The Duke of Olympia Meets His Match (7 page)

Because, for one thing, if Mrs. Schuyler was the agent carrying the French documents, who the devil had searched her room?

The saloon had fallen into a reverent silence as he passed through the doorway, or at least as much silence as two hundred Americans could possibly contrive together. The long communal tables had been pushed to the side, and the heavy chairs were arranged in rows, the backs toward the entrance, facing the scene of action, where a tall, plainly dressed woman enacted a mesmerizing pantomime that Olympia decided was meant to resemble either the coronation of a cannibalistic queen or opening day at Ascot.

He ran his gaze over the tops of the hats assembled before him. They belonged mostly to women and children, but a few doughty chaps had braved the occasion for the sake of civilization, God preserve them. Every single face was attuned to the performer with utmost attention, except for one: the figure of Mr. Morrison, who had apparently declined to sit in the chairs provided. He stood instead off to the side, arms crossed, and had allowed, over the course of the past hour, an expression of dull irritation to take over his face. It disappeared at once when he caught Olympia's gaze. He uncrossed his arms and edged around the rows of chairs to the duke's side.

“What a spectacle, eh? Thank God it's almost over.”

“Dear me.” Olympia consulted his watch. “Have I missed it all?”

“'Fraid so. The starboard side is winning handily, thanks to my daughter. If her mama didn't have other plans, I'd start her on the stage and make our fortunes, eh?” He let out a whispery chuckle.

“An elegant plan, indeed. How I admire modern American parenting.”

The woman finished her pantomime and stood expectantly at the left-center of the stage, imploring her side to guess.

“The ‘Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves'?” someone hazarded.

Olympia continued, in the same hushed voice, designed to be heard at a distance of exactly one foot. “Does Mrs. Schuyler not choose to participate?”

“Mrs. Schuyler?” Mr. Morrison looked about, as if just noticing her absence. “Why, I guess not. She's not much hand at parlor games.”

“A great shame. One wonders why not. Surely she doesn't disapprove of such innocent diversions?”

“Oh, no. She's no Methodist. Just—I don't know—shy, I guess, that's the word. Keeps to herself. Now, she's the perfect chaperone for our Ruby, straight as an arrow and that kind of thing. No trouble at all. But I tried to make talk with her one evening after dinner, friendly word or two, and . . .” Mr. Morrison shook his head.

“Unimpeachable?”

“I'll say.”

As he spoke, Olympia regarded each figure before him, examining and discarding. This practice had become so automatic over the decades, he hardly noticed how he operated these separate and concurrent lines of thought: the one holding conversation with Mr. Morrison, the other picking rapidly and effortlessly through the possibilities before him. At the exact moment his eyes came to rest on the tall woman occupying the makeshift stage (“Fish and chips!” someone exclaimed) he was able to observe to the other man, somewhat acidly, “A sensible position, I would imagine, for a woman in such a vulnerable situation.”

“Eh? I don't quite follow you.”

“May I ask you a question, Mr. Morrison? Do you happen to know the year in which Mrs. Schuyler's husband was called to his eternal rest?”

“Why, I understood him to have—well, you know”—Mr. Morrison made a gesture to his temple, as of shooting oneself—“when Cooke's bank went belly-up in seventy-three. They were old friends, you know, and he kept all his money there.”

“I see. Twenty years of this sort of life, then.”

“Nearly so, I guess.”

The mood of the audience was turning impatient. “The Panama Canal?” suggested a hesitant voice, from the back of the room. The tall woman closed her eyes.

“One minute more, the port side!” the purser called cheerfully.

“That explains a great deal,” said Olympia. “By the by, do you happen to be acquainted with that woman at the front of the room?”

Morrison startled. “Her? I don't suppose so. I believe she's the attendant to poor old Miss Crawley, in the invalid's chair.”

“Yes, I know that. But where is the large-throated Miss Crawley now? I don't see her here.”

Morrison looked about the room. “That's curious. I guess she's resting.”

“No doubt.”

“Time!” called out the purser.

The tall woman planted her hands on her hips and glared accusingly at her side through those round thick-lensed spectacles. The afternoon light fell through the great glass dome onto her hair. “For God's sake!” she told them. “‘The Charge of the Light Brigade'!”

Olympia turned and inclined his head, amid a chorus of groans and recrimination. “If you'll excuse me, Mr. Morrison.”

He made his way thoughtfully up the main staircase to the promenade deck, where a man might have a smoke and a think. On the way, he paused at the deckhouse to send a message to Mr. Simmons: the Duke of Olympia requested the favor of a moment's conversation at the first officer's earliest convenience.

The deck brimmed pleasantly with walkers, the agreeable sort of people who didn't go in for charades and instead bundled in tweeds and scarves to go tramping about in the sharp air. Olympia nodded and smiled and chose a spot in the corner, amidships, where he could observe the goings-on along the second-class portion of the deck. He removed his cigar from his inside pocket and lit it slowly, sucking the air inward, until the flame had caught properly. There was no sign of Mr. Langley among the mill of second-class passengers on the other side of the rail, but he hadn't really expected to see the young man. Langley was probably composing sonnets in his cabin.

“Your Grace!” Mr. Simmons appeared at his elbow, pink-cheeked. “I'm glad to find you.”

Olympia removed the cigar from his mouth. “Thank you, my good man, for answering my little summons so quickly.”

“Your summons, sir?” The first officer was bemused.

“You didn't receive the message?”

“No, sir. I've just come from the ship's safe, sir, because a certain matter has arisen in which I thought you might have some interest.” He lowered his voice and cast the old furtive glance, just in case someone might not have suspected him before. “It's Miss Morrison, sir. Miss Ruby Morrison.”

“Yes, someone's been inside her room,” Olympia said impatiently. “That's what I mean to talk to you about.”

“Been inside her
room
? Are you certain?”

“Yes, not an hour ago. I shall want a full list of—”

“Of course, sir. I shall command a thorough investigation. But there's more—it's why I came to find you—you see, Miss Morrison herself has just had some papers placed in the ship's safe. A leather portfolio, that's all.” Mr. Simmons ducked his head. “I thought you'd want to know, sir.”

“Miss Morrison, did you say?” Olympia drew on his cigar. His heart made a series of eager movements beneath the neat woolen breast of his coat, or perhaps it was just the freshness of the breeze, which was now blowing in gusts, catching in little white pockets atop the surrounding sea. “How very resourceful of her.”

“Yes, sir. I do wonder if the two events are possibly related?”

“I think it very likely. In fact, I propose that we proceed at once to the safe in question and examine these papers.”

Mr. Morrison's expression turned to shock. “Examine the papers?”

“Why, yes. Of course. That's the object of our mission, isn't it? To close the case, to bring the matter in hand. If these papers contain the information we suspect, why, we may sit back and enjoy the rest of the voyage in perfect ease.”

The first officer drew up his nose. His shoulders followed proudly. “But that is impossible, Your Grace.”

“Impossible?”

“I'm afraid so. I stand ready to assist you by any means in my power, but the White Star Line does not violate the sacred trust of its passengers. I regret
deeply
to inform you that if Miss Morrison has placed her personal property inside the ship's safe, why, it must remain there undisturbed until she chooses to remove it.”

At that instant, a familiar straight-backed figure appeared at the doorway of the deckhouse, dressed in a plain coat of cream-colored wool and a small navy felt hat. She turned her head in his direction, widened her eyes in a flash of recognition, and stepped onto the deck, followed immediately by Miss Ruby Morrison.

Olympia watched them stagger up the long reach of the deck, arm in arm, white skirts swaying against the wooden boards and catching the briny wind, and they made him think of sails.

Sails, filling with air, leaning exuberantly into the clear blue future.

The cigar had burned to a stub. He tossed it over the rail and tucked his scarf a little more closely about his neck. “I quite understand your predicament, Mr. Simmons. You may consider the White Star safe quite sacrosanct.”

“And the papers, sir?” asked Mr. Simmons, quite pained.

Olympia smiled and turned his attention once more to the two female figures, now disappearing around the front of the deckhouse. The freshening air tingled his lungs.

“Never you fear, Mr. Simmons. I have the matter well in hand.”

Day Three

SS
Majestic

At sea

When Penelope found her deck chair in the hour before breakfast, she discovered there was only one passenger aboard the
Majestic
foolish enough to brave the frigid air that morning: herself.

The weather, which had begun to turn the previous afternoon, now blew in long diagonal gusts against the starboard side of the ship; the ocean had developed a restless swell. The steward, arranging the chair on the more sheltered port side, turned and faced her with an expression that might have been admiration (those pointed eyebrows!) or foreboding (that curled mouth!). She thanked him with a smile and a silver quarter, which he slipped into his pocket before hurrying back inside, leaving her in solitude.

Blessed, immaculate solitude.

She drew the thick plaid blanket up her lap, almost to her chest, and unfolded her book with mittened hands. Another gust of wind numbed her cheek, but by God it was worth it, just to be alone for an hour, without a single demand upon her atten—

A deck chair clattered down beside her.

“Right here, now, sonny,” said a deep voice, which ought to have been familiar, except that it arrived in brusque American accents.

“Certainly, Mr. Penhallow,” said the steward, and the legs of the deck chair scraped against the wooden boards.

“Now, you don't mind, do you, Mrs. Schuyler? Misery loves company?” There was a hearty laugh, and Penelope looked up into a pair of dancing blue eyes, framed by a set of extravagant brown whiskers and a woolen cap set low on a weathered forehead. “And there's no misery on earth to beat the howl of a good solid mid-Atlantic gale, I always say.”

“I don't know,” said Penelope. “I can think of a few.”

The steward stood back. “Here you are, Mr. Penhallow. The coffee's on its way.”

“Thank you, thank you.” The chair creaked under the weight of Olympia's long frame. A pair of polished boots plopped over the bottom edge, well below the utmost reach of the blanket. “Ah, that's the business. Brisk March wind, healthy salt air, lively company. What more could a man ask for?”

The steward disappeared. Penelope said, “Privacy, perhaps?”

“Now that's a fine thing to say, after I went to so much trouble to gain an audience with you.”

“I can't imagine why.”

“Why, you said you couldn't be seen with His Grace, the Duke of Olympia, that poor aristocratic duffer. I thought perhaps Mr. Elias Penhallow of Buffalo might be more the thing.”

“You can't possibly mean to fool anyone with your wretched disguise.”

“Can't I?” His voice slipped into a confidential murmur. “I have always found, my dear Penelope, that people invariably see what they expect to see. In fact, the more obvious the disguise, the more heartily they fall for it.”

“I didn't
fall for it
, as you so charmingly put the matter, for a single second.”

“So I observed. Which means you must have been expecting me. Or else . . .” He paused, and Penelope looked up to see the steward approaching once more, this time bearing a silver tray on which a pair of thick ceramic cups teetered dangerously. “Here we are,” the duke said cheerfully. “One for me and one for the lady. No, don't bother leaving the tray. Only slide overboard.”

The cup was placed between Penelope's palms, allowing her no possibility of refusal. The steward bowed and left. She bent her face over the hot steam and felt her nose thaw. “Or else?”

“Or else you already know me better than anyone on this earth. Cheers, my dear.” He clinked her cup with his.

Penelope sipped and sputtered. “My God!”

“Is something amiss?”

“This isn't coffee!”

“Oh, I had the chap add a splash of additional fortification to keep the blood warm.” Olympia set the cup to his lips. “I see they followed my instructions with enthusiasm.”

“There are
spirits
in my coffee? At this hour of the morning?”

“Spirits? Only the finest cognac on board this ship, my dear. An ancient mariner's remedy for the bitter March wind. Drink up, drink up. In a minute, you won't feel a thing.”

“Is that supposed to recommend it?” But she sipped again anyway, and this time the warmth tingled pleasantly along her rib cage, matching the tingle that had begun in her fingertips when she spotted those lively blue eyes underneath the woolen cap, sharing a secret only with her. He smelled of cigars and cognac, a sturdy masculine scent that went well with the salty air. “I suppose, for form's sake, I should ask why you went to all this trouble,” she said. “Did you have something important to communicate?”

“Me? No, not at all. I wanted to hear more about you.”

He was still speaking in that low and confidential voice, English tones rather than American, and the intimacy of the moment—bundled up side by side on a deserted ocean liner at dawn, sipping twin cups of fortified coffee, breathing in each other's particular scents (what did she smell like to him? she wondered), speaking in these private voices—sank into her bones.

“How ridiculous,” she said. “There's nothing to tell. I lead a life of unrestricted dullness. You, on the other hand . . .”

“Me?” (Innocently.)

“You, Mr. Penhallow
.
I imagine your adventures began early and haven't let up since. We have led very different lives.”

“How curious. I have just been reflecting—last night at dinner, as I watched you across the table, and afterward during the music—how
similar
a course our lives have taken. An early marriage, followed by early widowhood, followed by an existence devoted almost exclusively to duty.”

“Well, I'm flattered. And here I thought Miss Morrison had claimed all your attention last night.”

“Did you love your husband, Mrs. Schuyler?”

The question was so unexpected and so familiar, she nearly spilled her coffee. “Of course I did.”

“But he left you destitute.”

“That wasn't his fault, and I forgave him for it long ago.” She contemplated her cup and recalled the duke's face last night, turned attentively to Ruby, dancing a single waltz with her after dinner, while the ship's orchestra played from the corner of the main saloon. Ruby had looked so lithe and graceful in her pale pink dress, her face so eager and young as it tilted upward to meet Olympia's enchanted gaze. “And you, Mr. Penhallow? Did you marry for love?”

“Of course not. Matrimonial love is a luxury a young man in my position neither needed nor wanted. I was only eighteen, my bride seventeen. My father was ill, you see, and he wanted to see the succession assured before he died. My wife bore a son before the year was out, followed by three daughters. By good fortune, the old man found his grave before my boy.”

“I'm terribly sorry.”

Olympia turned his gaze east, into the new-risen sun. The horizon was still a little pink and breathless from the effort. “He was seven years old. A mischievous lad, forever absconding to lark about the estate. Rode his pony like a steeplechaser and got into the most appalling scrapes. He had a tender heart, however. In the summer, he would find baby starlings that had fallen out of their nests and bring them to the groundskeeper.” Olympia paused. “A blister on his foot turned septic. By the time we noticed, there was nothing to be done.”

“Oh, my dear sir.”

“These things happen. That's the trouble with children, you see. They open your soul to the most catastrophic rupture. My poor wife was never the same. She died a few years later; of a broken heart, I have always thought.”

“What a pity you could not have offered each other more comfort.”

“That was never a possibility, was it? We weren't suited, and I'm afraid I was a bad sort of husband, far too young and full of my own consequence, and I didn't try to love her. It never occurred to me that we should have that sort of marriage, or that love might be an act of will, of effort and repetition and self-denial. I was happy to do these things for England, but not for the human being to whom I was married.”

“I suppose that's what you were bred for. Nobody expected you to be a good husband.”

“My wife least of all, I suppose.” He sighed. “I respected her, of course. I was discreet, but not faithful. I'm afraid I have shocked you.”

“No, I knew about that already. Your reputation is no secret. Did you love any of them? The other women, I mean.”

“One,” he said. “An Irishwoman, the most beautiful woman I have ever met. Also a genius. I never could beat her at chess. We have a son together, an extraordinary boy, who has my height and his mother's brains.”

“But you never married her.”

“No. In the end, she was neither a faithful lover nor a loving mother. She loved herself chiefly. There wasn't room for another.”

Penelope hid her smile in her cup. “But haven't we just said the same of you?”

“No. I love my country first, and then my family. I have a great regard for myself, but not much love. I have reached an age, you see, when I care very little what happens to me. I have been fortunate. I've led a tremendous life, I have seen and done and known things that only a minute fraction of humanity ever does. I have children and grandchildren, and even a growing menagerie of rapscallion great-grandchildren, God help me. I have the immense satisfaction of knowing that I have done some good in the world. What occurs next is simply—as I believe you Americans say—the icing on the cake. Practically speaking, there is very little point in going on at all, except that I have no particular wish to die.”

The ship found a rough patch of sea, and the deck pitched one way and then the other: not too hard, but enough that the duke put out a single instinctive hand to steady her. The wind whined in her ears. The coffee was finished; her stomach burned with it. On her plain-covered knee, the duke's hand remained, large and gentle.

She said gently, “Then what
do
you wish?”

“Many things, large and small. The health of my family and especially its smallest members. The continued prosperity and security of Great Britain. At this instant, however, what I most passionately wish is to know more about you, Mrs. Schuyler.”

“Me?” She laughed. Her throat was dry, her eyes watering with the wind.

“Yes. I have now told you things I have not said to a living human being. I expect some return on my generosity.”

“But why? There's nothing interesting about me. I'm not a duchess; I haven't any family to speak of.”

“Do you want one?”

“A family? I'm afraid, at my age, such a thing is physically impossible.”

“Nothing is impossible, madam.” He gave her knee the lightest possible squeeze and returned his hand to his own lap. “You must have friends.”

“Yes, a few. But a woman in my position doesn't collect many. I don't have anything to offer except my company, and most of that is taken up already by the Morrisons.”

“You seem to get along well with Miss Morrison.”

“Oh, she's very dear. I like her very much.”

“Are you intimate?”

The question was easy and curious, so much so that she nearly replied—just as easily—
As much as two women can be intimate, separated by twenty years and utterly opposite circumstances
, before she caught herself.

My God, how cunning he was. The cognac in her coffee, the disarming candor, the intimate revelations about himself. She had almost begun to think that he actually cared. That he actually wanted to know about
her
.

She folded her woolen arms across her chest and laughed into the wind. “So many questions! Why don't you ask Ruby yourself, Mr. Penhallow? You're taking an awful lot of trouble, going behind her back like this.”

“My dear, you can't possibly think I harbor any hopes in that direction. The young lady's affections are already engaged, are they not?”

“They are, but I doubt a small obstacle like Mr. Langley would pose any challenge for a man like you.”

“Perhaps not,” he murmured, “but one can never be quite sure.”

“So you've gone to all this trouble—disguise, deck chair, blistering wind—in order to gather intimate intelligence about Ruby and Mr. Langley?”

Olympia shook his head, almost as if he were disappointed. “Mrs. Schuyler. With all your keen perception, you can't guess why I should trouble myself to appear here this morning?”

“For amusement, I suppose.” She lifted one hand to snap her fingers, but the mitten prevented her. “Oh, of course. I nearly forgot. All that nonsense the other night. You think I'm an agent for the French, don't you? Carrying—what was it? Money or papers or gunpowder?”

“Papers,” he said placidly.

“Oh, that's right. Those
sensitive diplomatic papers
. Don't tell me you haven't found them yet, a cunning gentleman like you.”

“As a matter of fact, I haven't.”

“Dear me. I wish there was something I could do to help. Have you asked Ruby yet? She seems to know everything about everybody.”

“My dear Mrs. Schuyler,” he said. “Are you laughing at me?”

“Naturally not. No one would
dare
to laugh at you, Mr. Penhallow.”

Olympia didn't reply. A pair of hardy walkers stomped past, holding the rail for balance, paying no attention to Penelope and the bewhiskered Mr. Penhallow, bundled in their deck chairs. He held himself perfectly still, except for the rise and fall of his mighty chest, so much larger than hers.

“I have led a very small life, compared to yours,” Penelope went on. “I'm not the most beautiful woman you've ever met, nor am I a genius. But I am not stupid.”

“Of course you're not.”

She lifted away the blanket and swung her feet to the deck. “If you'll excuse me.”