Another Scandal in Bohemia (48 page)

“I, Your Majesty,” said a man who stepped forward, “am not personally acquainted with Mr. Norton, but we are fellow Englishmen. I can do no less than serve as his second.”

Worse and worse! This was the vile fellow who had queried me about Lady Sherlock. If he had an interest in Irene, could he be trusted to assist Godfrey in such a crucial role? Of course, he may be ignorant of their connection—unless he was a spy or the King’s agent.

Or Sherlock Holmes!

“And I, Your Majesty,” said another male voice, “am a physician and an Englishman. I will serve as both second to Mr. Norton and doctor, should anyone require the latter services.”

Of course the
second
second was that ubiquitous Dr. Watson! What a snarl.

“I have my own physicians,” the King announced with a distasteful glance at Dr. Watson’s honest face. He turned to Godfrey. “I suggest that you, sir, consult a physician of the soul before morning.”

He spun on his heel, caught himself from reeling, and stalked away.

Godfrey took advantage of the King’s exit to approach his volunteers, leaving Tatyana bereft of both the men with whom she had toyed so heartlessly.

She did not look in the least annoyed, especially when the hovering gentlemen who had retrieved her broken pearls came rushing over to return what they had recovered. No matter what happened to the men who currently caught her fancy, there would always be a fresh supply of new victims.

Tatyana opened her jet-covered reticule and, one by one, the eager gentlemen tumbled her lost pearls into it like heads into a basket. Madame DeFarge would have found a sister soul had Tatyana been alive in time for the Reign of Terror.

Godfrey, meanwhile, seemed relieved to escape this siren and be dealing with ordinary matters between men of good will, even if they were dangerous.

“Thank you, sirs,” he said to his new friends, shaking their hands heartily.

I could hear no more, for the people around me began to chatter of the events of the evening. I searched for Irene, but could not find her, which I thought rather odd. After a few more exchanges, the sinister stranger parted company with the other men, but Godfrey came toward me, bringing Dr. Watson with him!

“Is this not a fine coincidence?” Godfrey asked before they had quite arrived at my side, pretending we knew nothing of Dr. Watson. “An English doctor in Prague at just the right time to aid me in an affair of honor. May I present Dr. John H. Watson of Paddington. My secretary, Miss Huxleigh.”

“Indeed,” Dr. Watson said. “I’m happy to assist a fellow citizen. How did you get into such a muddle, my dear sir? Your dances with the Queen were the soul of propriety, and you could hardly be blamed for the actions of that brazen hussy in black, though she is—” He glanced over to Tatyana accepting tribute from her pearl-diving gentlemen “—a fine figure of a woman, and no doubt. I have seen only one finer....”

“Of course Mr. Norton was not at fault!” I interrupted the doctor’s rather tiresome reminiscence before it strayed too close for comfort, for only I knew of his and his associate’s secret admiration for
Mrs.
Godfrey Norton, thanks to rifling his desk and finding the draft of an account of our first encounter with Sherlock Holmes.

Nortons were common enough, but Dr. Watson would have good reason to remember “Godfrey Norton,” though he had never knowingly met him. Luckily, evening dress is a kind of disguise. No doubt the good doctor would not recall our odd interview in his Paddington consulting rooms.

I continued my defense of Godfrey. “Everything makes perfect sense when you understand that this Tatyana woman is the King’s mistress. He could not publicly punish her unseemly behavior, so poor Mr. Norton must pay for it.”

“You are most loyal, Miss Huxleigh,” he said, smiling, “and that is a most fetching and ladylike gown that you wear. My wife Mary would be quite taken with it. I’m sure that you would not under any circumstances engage in unseemly behavior. Indeed, I see that you can hardly bear to describe it. If I am not too bold, may I ask, have we met before? You and Mr. Norton strike me as vaguely familiar, yet I am embarrassed to say I cannot say why.”

“All English people strike each other as familiar in a foreign clime,” I said airily. “I was just thinking to myself that you do not seem a complete stranger. The effect is no doubt the sight of a good English face, especially when trouble has struck out of nowhere.”

Dr. Watson frowned. “Who was that handsome lady who advised you to use pistols, Norton? Another of these bloodthirsty femme fatales? Her coloring was Spanish, and a bit harsh to my taste, but her intonation was pure St. James.”

“A new acquaintance,” I put in again, as eager as Irene to direct the conversation for once. “Her name is Sarah—” There was no hope for it; I had to continue the charade Irene had begun. “—Lady... Sherlock.”

“Sherlock?! You are certain?”

Godfrey and I exchanged a glance that could have been innocent inquiry, but was not.

“So she told us,” Godfrey said. “Do you know her?”

“No, but I know the name.” The good doctor laughed. “As a simple surname, not a title, however. I was unaware of such a title. Still, I am unaware of most titles; my former chamber-mate finds food for much thought in titles, though he is a bohemian fellow who bows before nobody, not even yonder King there. I shall have to ask him.”

“Oh, he is with you?” I asked.

“Not here,” Dr. Watson said shortly, oddly annoyed by my trite social inquiry.

I cannot blame him. I loath small talk as well, but it works wonderfully well to disguise an interrogation.

“Mr. Norton,” he added seriously. “I would advise you to leave Prague and forget this silly affair into which you have been drawn so unfairly, but you do not look a man who would do so. I’ll do all I can to assure fair play on the morrow. Now I must leave to get my rest. I recommend the same to you, with perhaps a tot of brandy before bed, but no more.

“The King has overdrunk tonight and will feel it in the morning. That is not much of an edge when one duels a member of a royal house, who has no doubt been schooled in such skills and shenanigans all his life, but it is something. Good night; and good night, Miss Huxleigh.”

“A fine gentleman by nature,” I commented as he walked away. “A pity that his association with Mr. Sherlock Holmes has led him so astray. Do not trust him, Godfrey. He must know that his friend is indeed here, and in what guise. I suspect your first second.”

“My first second? Of what?”

“Of being Sherlock Holmes in disguise.”

Godfrey’s eyes widened and blinked. “Then I’m done for,” he proclaimed, melodrama in his voice. “No doubt that gentlemen has cast a covetous eye on Irene and will endeavor to see me dead on the morrow. Be honest, Nell: you don’t truly think that we are caught up in such amazing machinations as in a French farce?”

“We are caught up in machinations,” I told him sternly, “but I don’t for a moment think that there is anything farcical about them, and, unfortunately in this case, nothing French.”

“A duel?”

Allegra clasped her hands to the beruffled bodice of her combing gown and regarded my friends and myself with star-dusted eyes. She had expected us to regale her with tales of our evening at the castle, but she had not expected anything this exhilarating.

“How utterly thrilling! A duel is something I would expect Uncle Quentin to engage in at least weekly, but now you tell me that Mr. Norton—how many duels have you fought, Mr. Norton?”

Godfrey was at the sideboard of Irene and Allegra’s suite, pouring Dr. Watson’s prescribed tot of brandy—and then some.

“None,” he said.

“None?” Allegra’s elation turned to apprehension. She turned on Irene and myself. “How could you let him do this?”

“No one asked us.” Irene sounded a bit sharp. She sat on the sofa in her crimson gown, inhaling one cigarette after another until she resembled a smudgepot.

“Are you proficient with the pistol, Mr. Norton?” Allegra asked delicately.

Godfrey took a long sip of a libation the color of dried blood. “More than I was a fortnight ago, but not as much as one would hope. I am not worried, however,” he added. “After all, not a single barrister in the Temple could claim that he has been challenged to a duel by a King. I wish I had brought the dueling pistols given me by Baron de Rothschild, though.”

Irene suddenly spoke. “It is not your duel with the King that worries me.”

“No?” I demanded indignantly. “And what should a proper wife worry about, if not her husband’s very life and limb?”

“Not to mention his honor,” Godfrey put in.

Irene struck another lucifer, then shook the small flame out “I worry about our joint duel with Tatyana more.” She eyed her husband. “And that has taken a very nasty and unforeseen turn.”

“Speaking of such nasty and unforeseen events,” I added, eager to follow such a splendid opening, “what of the presence of Dr. Watson? Are you not worried that Mr. Holmes may be lurking about?”

Irene laughed, sounding relieved for the first time that evening. “That is the last thing on earth—and in Prague— that I do worry about, Nell. In fact, I should be glad if he were in the vicinity.”

“Oh?” Godfrey approached her, cosseting his brandy. She looked up, her smile limpid. “Sherlock Holmes is an old hand at such intrigues. He is English. If he has been engaged by one party or another to investigate this carnival of intrigue, his interests will not lie far from our own. I—we—could use an able ally.”

“What of us?” Allegra inquired indignantly, sounding much like Irene during her more high-handed moments. “Are we worth nothing?”

“My dears, you are all worth everything; that is the entire difficulty!” Irene rose, took Godfrey’s glass, and drained it “Nell told me that Dr. Watson prescribed only a tot. You poured at least two and a half ‘tots’. Duelists must keep their hands steady and their heads clear. I will see you to your room.”

“That sounds like a threat.” His objection was so lightly stated that it was evident that he did not dispute her plans in this instance at all.

“As in all threats, the promise is implicit,” Irene said, putting her arm through his. “Good night, sweet friends,” she declaimed to Allegra and me in the manner of an exiting Shakespearian heroine. “May angels guide you to your rest. Sleep! And do not worry. We have more friends than you know, perhaps even Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”

They left the suite, a handsome couple who seemed designed to occupy the top of a wedding cake in perfect, unblemished harmony for eternity.

The minute the door had closed behind them, Allegra turned to me. “Oh, Miss Huxleigh, you do not think that anything could happen to Mr. Norton?”

“He is to fight a duel. Usually such individuals are at risk of injury, if not death.”

“Oh, but not Mr. Norton... he is so kind, so clever, so much fun, so handsome—”

“Those are not necessary qualifications for fighting duels, my dear.”

“Oh. He said he was not unprepared.”

I found myself rolling my eyes, a vulgar habit that Irene employed on occasion to better effect than I could, I am sure.

“A recent gift of dueling pistols has introduced him to the gentlemanly sports of fencing and shooting, I suspect. The King has spent a lifetime in such so-called disciplines.”

“You are worried.”

“I am... frantic, dear Allegra. Irene is uncharacteristically distracted—that she should ever welcome the interference of this Holmes person is most unlike her! I have seen poor Godfrey in the toils of a wanton woman—” I glanced at Allegra’s wide and shining eyes. “—a most forward person, who recognizes none of the ordinary claims or loyalties. I am beside myself, Allegra, and there is nothing I can do! If there were... I would go to any length, risk any fate, face any danger to ensure my friends’ safety. But I can do nothing, save wait and watch.”

I sighed and let my hands loosen on my cherry-velvet skirt, which now bore a set of my fingerprints.

“I am sorry to have lost control of myself, Allegra. The situation is most trying to one of my temperament, who imagines that a well-ordered world is the goal of most sensible people. I am sorry that I ever met Baron de Rothschild, that we ever returned to Prague. When we... return to Paris,” I added with a lump in my throat, for it occurred to me that we might not all return, “I will give the Bible back!”

“Indeed, Miss Huxleigh, this is a serious matter. What can I do?”

“Only what I can do. Cause no trouble; be steadfast. Hope and pray for the best.”

“Oh, I will, Miss Huxleigh!” The dear girl was about to melt into tears. “If only Uncle Quentin were alive and were here! He would help us.”

Now I was on the verge of a rather moist indiscretion of my own. How I would like to consult Quentin about these events! A man of the wider world, as he had been, perhaps would have reassured me, at least, of Godfrey’s chances of survival. Yet... Quentin might still live. To that hope I would hold, as I would to the hope that Godfrey, too, would survive the test that awaited him on the morrow.

Allegra and I wordlessly broke with our rather formal tradition and kissed each other good night, politely ignoring the other’s tears.