Time to start spreading Princess Melissande’s heartfelt good wishes.
After camouflaging himself behind a plate of pickled herring, he descended gormishly upon Lord Babcock, conveniently seated by himself. Despite his pallor, the minister was eagerly tucking into his cutlets and chutney.
“I say, sir,” Gerald said, awkwardly bowing. “What a relief to see you up and about after all that recent unpleasantness. Her Royal Highness, Princess Melissande of New Ottosland, particularly asked me to convey her best wishes to you for a speedy recovery. But it seems you’re already well on the mend. Her Highness will be thrilled to hear it.”
Lord Babcock lowered his cutlery and squinted up at him. “Really? That’s most thoughtful. My compliments to Her Highness.”
Leaning closer, Gerald captured his lordship’s gaze. Impressed his will upon the man, feeling again that thrilling surge of power. “I’ll pass them along. Tell me, my lord, have you any reason to wish ill upon the wedding?”
“What?” Babcock’s squint relaxed into a wide-eyed docility “No. Of course not.”
It was the truth. “What about Ferdie Goosen? Does that name ring a bell?”
“Goosen?” Dreamily, Babcock shook his head. “Never heard of him.”
And that was true too. Relieved, because the thought of corruption and treachery so close to home was a nightmare, Gerald released his grimoire hold on Babcock and stepped back.
“Thank you so much for your time, Your Lordship. I’ll be sure to tell Her Highness that you-”
A wave of etheretic unrest swamped him, strangling the rest of his platitude. Half-discarding, half-dropping his plate of herring on Babcock’s table, he slewed around to face the dining room’s grand entrance.
And there were the Lanruvians, spreading silence like warm blood dropped into water. Side by side with their Spirit Speaker walked a jovial Marquis of Harenstein, he of the vast paunch and lead-lined stomach. His child-bride wasn’t with him. Instead he’d been accompanied by two of his retainers. Both were unfamiliar. They’d not attended the Servants’ Ball. Older than the Harenstein minions who’d danced there, they were smiling, coldly polite. The taller one wore a ragged scar on his face.
Instinct had Gerald pouring power back into his shield before that unsettling Spirit Speaker could feel anything amiss. But in the split second before he was hidden completely, a random and terrible premonition stopped the air in his throat.
The fireworks. The fireworks. Something’s dreadfully wrong.
As Hartwig’s quintet rediscovered its harmonious voice, and conversations stuttered back to life, Gerald fumbled his way to the nearest food-laden sideboard where he could stand with his back to the newcomers and catch his rasping breath. His bones were still shaking with the force of his proofless conviction.
But I’m right. I know I’m right. Only… how do I know it?
More grimoire magic? Perhaps. Probably. But did it matter? No. All that mattered was the smothering sense of impending danger. After a moment, he risked a sneaking glance over his shoulder.
The Lanruvians, praise the pigs, hadn’t noticed him. Neither had the marquis or his minions. The old fool! Surely he knew Lanruvia’s reputation? After so much goodwill garnered by Harenstein’s brokering of the wedding, why would he sully his own by cultivating such men?
I’ve no idea. That’s a question for Sir Alec and Monk’s uncle. My job now is to see those fireworks safe.
Abandoning, for the moment, his plan to question Hartwig’s other luncheon guests, he ghosted his way out of the dining room and headed back upstairs to Melissande’s suite.
Bibbie only let him in after he’d spent several minutes grovelling through the front door in a whispered undertone.
“Where’s Melissande?” he demanded, following the wretched girl into the bedchamber, where she was packing ahead of their departure that evening on Hartwig’s sumptuous royal barge. “I hope she’s not off doing something inadvisable.”
“She’s visiting Crown Princess Brunelda,” said Bibbie, keeping her back firmly turned. “Who’s feeling very poorly with her gout. If that’s any of your business, Mister Rowbotham.”
“Actually, it is,” he said, frustrated. “There’s something I need her to do.”
Bibbie sniffed. “I won’t bother asking if I can be of assistance.”
“As it happens, no, you can’t help,” he said, retreating to the window, a safe distance. “But only because you’re not Melissande.”
“Oh.” Bibbie dropped a folded silk girlish underthing into the suitcase and turned. Then she frowned. “What’s wrong? You look spooked.”
“I am spooked,” he admitted, and rubbed a hand across his face. “Someone’s sabotaged the fireworks.”
“Tonight’s fireworks?” she said, her eyes widening behind Gladys Slack’s ridiculous horn-rimmed spectacles. “That’s dreadful! What are we going to do?”
Saint Snodgrass save him, did she never listen? “We’re not going to do anything. I need Melissande to pump Hartwig for pertinent information and then I’m going to un sabotage them. And please don’t argue with me about it, Gladys. We’ve argued enough for one day.”
Bibbie stared at him, her expressive face and eyes full of many shouted objections. Then she nodded. “Agreed. I’ll just save up the rest of my arguments for when we get home.”
Wonderful. He could hardly wait.
Whoever said the course of true love doesn’t run smooth never knew the half of it.
“And instead of simply standing there, laying down your high-and-mighty janitorial law,” Bibbie added, “you can give me a hand with the rest of Melissande’s boxes. Honestly, the way she packs you’d think the wedding tour was meant to last six months instead of a week or so.”
“Fine,” he said. “But first I need to contact Sir Alec.”
He gave it seven good tries, but with Splotze’s etheretics in an uncooperative mood he had to give up. He was in the middle of hauling Melissande’s ridiculously large and heavy shoe-case out of the wardrobe when she returned to the suite.
“Honestly!” she said crossly, tossing her fox-fur stole onto the bed. “How many times must I tell you, Algernon? You can’t be in here! You’re going to ruin my reputation!”
“Bugger your reputation,” he said, letting the shoe-case drop. “Someone’s fiddled with the fireworks.”
Elegant in her best green silk day dress and dainty heels, Melissande frowned. “What d’you mean, fiddled?”
“What d’you think I mean?”
“Oh.” Rallying, Melissande lifted her chin. “Are you sure? How d’you know? I thought you were going downstairs to luncheon.”
“I did. And when I saw the Lanruvians I came over with a very bad feeling. Melissande, I need to see Hartwig. Now.”
“Hartwig?” She was frowning again. “Are you sure? When you’ve no more proof than a bad feeling?”
“Yes.”
“But d’you really want to kick up a stink, throw the wedding plans into disarray, when this might only be indigestion?”
“Don’t be silly, Mel,” said Bibbie. “If Gerald says trouble’s brewing, then there’s probably trouble.”
Startled, Gerald looked at her. Even angry and hurt, she was defending him. So maybe there was a chance that…
But he mustn’t, mustn’t, let himself be sidetracked by hope.
“Trust me, Melissande, the last thing I want to do is cause a public kerfuffle,” he said. “The idea is to catch who’s behind this, not tip our hand and frighten them off. Please, just take me to see the Crown Prince. If we tell him we want to know about the fireworks for the Times, he likely won’t fuss about keeping the details under wraps. I need to know how many pontoons there are, where in the Canal they’re set up, that kind of thing. The more I know, the better chance I have of figuring out how the fireworks have been tampered with and how I’m going to prevent a disaster.”
“If they’ve been tampered with,” said Melissande, still dubious. Then she sighed. “Only you’re right, of course. You can’t afford not to fear the worst.”