Page 58 of A Queen's Match
“How was the journey?” she went on, to hide the strange, almost restless feeling beneath her rib cage.
“Quite easy. The train from Karlsruhe is only a few hours.”
Funny to think that Baden was so close and yet she’d never visited. When Alix and Ernie went to London, it took the better part of a week. Her trip to St.Petersburg, to see Ella, had been even longer; the Russian railways had snaked up the coast for days, past dozens of small villages centered on a single unpaved street.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she replied, and Maximilian smiled.
The door swung open, and Ducky and Missy spun into the room in a whirl of chatter. As Alix stood to greet them, Maximilian rose to his feet at the same time, and their arms brushed. It was such a small moment of contact, her sleeve brushing against his jacket, but Alix couldn’t help wondering if it hadn’t been accidental.
And more surprisingly, a part of her wondered if it might happen again.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Hélène
Hélène had not counted onseeing Emanuele, the Duke of Aosta, again so soon. Part of her had thought she mightneversee him. But that was unmistakably his voice, announcing to a bemused footman that he had a delivery for the Princess Hélène.
“Emanuele!” she cried out, hurrying to the entrance hall.
At the sight of her, Emanuele grinned. In his embroidered waistcoat, with a cravat tied in a Continental knot, he looked every inch the visiting prince. Hélène felt a clang of cognitive dissonance seeing him this way, when the last time they’d been together, they had been climbing trees in the moonlight.
The very next morning, the Orléans party had left for Malta; and then Hélène’s parents must have decided they were done sailing, because they’d sent the yacht on to Livadia. They had returned to England the slow way, overland, still making stops to see family members and friends—Prince Baudouin in Belgium, King Ferdinand in Bulgaria.
Hélène had been back in London for a week now. She hadn’t attended any balls or social events; she couldn’t bear to witness the farce that was Eddy and May’s engagement. Her parents were hardly pushing her to go out; they nowknew that she and Nicholas would not get engaged, since a letter from the tsar had been waiting for them at Sheen House. “Romanovs,” Philippe had said dismissively, tossing the letter in the trash. “So painfully snobbish. Good riddance.”
Her father seemed to have assumed that Nicholas thought Hélène wasn’t good enough. Hélène let him think that, because there was no way she could explain the truth.
For now, she was happy enough to stay home. Everything in London felt too painful to face. Just yesterday she’d ventured out shopping with her mother, only to see an eau de cologne labeledPrincess May’s Scent.It took all of Hélène’s self-restraint not to shatter the bottle right there on the paving stones.
At least Eddy was currently out of town. He’d gone to Scotland with his sister Louise and her husband for some autumn shooting, leaving May to swan about London alone, playing the role of the royal bride-to-be. Hélène liked to think that Eddy had gone specifically to avoid May—that the wedding fever that had taken over London was as disgusting to him as it was to Hélène.
“What are you doing here?” she said now, coming to greet Emanuele. “I didn’t know you planned on visiting London!”
“I was in Menton, and wanted to stop by,” he offered, as if the south of France were a block away instead of several days’ journey. “I have something for you,” he added.
Hélène tugged him into the airy blue-and-white sitting room down the hall. She left the door open for propriety’s sake, then whirled on him eagerly. “Well? What is it?”
Emanuele withdrew an envelope from his pocket. “I would have forwarded it through the post, but after your previousexperience with letters getting stolen— Well, I wanted to deliver it myself.”
It was from Laurent.
“Finally,” Hélène exclaimed, ripping it open.
That night in Rome, when they’d come down from the trees, Hélène had written Laurent to ask about his conversation with May. At last, she had his reply.
“I’m sorry,” Emanuele was saying. “Your Laurent must not have known to send his reply to Sheen House, because he posted it back to my uncle’s palace in Rome. It’s amusing, really, that the letter went from France to Italy and then back to me in France….” He trailed off when he realized that Hélène wasn’t listening.
Your Royal Highness,Laurent had begun—a title he had never used while he and Hélène were together. He had finally learned to be circumspect, though it was a little too late.
Please allow me to express my deepest apologies for any distress I may have caused you. The conversation to which you are referring occurred between myself and a Miss Agnes Endicott, an American. I was under the impression that she was a friend of yours. I have never met Her Serene Highness the Princess May, and was not aware that she was involved in any of your affairs….
“Well?” Emanuele prompted. “I must admit, the suspense is torturous.”
Hélène showed him the note. “He says that he gave the incriminating letter to someone named Agnes Endicott.”
“Endicott, as in the steel family?”
“Who are they?” Hélène asked.
