were set up with works in progress on both, the princess standing in front of one, and the duchess in front of the other. The duchess looked over her shoulder at us and turned back to her work. The princess didn't turn around at all.

“I would never have guessed this room was here,” I said in English.

“It's over the conservatory,” the duchess replied in an aggravated tone.

“I need to ask the princess some questions.”

At those words in English, the princess did swivel around to look at me, her mouth set in a tight line.

I would have bet she understood me, but it could have been only the word “princess.” She must have heard that word directed at her any number of times since arriving in Britain.

“What is it?” she asked in French of both me and her chaperone standing next to me.

“I need to ask you some questions about Lidijik, the guard who was killed.”

“I'm painting,” she snapped. “We will talk tomorrow before luncheon.” Then she swung back around and considered her work.

With both works unfinished, the two painters seemed equal in talent but their techniques and palettes were different. The duchess used paler shades and the objects in her still life were realistically portrayed. The princess employed brighter shades and more impressionistic strokes to convey the rooflines of Mayfair spread out before her.

“It's good the duke is pleased with your talent,” I said in my terrible French.

“I'd have nothing to do with him otherwise,” the princess replied, studying the skyline.

•   •   •

AFTER DINNER THAT
night, Aunt Phyllida, Emma, and I were in the parlor when we heard a knock on the door. Exchanging surprised glances with my housemates, I rose to answer it and found Blackford on our doorstep.

For a moment I stared, lost between joy and disbelief. When the duke began to smile at my frozen gaze, I hurriedly said, “Your Grace, please come in.”

He set down his top hat, gloves, and cane on the side table and followed me into the parlor. Emma and Phyllida both rose and curtsied. He bowed in return and I asked him to sit while Phyllida, her knitting forgotten, hurried off to make tea.

“You've come to learn what Georgia's discovered,” Emma said. “I'm dying to know myself. And what have you found out, Your Grace?”

“Well, I—,” the duke began.

Phyllida appeared in the doorway. “Emma, come give me a hand with the tea, please.”

Emma raised her elegant, pale eyebrows and rose to join Phyllida in the kitchen.

I felt my cheeks heat. Phyllida knew how much I enjoyed Blackford's company and was giving us a chance to be alone for a moment. I wish she'd been a little more subtle.

The duke kept a sober expression. “Your bookshop is doing well in your absence?”

“Yes. Emma and Frances have everything in hand, although it's only been a matter of two days.” An uncomfortable silence dropped between us, something that didn't often happen. “The Duke of Sussex is all right with you accompanying him to visit his fiancée?” I asked a little too quickly.

“I suspect Sussex is a little afraid of the princess. He's not very experienced with women and she is young and beautiful. For the first time in his life, he wants something and he's not certain he'll get it.”

“You think the princess will call off the wedding?”

He looked at me as if he thought I were mad. “No. Both monarchs would make her life miserable if she tried to get out of the marriage at this point, and I don't think she wants to. Arthur, Duke of Sussex, realizes how marvelous Princess Kira is and can't believe his luck. And the lady knows how to keep him on pins and needles.”

“Why would she feel the need?”

“Perhaps she's not certain of him, either, and he represents the best deal for marriage she can get. Perhaps this was how she was taught to deal with suitors. Perhaps it's just the pride and arrogance of a young woman certain of her worth.”

“Once they're married, the power will all be on his side.” Perhaps Kira wanted to start married life on a more equal footing than most women managed.

“No. She'll have the reins in that marriage. I know Sussex. He'll always be her tame pet.” Blackford sounded disgusted.

“I don't know what your wife will be like, but I hope she doesn't think you'll be anyone's tame anything,” I responded without thinking and then wanted to kick myself. We always tried to sidestep any mention of the duke's need to marry and produce an heir. His fiancée had died under suspicious circumstances, and I didn't want to think of the day when he'd settle down with another woman. Until then, I could have my daydreams.

“Whoever she may be, she won't be anything like Princess Kira. I like a woman with brains and fire and maturity. Kira may have the fire, but she lacks the rest. Ah,” he said, opening the door wider for Emma as she entered with the tea tray. Phyllida followed with some biscuits on a platter.