Mr. Farrar was a neat gentleman in a self-effacing bottle-green coat. Wessex had
reason to know him, though not by that name.
„Good Lord!“ Wessex exclaimed. „Toby! What are you doing here?“
„It’s a delicate matter – and a bad one, Your Grace. I’m sorry for the Christmas
pantomime, but Lord Misbourne did not wish to entrust anything to writing, and so
he thought it best to send me.“
The man Wessex knew as Toby – though that was no more his real name than
Farrar was – was not a member of Society, though he could certainly pass for a
gentleman, and had. If he were someone Wessex was likely to encounter in private
life, Misbourne would not have let Wessex know of his existence, for what a man
does not know he cannot reveal, even under torture. For Wessex, „Toby Farrar’s“
existence began and ended in the hallways and libraries of the house in Bond Street.
Yet now Toby was here. And a situation or a summons that could not be
entrusted to a curt „see me“ encoded in a tailor’s bill delivered by an unwitting
lackey was a serious situation indeed.
„Tell me,“ Wessex said.
„Princess Stephanie’s vanished.“ Toby said flatly.
The Danish embassy had not been to sail until the end of July. Instead, it had
embarked a month early in strict secret – reasonable enough, as a ship containing a
member of the Royal family of neutral Denmark would be a rich prize indeed. The
two ships – Queen Christina and Trygoe Lk – had sailed four days ago. One of the
ships had reached Roskild. The other had not.
„Captain Koscuisko says that they lost Queen Christina in the fog – says it was
thick enough that Old Boney could have moved the entire Household Cavalry ten
feet off the starboard bow and they’d have been none the wiser – the ship was gone
when the fog lifted, and hadn’t made port before them,“
Princess Stephanie – the key to the vital treaty – gone! „How old is this
information?“ Wessex asked.
„No more than thirty-six hours, Your Grace. It was sent by heliograph to
Scotland, and by pigeon from Edinburgh,“ Toby said.
Wessex didn’t bother to ask if the information was good. That was something
one never knew. They must assume it was, and deal accordingly.
„Who knows?“ was his next question. And how long until everyone did?
„The crew – the portmaster in Roskild – King Henry – Baron Misbourne,“ came
the curt reply. „Koscuisko says it looks to him as if Christina was not interfered
with in any way.“
Which meant that her absence was intentional – on someone’s part – and
suspect.
„Do we have any notion of why the Queen Christina disappeared?“
Toby Farrar pulled a disgusted face. „Lord Misbourne says, ‘Go and see.’“
Chapter 14
Dance with the Devil in the Pale Moonlight
A fortnight later Sarah, Duchess of Wessex, attended the ball given by the Earl of
Ripon to present his niece, Lady Meriel Highclere, to Society.
That fortnight had been an awkward period. When Sarah had finally mastered her
inner turmoil to the point that she was ready to confront her husband and explain
why she intended to return to the countryside, her husband wasn’t there. Neither was
he at Dyer House, at the Albany House rooms she had discovered that he still
maintained, or at any of his clubs. Two days later, a hasty message from Wessex
himself – addressed both to her and to the Dowager Duchess, and sent to Dyer
House – explained that urgent business with the Regiment had called him away, and
that he hoped they were not too inconvenienced by the abruptness of his departure.
It was so preposterous a missive that Sarah had hardly known whether to laugh or
to cry. But with Wessex gone, she didn’t need to leave Town to avoid him – and
she did want to keep an eye on Lady Meriel.
Keeping an eye on Lady Meriel wasn’t especially difficult, because everyone
Sarah met was wild to tell her what Lady Meriel was doing. She was seen in the
company of the Prince. They had gone riding. They had gone driving. He was
expected at her come-out ball. He had thrown over Caroline Truelove and his other
flirts. He had gone to her uncle’s house and stayed all afternoon.
Rumors. Gossip. Worries. And Meriel would not answer Sarah’s messages,
would not meet Sarah at any of their appointed places. Sarah had even gone to call
upon her in person, only to be told mendaciously that Lady Meriel was not at home.
And so, in the end, the Duchess of Wessex went to the Earl of Ripon’s ball.
Sarah’s coach – the crest on its side was still that of Roxbury, not of Wessex –
rocked and complained. The oldfangled conveyance was hung on leather straps
rather than set on the modern leaf-springs, and consequently provided a jarring ride,
but it was enormous and well-made, and when at rest, provided a haven of
unequaled comfort – and this evening, it spent most of its time at rest.
The gilded leather curtains were buttoned away from the windows to provide
more air; Sarah folded down the window and looked out. They were nearly to the
corner, well-wedged in this vast crush of conveyances; another half an hour and she
would have reached the door. Already she could see the Earl of Ripon’s London
establishment looming ahead, nearly medieval in its splendor. The house soared over
its neighbors like a great beast intent upon choosing its prey, a gothic facade faced
with dark Cornish stone and ablaze with torches. Though the worst heat of the
summer was yet to come, the sultry July night made Sarah glad that her ball-dress
was of the most modern – and lightest – mode; muslin and silk instead of stiff
brocade and velvets. Her hair was dressed simply, with a low cockade of egret
plumes set in diamonds, and her etherial-blue ball-dress was composed of yards and
yards of aeroplane crepe sewn with sequins and trimmed in rosettes of silver tissue.
She did not wish to outdazzle Meriel, whose night this must be held to be, but
neither did she wish to look like a Duchess grieving over her absent Duke – and she
fancied she did not.
Reflexively, Sarah touched the ring hidden at her bosom. She could not wear it,
of course – the low-cut neck of her gown prevented that – but she had been able to
persuade Madame Francine to make a small pocket in the bosom of the dress where
the ring now resided. Its hard weight reassured her, even while it raised new
questions of its own.
The ring had belonged to her father. Sarah was certain of that. But the ring had
most certainly not belonged to Lady Roxbury’s father – and yet the first time Sarah
had met the Duke, Wessex had recognized the ring and its device. Which meant that
the ring held meaning – perhaps the key to her entire history – and Wessex knew
what it was.
The coach lurched forward with a jolt, disrupting her thoughts. The line of
carriages was moving again, bringing her closer to the house.
Captain His Grace the Duke of Wessex – traveling of necessity under his own
dignities and tide – stood at the railing of His Majesty’s ship Widowmaker, bound
for the northernmost possession of the British Crown: the Orkney Islands. Atheling
had accompanied his master on this journey, for on this anomalous occasion
Wessex was acting as a representative of King Henry and could not afford to be
anything less than splendid.
Passed from Denmark to Scotland by the queen immortalized in history as Lady
MacBeth, the Orkneys were largely the resort of isolated fisherfolk for whom life had
changed little in the past thousand years. Roskild was the largest town in the island
chain, and the only harbor deep enough to anchor a ship of any size. Trygoe Lie had
made for this anchorage, and now Wessex followed in his turn. -He’d sailed from
London on the tide, and the Widowmaker had headed north, hugging the English
coast (much to the distaste of her captain) in order to avoid provoking the French
ships lurking in mid-Channel like pelagic sharks. A journey that would have taken a
man on horseback more than a week was accomplished in four days of expert
sailing, and at dawn on the fifth day Widowmaker sailed into Roskild harbor on the
morning tide.
This far north, the sun was already high in the sky at an hour when even honest
tradesmen would still be abed. It therefore gave Wessex a certain ruthless pleasure to
leave the Captain to present his credentials to the harbormaster while he sought out
Illya Koscuisko.
The Polish Hussar (who was not, so far as any of the inhabitants of the town was
prepared to testify, either Polish or a Hussar) had taken a room in the lesser of
Roskild’s two hostels, an inn set far enough away from the harbor that it could not
quite be confused with the flash kens that catered to common seamen, but one
which did not by any stretch of the imagination cater to such gentry as might
inexplicably find themselves in Roskild.
Wessex had never been to the Mermaid, but he had been to a thousand places like
it; though the front door was still stoutly barred against the terrors of the night, the
kitchen door stood open to let the heat of the day’s baking escape, and Wessex
walked quickly through the kitchen to the steps that led to the first floor.
There were two doors on the floor above, and from behind one came a
thunderous snoring. Wessex opened the other.
Illya Koscuisko lay sprawled atop his disorderly bed in a state of absolute
unconsciousness, one hand stuffed beneath his wadded pillow. His mustache had
been shaved, and his hair had been trimmed out of its fantastic Hussar style and
bleached a nondescript blond. He wore a shirt and pantaloons unbuttoned at the
knee and looked like any of a hundred students, refugees, or remittance men.
Wessex closed the door behind him. The click of the latch almost masked the
sound of the pistol cocking. He turned back.
Koscuisko had raised himself up on one elbow and was pointing a pistol at
Wessex’s head. When he saw it was Wessex, he raised the barrel and set the gun
aside.
„You should dress better, my friend. In that villainous coat I was sure you were a
Frenchman.“ Koscuisko ran a hand through his hair, wincing slightly as his fingers
encountered its coarse bleached texture.
„If you thought I was likely to be a Frenchman, you ought to have locked your
door,“ Wessex reproved him.
„I’d rather been hoping one would come along, you see,“ Koscuisko confided to
him. „Where’s the point in leaving one’s self open to overtures if no one makes
them?“
Koscuisko got to his feet and began searching about the disorderly room for his
boots and a bottle of brandy.
„And no one has?“ Wessex asked.
„We have been singularly blessed by an absence of any adversarial nationals
whatsoever,“ Koscuisko said, and added a long phrase in his native tongue. From
experience, Wessex knew that the translation was something on the order of: „the
Devil sends peace when one is already bored“; it was one of Koscuisko’s favorite
sayings. „For myself, I cannot explain it.“ He shrugged, and sat down to put On his
boots – which, being the shabby down-at-heel footgear required by his persona,
gave him no difficulty whatsoever.
Wessex looked about the room, but there was no other furniture besides the bed
and the table beside it. He settled for leaning against the wall.
„You were, you know, supposed to be on the ship with the Princess,“ he
observed conversationally.
„And so I was – I was doing a very pretty job of being a Dutch physician who’d
prevailed upon the kindness of Sir John to secure myself a place on the first ship
bound for England, I'll have you know. But Her Highness shuffled me off onto the
second ship just before we sailed – said she couldn’t fancy that Van Helsing fellow
above half, and it was too close to sailing for me to come up with anyone else.“
„I wasn’t worried at the time – checked out the crew of the Queen Christina
while we were in port, and they were all disgustingly loyal; not a traitor among them.
No last-minute changes, either. The only drawback to my being on Trygve Lie was
that I wouldn’t be close to the Princess, but Sir John would be, and he’d make a
better report of the Princess’s mood to the Palace than ever I would. And then the
Christina vanishes clean as you please, half a day before we’re to sight the Scottish
coast.“
The plan, Wessex knew, had been to keep close to the English coast – just as
Widowmaker had – in order to avoid French attack.
„And that’s all you know?“ Wessex said in mild exasperation.