How to Tame Your Duke(2)

"Emilie, such impertinence," Luisa said.

Olympia straightened. "No, my dear. In this case, Emilie is quite right.  I have taken it upon myself to make an inquiry or two, in  hemi-demi-semi-official channels, about your case. After all, you are  family."                       
       
           



       

The last word echoed heavily in the room, calling up the image of the  girls' mother, Olympia's sister, who had died a decade ago as she  labored to bring the long-awaited male heir of  Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof into the world. The baby, two months early,  had died a day later, and though Prince Rudolf had married thrice more,  applying himself with nightly perseverance to his duty, no coveted boys  had materialized. Only the three young ladies remained: Princess  Stefanie, Princess Emilie, and-bowing at last to the inevitable four  months ago-Crown Princess Luisa, the acknowledged heir to the throne of  Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof.

But their mother still hovered, like a ghost in the room. Olympia's  favorite sister, though he would never have admitted it. His own dear  Louisa, clever and handsome and full of charm, who had fallen in love  with Prince Rudolf at court in the unending summer of 1864, during the  height of fashion for German royalty.

Emilie, he thought, as he gazed upon the young princesses, had Louisa's eyes.

"And?" she asked now, narrowing those familiar eyes.

The electric lamp gave a little flicker, as if the current had been  disturbed. Outside, a dog barked faintly at some passing drunkard or  night dustman, and the corgi rose to the tips of his paws, ears  trembling. Olympia crossed his long legs and placed his right hand at  the edge of the desk, fingers curling around the polished old wood. "I  have no inkling, I'm afraid, who caused the death of your father and"-he  turned a sorrowful gaze to Luisa, who sat with her eyes cast down-"your  own husband, my dearest Luisa." This was not entirely a lie, though it  was not precisely the truth; but Olympia had long since lost all traces  of squeamish delicacy in such matters. "One suspects, naturally, that  the murder must have occurred by the hand of some party outraged by  Luisa's official recognition as heir to the throne last summer, and her  subsequent marriage to . . . I beg your pardon, my dear. What was the  poor fellow's name, God bless his soul?"

"Peter," Luisa whispered.

"Peter, of course. My deepest apologies that I was unable to attend the ceremony. I felt I would not be missed."

"By the by, that was a jolly nice epergne you sent," said Stefanie. "We absolutely marveled on it."

"You are quite welcome," said Olympia. "I daresay it has all been packed safely away?"

"Miss Dingleby saw to it herself."

"Clever Miss Dingleby. Excellent. Yes, the murders. I thought to send  for you myself, but before I could make the necessary arrangements, word  had reached me . . ."

"So quickly?" asked Emilie, with her clever eyes.

"There are telegraphs, my dear. Even in the heart of  Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof, I'm told, although in this case the  necessary communication came from a friend of mine in Munich."

"What sort of friend?" Emilie leaned forward.

Olympia waved his hand. "Oh, an old acquaintance. In any case, he told me the facts of this latest crisis, the . . . the . . ."

Luisa looked up and said fiercely: "My attempted abduction, do you mean?"

"Yes, my dear. That. I was gratified to learn that you had defended  yourself like a true daughter of your blood, and evaded capture. When  the papers reported the three of you missing with your governess, I knew  there was nothing more to fear. Miss Dingleby would know what to do."

"She has been a heroine," said Luisa.

Olympia smiled. "I had no doubt."

"Well then," said Stefanie. "When do we begin? Tomorrow morning? For I  should like to have at least a night's sleep first, after all that  rumpus. I declare I shall never look at a piece of licorice in quite the  same light."

"Begin?" Olympia blinked. "Begin what?"

Stefanie rose from her chair and began to pace about the room. "Why,  investigating the matter, of course! Finding out who's responsible! I  should be more than happy to act as bait, though I rather think it's  poor Luisa they're after, God help them."

"My dear, do sit down. You're making me dizzy." Olympia lifted one hand  to shield his eyes. "Investigate? Act as bait? Quite out of the  question. I shouldn't dream of risking my dear nieces in such a manner."

"But something must be done!" exclaimed Emilie, rising, too.

"Of course, and something shall be done. The Foreign Office is most  concerned about the matter. Instability in the region and all that. They  shall be conducting the most rigorous inquiries, I assure you. But in  the meantime, you must hide."

"Hide?" said Emilie.                       
       
           



       

"Hide!" Stefanie stopped in mid-pace and turned to him, face alight with  outrage. "A princess of Holstein-Schweinwald-Huhnhof does not hide!"

Olympia lifted himself away from the desk and gathered his hands behind  his back. "Of course, there's no point hiding in the ordinary manner.  These continental agents, I'm told, are unnaturally cunning in seeking  out their targets. Simply sending you to rusticate in some remote  village won't do. Your photographs are already in the papers."

Stefanie's hands came together. "Disguise! Of course! You mean to  disguise us! I shall be a dairymaid. I milked a cow once, at the  Schweinwald summer festival. They were all quite impressed. The dairyman  told me I had a natural affinity for udders."

"Nonsense. A dairymaid! The very idea. No, my dears. I have something in  mind more subtle, more devious. More, if you'll pardon the word . .  ."-he paused, for effect-". . . adventurous."

Luisa drew in a long and deep breath. "Oh, Uncle. What have you done?"

"I admit, I had the idea from you yourselves. Do you remember, a great  many years ago, when I came to visit your . . . er, your charming  homeland? You were just fifteen, Luisa."

"I remember." Her voice was dark with foreboding.

"You put on a play for me, did you not? Hamlet, I believe, which was  just the sort of melancholy rubbish a fifteen-year-old girl would find  appealing." Olympia came to a bookshelf, propped his elbow next to a  first folio, and regarded the girls with his most benignly affectionate  expression.

"Yes, Hamlet," said Luisa warily.

"I remember!" said Stefanie. "I was both Claudius and the Prince of  Norway, which proved rather awkward at the end, and Emilie of course  played Polonius . . ."

Olympia widened his beneficent smile. "And Luisa was Hamlet. Were you not, my dear?"

The timepiece above the mantel chimed three o'clock in dainty little  dings. The corgi went around in a circle once, twice, and settled  himself in an anxious bundle at Stefanie's feet. His ears swiveled  attentively in Olympia's direction.

"Oh no," said Luisa. "It's out of the question. Impossible, to say nothing of improper."

Stefanie clasped her hands. "Oh, Uncle! What a marvelous idea! I've  always wanted to gad about in trousers like that. Such perfect freedom.  Imagine! You're an absolute genius!"

"We will not," said Luisa. "Imagine the scandal! The . . . the indignity! No, Uncle. You must think of something else."

"Oh, hush, Luisa! You're a disgrace to your barbarian ancestors . . ."

"I should hope I am! I, at least, have some notion . . ."

"Now, ladies . . ."

". . . who overran the steppes of Russia and the monuments of Rome . . ."

". . . of what is due to my poor husband's memory, and it does not require trousers . . ."

"My dear girls . . ."

". . . to create the very wealth and power that makes us targets of assassins to begin with . . ."

"HUSH!" said Olympia.

Luisa paused, finger brandished in mid-stab. Stefanie bent over with a mutinous expression and picked up the quivering corgi.

Olympia rolled his eyes to the ceiling, seeking sympathy from the gilded  plasterwork. His head, unaccustomed to such late hours, felt as if it  might roll off his body at any moment and into the corgi-soiled  Axminster below.

Indeed, he would welcome the peace.

"Very well," he said at last. "Luisa rejects the notion; Stefanie  embraces it. Emilie, my dear? I believe it falls to you to cast the  deciding vote."

Stefanie rolled her own eyes and sat with a pouf into her chair, corgi  against her breast. "Well, that's that, then. Emilie will never agree."