Page 59 of A Queen's Match
“Wealthy Americans.”
Hélène cast her mind back, trying to put a face to the name, but she never paid all that much attention to other young women.
“So, how are we going to retrieve your letter from Agnes?” Emanuele settled back on her family’s cushions with decided purpose.
Thatwecaught Hélène’s notice. “I wasn’t…You don’t need to help.”
“But London is soboring,and I promised Giuseppe I would stay for at least a few days.” Emanuele’s eyes glinted mischievously. “Please allow me a part in your plan.”
“Who is Giuseppe?” she asked, stalling for time.
“Tornielli. Our ambassador to England.”
Emanuele, second in line to the Italian throne, was staying at a bachelor’s townhouse near Whitehall. That struck Hélène as something oddly admirable. He could have visited any number of family friends, calling upon the endless skein of relations and obligations that tangled all of Europe’s royalty—could be at a grand estate, being fêted with champagne and caviar.
Instead he was staying with an ambassador, the way a statesman would. Not a prince.
“I need to make some inquiries about this Agnes Endicott,” Hélène mused aloud. “You’re welcome to join me, of course, but…”
“Oh, I intend to do more than make inquiries. You are going to need my help if you hope to sneak into Agnes’s home and steal that letter back.”
Hélène was torn between amusement and confusion. “And what role will you play?”
“I shall be the diversion, of course,” Emanuele announced. “If we were fishing, you might call me the bait.”
Hélène waited until Emanuele wason the Endicotts’ front steps before ducking into the alleyway. Behind her, she heard the inward swing of a door, and the low tones of a butler’s puzzled voice.
“Good afternoon,” she assumed the butler would say, studying Emanuele with confusion.
Though she couldn’t hear her friend’s reply, she could guess at it: “Please tell His Grace that his friend the Duke of Aosta has arrived.”
She and Emanuele had agreed on this approach, knowing that news of his arrival would travel rapidly through the house, as exciting things always did.
Hélène imagined the butler repeating loudly, “His Grace…the Duke of Aosta? But, sir, I’m afraid you have the wrong residence….” At which point a footman would whisper it to a lady’s maid, who would run up within seconds to tell Mrs.Endicott. And hopefully put the whole house in a bit of an uproar.
“My apologies,” Emanuele would reply, “I’m looking for His Grace the Duke of Sutherland, and am clearly mistaken in my address. I shall trouble you no further.”
“But wait, sir, let us assist you!” the butler would exclaim, trying to detain him.
There was no time to waste; Hélène held her breath and walked down the half flight of stairs that led to the Endicotts’staff entrance. As she’d expected, it opened directly into their kitchen.
Hélène was dressed in an outfit borrowed from Violette, a starched white shirt and serge skirt. While it didn’t quite match those of the Endicotts’ maids, she hoped that no one would look at her closely enough to notice. This was a large household, and probably had a good deal of turnover among the staff.
A woman stood at the sink, elbow-deep in dishes; she barely glanced up at Hélène’s arrival. Hélène murmured something vague and turned a corner. She needed to walk briskly, head ducked down, like a maidservant on an errand—
She collided with a real maidservant holding a stack of plates.
“Oh no!” Hélène grabbed the edge of the stack, which was swaying precariously, then lifted the plates from the girl’s grasp. She looked a few years younger than Hélène, with frizzy blond hair escaping from beneath her bonnet.
“Thank you,” the girl breathed. “I know I shouldn’t have carried so many at once, but I still haven’t swept the stairs, and Mrs.Travers will be so angry. There’s a gentleman just arrived, and Jane said he’s dressed like a king!” She paused, seeming to notice that there was something slightly off about Hélène’s uniform. “Anyway, thank you…”
“Violette. I’m new.” Hélène set the plates in the pantry, alongside all the others in the same china pattern. She hoped that was the right spot.
“Violette,” the girl repeated, sounding unconvinced. “I’m Annie.”
Hélène started up the back stairs before Annie could detain her. The staircase emerged into a hallway with multipledoors, ending in a much wider grand staircase toward the front of the house.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace!” Hélène heard a female voice exclaim downstairs. “I’m Mrs.Endicott. You’re looking for the Duke of Sutherland? We must help you track down his address! Won’t you have a cup of tea while you wait?”
