Sweet as the Devil (7 page)

“A tragedy,” the minister murmured, leaning back in his chair. “If there’s anything I can do to help.”

Choke on your drink.
“No, nothing, thank you.”

“India’s a barbaric country. Rabble everywhere, no law to speak of, the British army notwithstanding. But they can’t police every native enclave. Were you given any indication of the identity of the vile perpetrator?”

“The colonial administrator is continuing the investigation, I’m told.”

“Good, good—excellent. The British can be dogged in pursuit. They recently captured the villain who attacked Wales five years ago—or was it six? The brute was tracked down through émigré circles. Although if you ask me, England’s leniency toward emigrants is not only foolish but dangerous,” he said with a sneer. “Anarchists, the lot of them.”

“You’re not referring to Napoleon III or Empress Eugénie?” After France’s defeat by Germany, both had fled to England; the empress had a home there still.

Von Welden shot him a narrowed look over the rim of his glass. “Theoretically, no, although Eugénie interfered more than necessary in her husband’s affairs.”

“Ruling Europe has always been a family business,” Ernst noted. “Everyone’s related; everyone feels obliged to participate in some fashion.”

“Then again, fashions change, Your
Excellency
,” Von Welden said with mocking emphasis. “Modern times require modern means. Innovative technology, fresh economic ideas, banking capital from new and diverse sources—we’re progressing toward a social structure free from the outmoded principles of noblesse oblige.”

The prince lifted his pale brows. “I didn’t realize you had such liberal convictions.”

“Surely you jest.” Whether the prince’s comment was sarcasm or levity, neither pleased Von Welden.

“I stand corrected.” Smiling faintly, Ernst raised his glass and drank.

The silence lengthened.

“How did we get on such a dull subject?” Von Welden interjected with bluff good humor. “Technology and economics, bah! Try one of my cigars.” He leaned over and nudged the tray closer to Ernst. “They’re made for me in Havana,” he smugly said, calling attention to his affluence and good taste.

It took Ernst a fraction of a second to respond to the arriviste thug with his new title and stolen wealth who was flaunting his status like some ill-bred parvenu. The Battenberg princely title had been bestowed a thousand years ago, the family’s wealth amassed long before that. “I’d be delighted,” Ernst said with impeccable courtesy to a man he despised.

While Ernst had a propensity for vice and pleasure, for fine tailors and wines, for a sybaritic life of luxury, he was at base a man of rigid beliefs. He believed in nobility, pedigree, and family wealth. He believed in the power of the sword. He believed there was no substitute for victory.

As the men drank, smoked, and urbanely chatted about current affairs, the prince waited to be apprised of the reason for his invitation. This was no friendly or consoling visit, both adjectives meaningless to a man of Von Welden’s ilk.

When at last the minister of police expressed his desire to purchase Ernst’s ancestral lands in Dalmia, Ernst responded with a degree of calm that was testament to his father’s conviction that dignity was a requirement of their rank. “You surprise me,” he said. “I was of the opinion your interests were in Hungary.”

The minister smiled. “I’ve always loved the sea.”

An outrageous lie
. “Naturally, I’ll need time to consider your generous offer,” Ernst coolly replied, betraying nothing of his fury at the man’s brazen greed. While Ernst had never been an affectionate father, he was no less a father than any other aristocrat.

More to the point, Rupert had been his only son.

“I understand,” Von Welden returned. “If I wasn’t about to leave for Hungary on a mission for the emperor, I would have been less precipitous in my approach. But I’ll be away for some weeks.”

“The duchy has been in the Battenberg family since medieval times. A decision will be difficult,” Ernst noted. “Why don’t we talk again on your return?”

“Of course, all in good time.” Von Welden’s smile was innocent of warmth, but then no one would accuse him of benevolence. “Let me refill your glass. This cognac is from my private reserve.”

Ernst had spent a lifetime in a society where passive cruelty and overt vice made a cynic of everyone. He was well versed in the game. “It’s excellent cognac,” he said, smiling at the man he suspected had ordered his son murdered. “I’ll send over a bottle of my Tokaji for your enjoyment.”

Poisoned no doubt.
“How kind. Your vineyards are celebrated.”

The men conversed over fresh drinks, both capable of the necessary artifice for the occasion. The emperor’s penchant for hunting afforded them several minutes of discussion; Empress Elisabeth’s latest journey to England briefly engaged their interest. They agreed that her frequent absences from court gave her as much joy as they did the Austrian court that loathed her. In the midst of an analysis of German military preparations—which were making much of Europe uneasy at the moment—Ernst experienced a sudden blinding epiphany. Had he actually believed in religion, he would have characterized it as a miracle—like Paul’s vision on the road to Damascus.

Suppressing his rush of elation, Ernst instead posed a question concerning the readiness of the cavalry division Von Welden had commanded prior to his current position. Von Welden, while no longer the dashing figure of his youth, still wore a cavalry mustache and took a keen interest in his hussars.

The question elicited an immediate scowl from the minister. “As a matter of fact, I finally had it out with Wittelschlag last week, damn his slovenly procrastination. He has orders to purchase twenty thousand mounts in Hungary. Not enough, of course,” the count grumbled. “But a start. The bureaucrats never understand the necessity of military procurement. They only reckon florins like boorish shopkeepers.”

“What of the levies from Bohemia?” Ernst asked, indifferent to the answer, merely playing a part until he could leave. “Will they perform?”

“Perhaps with a gun to their head they will.” Von Welden smiled. “I’m not sure the reserves from your region are any more compliant.”

Ernst shrugged. “Such are the risks of broadening education. It often gives rise to revolutionary principles.”

“Never fear,” the count firmly declared. “We shall dispatch revolution wherever it rears its ugly head.”

“Only with good discipline in the army.” The custom of quartering regiments far from their home regions was becoming a problem with nationalistic sentiments on the rise.

And so it went—a totally useless conversation now that Von Welden had played his hand. But Ernst maintained his role even as he mentally made plans to depart for England posthaste. He was careful not to appear hurried, conversing with aplomb, politely accepting another drink, allowing Von Welden to determine the moment to end their meeting.

When the men finally parted, Ernst embraced the minister with a display of cordiality that would have earned praise from the most accomplished thespian.

It was only after he’d exited the club and was standing on the sun-dappled pavement outside that he quietly swore revenge. By all that was holy or unholy—it mattered little to him. The Battenbergs had not survived twelve centuries by turning the other cheek.

Two hours later, he was on the night train to Paris, more heavily guarded than usual.

From there to the coast and then to England.

He would reach London by afternoon tomorrow.

T
HE FOLLOWING DAY, under the last rays of the midnight sun, Jamie was half dozing on the hill behind his house, a flask at his side, doing much as he had for most of his holiday. Very little.

The simple rhythms of his country estate had restored and demilitarized him, giving him the respite he needed from the outside world. Far removed from any sense of urgency, he’d fished the salmon streams, rode the estate when the mood struck him, helped plant ten acres of pine seedlings, purchased two new breeds of sheep that would produce high-quality wool, and frequently availed himself of his fine estate whiskey.

Having temporarily relinquished the constant vigilance required of him on the Continent, where he instinctively took note of an unusual sound, the expression on someone’s face in a crowd, a workman or servant where they shouldn’t be, he’d slept like a baby. Not once had he suddenly come awake and found himself drenched in sweat with his heart pounding.

He was rested.

Recharged.

In fact, he was so much in charity with the world that he briefly considered the old maxim about beating swords into plowshares a possibility. Ever practical, however, saner judgment quickly prevailed, and dismissing illusion, he raised his flask to his mouth, drank deeply, and emptied his mind of useless imagery.

Coming up on his elbows at the sound of his name, Jamie glanced downward and frowned. One of his gillies was clambering up the steep hill waving what appeared to be a letter. Sitting up fully, he waited with an outward calm that belied his quickening pulse. What the hell was so important at this time of night?

“It be a cable, sair,” the red-faced man panted on reaching him.

“I’ll trade you.” Jamie handed him his flask, took the cable, glanced at the Paris postmark, and tore it open. He read it swiftly, swore, then muttered, “Poor boy,” and came to his feet.

“Bad news, sair?”

“Yes. Prince Rupert is dead.” He didn’t question why Ernst hadn’t informed him before. He was his ADC, not a boon companion. The telegram merely read,
Rupert buried last week. Meet me in London.
“Have Davey saddle up our mounts,” Jamie ordered, then he ran and slipped and slid down the hill, intent on reaching Inverness in time for the early train.

 

 

T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING, after a breakneck race over the hills, while Jamie was boarding the train, Prince Ernst was embarking from the port of Calais on a chartered yacht. He had a full complement of his Scots guard with him, the troopers like him, in mufti, posing as his entourage.

Meanwhile, in London, after supervising the hanging of two of her new paintings in the gallery of Bruton Street Books, Sofia was having a light breakfast with Rosalind and politely refusing the duchess’s persistent urging that she meet Dex Champion at dinner. She had to be in the mood and she wasn’t.

“Don’t keep saying you’re busy,” Rosalind objected, looking up from pouring them another cup of tea. “You don’t work at night.”

“Sometimes I do.” Sofia plucked another cream pastry from an assortment on a tiered plate and licked the topping.

“Dex constantly asks about you. If you continue this silliness, I wouldn’t be surprised if he comes knocking on your door.”

“Tell him not to.”
Hmm . . . apricot jam under the cream filling.

“You tell him. It’s only a dinner, not a marriage proposal.”

“Which would be difficult since he’s married,” Sofia said through a mouthful of pastry.

“Not for long. He’s started divorce proceedings.”

Sofia swallowed. “Good,” she crisply said. “Then he’ll have droves of women after him and he can forget about me.”

“There’s no point in saying you’re playing hard to get because you generally do, but seriously, I think you’d like him. He’s very sweet.”

“I don’t like sweet men.”

Rosalind sighed. “I only meant he’s not a complete rake.” “There are times when rakes appeal.”

“Hush, you troublesome child! I’m done arguing. Come to dinner tomorrow. You know everyone, and if you don’t come, I won’t speak to you for a month. Maybe two.”

A worthless threat; they’d been friends too long. “Dex will be there, I presume,” Sofia muttered, looking very much the petulant child of which she’d been accused.

“Fitz invited him, not I. Something about making plans for Cowes. Wear your lovely Worth gown that you bought the last time you were in Paris. The one with those pretty little rosebuds on the décolletage,” Rosalind coaxed, shifting from threats to cajolery, hoping to better persuade her reluctant companion.

Sofia lifted one brow. “Now you’re telling me what to wear?”

“Yes, as a matter of fact,” Rosalind said with a grin. “I know what’s best. The low décolletage will distract from your acid tongue.”

“And my sharp claws.”

“Exactly.” Rosalind waved a half-eaten scone in Sofia’s direction. “I want you to beguile and bamboozle like any other self-respecting female.”

Sofia laughed. “I still should say no.”

“Oz wagered me you wouldn’t come.”

“He did, did he? How much?”

“You know Oz. I’m not as extravagant. We settled on three hundred.”

Sofia leaned back in her chair and smiled. “Surely we can’t let a man win now, can we?”