Page 43 of The Art of Theft
“If it were remotely easy, I’d have found some way to do it myself. But it isn’t easy at all.” The maharani gazed at Mrs. Watson, her eyes dark, starlit wells. “I’m deeply moved by your gallantry.”
Mrs. Watson’s heart thudded, even as she was towed under by a tide of dismay. Dear God, how did she tell a woman who’d crossed the English Channel to express her gratitude that her gallantry had just reached its limits?
Her expression—and her uncomfortable silence—must have conveyed enough of her dilemma that the maharani looked away for a moment. “I see. You came to tell me that you have reconsidered your choice.”
Mrs. Watson cursed herself. How could she hurt and disappoint the maharani again? Her heart and her throat burned, but she hadno choice. “Please understand, Your Highness. If it were only myself involved, I wouldn’t need to practice as much prudence. But I’m entirely out of my depth and entirely reliant on friends. Some of those friends have children, others ladies whom they love dearly. And now that I see the dangers before us—”
She shook her head. “I can risk myself, but I am finding it increasingly difficult to risk my friends.”
The maharani said nothing, her eyes once again shuttered.
Mrs. Watson wished she could dig a hole and bury herself. “But I also loathe the threat of exposure hanging over your head like the sword of Damocles. Perhaps—perhaps if you could reveal the nature of the letters you wish to retrieve...”
“No, I have no desire to reveal that.”
“Then, may I—may I make an assumption?”
“I cannot stop you.”
Mrs. Watson winced at the coolness in that answer. “It’s quite a vulgar assumption, of course. But the world is not a fair place, and women must pay a heavy price for certain infractions that do not seem to affect men at all.”
The maharani showed no reaction.
Mrs. Watson girded herself and carried on. “If something of this nature took place, I beg you to please consider that however embarrassing exposure might be, we are perhaps past the age of maximum damage. As long as your son’s legitimacy cannot be questioned...”
“As long as he can sit on his throne, it does not matter if I can never show my face in public again?”
“That might be too crude a manner of putting it. But...” Mrs. Watson inhaled. “But does your never being able to show your face again outweigh actual lives, Your Highness? That is the calculation I must make here.”
“Then you must make the calculation that seems best to you.”
“Which is why I am hoping, very much, that you will let me know what kind of threat you are dealing with.”
“No, you will not know that,” said the maharani, every inch the queen. “Make your calculations, Mrs. Watson.”
“If I may,” murmured Miss Charlotte, “I have a theory of my own with regard to the maharani’s current difficulties.”
Mrs. Watson had almost forgotten that she was still there, in the same room. The maharani, too, judging by her surprised and visibly irate expression.
“I propose,” continued Miss Charlotte, “that this is not a matter involving, at its core, any kind of affair or liaison.”
It wasn’t?
“That Mrs. Watson should assume so is quite natural. Her place in life has been determined, for better or for worse, by such infractions. Her path in life—one might even say her success in life—has been paved with such infractions.
“But you, Your Highness, have led a very different existence. Your concern, as regent, was power and alliances. Which makes me think that your mistake, for which you are being blackmailed, also concerns statecraft.
“And yet it seems unlikely that your mistake arises from friendships and enmities between your house and other princely houses in the region. For one, letters to that effect have no reason to end up in a French château, among artworks that most likely came from elsewhere in Europe. For another, and this is the more important reason, if your current dilemma concerned schemes against your neighbor, you wouldn’t be so adamant to keep it a secret fromus.
“Which leads me to wonder whether you have been conspiring to rid India of its British empress.”
Mrs. Watson leaped up from her chair, ready to defend the maharani against such an unthinkable charge.
“Though in my personal opinion,” Miss Charlotte continuedcalmly, “you are too seasoned a politician to make such a mistake. Your son, on the other hand...”
Surely—surely—
Yet seconds passed. Minutes. And no denial sallied forth from the maharani.
