“And . . . uh . . . who exactly is Princess Alexandra?” Dylan asked, this time in a more subdued voice.
“She is the Princess of Wales and her father is the King of Denmark. She’s married to the Queen’s son, Prince Albert Edward, informally known as Prince Bertie. Everyone loves Bertie and Alix, as she’s often called. They’re much more popular than the Queen—the princess especially.”
The end of the moving walkway approached, and I took Dylan’s arm (for he hardly ever remembered to offer it, claiming that simple courtesy was hardly ever done in 2016) as we stepped off. A yellow-gloved page was there to assist on this end of the journey as well.
A tall set of double doors confronted us. The page pulled an ornate copper lever and the entrance parted like a theater curtain, revealing a surprisingly small and cozy parlor. Because of the dampness and the princess’s propensity for taking chill, a small fire burned at the hearth.
Surprisingly—or perhaps not, due to the nature of our visit—there was only one occupant in the chamber. Her Royal Highness was sitting on a dark red settee with thick velvet cushions. Its brass frame was fashioned like a tree trunk, with elegant branches arching into sidearms on either end. A mechanical bird perched on one gleaming branch, singing softly.
Princess Alexandra was forty-five years of age—making her at least a decade older than Miss Adler—and still a slender, extremely handsome woman. She had dark hair swept into a complicated mass of braids and coils, leaving a fringe of tight dark curls just above her brows. Her almond-shaped eyes were dark and lively, framed by thick lashes. She wore a bodice with a high, lacy neck meant, I knew, to hide a small scar from her childhood. Leaning against the settee within easy reach was a gold-knobbed walking stick encrusted with emeralds and topazes. I observed the princess had recently had her fingernails buffed and used a hair dye to keep her tresses ink-black.
“Irene.” She gestured for us to approach. Her voice was warm and melodious, and she seemed much less stilted than her mother-in-law, to whom I’d been presented several times due to my father’s work. “Come in and introduce me to these most amazing young ladies. And this handsome young man.”
“I apologize for being tardy,” said Miss Adler with a curtsy. She spoke a trifle louder and slower than usual due to the princess’s partial deafness. “But you know how London traffic is.”
“Not at all,” our hostess replied with a tinkling laugh. “You know how terribly unpunctual I am! Now, please. I feel certain I’ve met this young lady when she was presented at Court. Evaline Stoker. You’re a Grantworth as well, if I recall. And you must be the Holmes girl. Mina, is it? Your father has been instrumental in assisting the Home Office with a variety of situations. And your uncle! Miraculous in his solving of crimes, if I do say so. Make yourselves comfortable, ladies. This is an informal meeting. But who are you, young man?”
Evaline and I had taken our turns curtsying during Princess Alexandra’s breathless speech, but now that the princess’s attention had fallen on Dylan, Miss Adler gestured for us to sit as she introduced him. “He is helping me with a variety of tasks at the Museum, but Mr. Eckhert was also instrumental in assisting Miss Holmes and Miss Stoker in their last assignment.”
“Well, then I must include Mr. Eckhert along with you two young ladies in my gratitude for investigating the business with the clockwork scarabs and discovering who was killing those poor girls. Thank you, most sincerely, from the bottom of my heart for stopping the Ankh before she hurt anyone else.”
While I flushed with pleasure under her open regard and appreciation, it also made me slightly nauseated. For while Princess Alexandra was correct that Evaline and I had foiled the androgynous character known as the Ankh, I alone remained unconvinced that the female body that had been recovered and identified as the murderer’s was in fact the villainous person we’d been chasing. Everyone else—including Scotland Yard—believed the case was closed.
I, on the other hand, had nearly accused Lady Isabella Cosgrove-Pitt, wife of the Parliamentary leader, of being the Ankh.
That had not been my finest hour. Particularly since it had been witnessed by one Inspector Ambrose Grayling of Scotland Yard.
“Thank you for giving us the opportunity to serve you and our country.” Miss Stoker inclined her head in graceful acceptance of the princess’s gratitude. “I speak for both Mina and myself when I say we are looking forward to our next assignment.”
“Indeed.” I was irritated for not having responded before Evaline did so.
“Excellent. Then I shall tell you why I have called you to attend me. But whilst I do so, if you don’t mind, Irene, would you make certain your companions sample the truffles? As you know, they are not to be missed.” The princess smiled, and a charming dimple appeared at the corner of her mouth.
“Most assuredly,” Miss Adler replied, picking up the tray on the small table next to her. “Her Highness does not exaggerate. The chocolate truffles made by her Danish pastry chef are so delicious, even the Queen makes excuses to visit in order to have one.”
Dylan and I exchanged covert glances and he waggled his eyebrows. I merely smiled and shook my head. It was simply inconceivable he’d meet the Queen any time soon.
Miss Stoker was already examining the tray of chocolates. They were each the size of a large cherry, and in a variety of unusual colors: pastel pink, robin’s egg, daffodil, mint, and iced orange. Each was enclosed in a loose, springy swirl of spun sugar that glittered in the light, giving the truffle the appearance of being in motion. I could not conceive how the chef had placed the spheric chocolates inside each delicate coil without fracturing them.
“Now,” said our royal hostess. “On to the matter I wish you to investigate. There is a young woman by the name of Willa Ashton. Her mother, Marta, and I were very close friends until Marta died, for she was one of the few ladies who came from Denmark with me. She married Ferdinand Ashton, the son of Baron Fruntmire. When I was ill with the rheumatic fever—goodness, twenty years ago that was—Marta sat with me nearly every day, and I came to love her dearly. Willa is just as charming and empathetic as her mother was, and I have summoned you today because I am greatly concerned for her mental and physical well-being.”
When the princess paused to take a sip from the tea in her delicate china cup, I took the opportunity to slip one of the bite-sized truffles into my mouth. The sugary coil melted on my tongue, and the tinted exterior turned out to be a thin shell with an essence of citrus (I had selected one of the yellow ones). But inside. . . . It was nearly impossible for me to hold back a sigh of delight, for the interior of the sweet was like nothing I’d ever tasted. Light and fluffy, chocolaty without being too rich, buttery and decadent with a hint of crunch.