The Golden Prince (52 page)

It was after midnight and Strickland put down his paintbrush and palette and looked at her as if she had taken leave of her senses. “Hollywood? Do you know where Hollywood is, Marigold? It’s in California. You do know where California is, don’t you? It’s on the very far side of the United States, two thousand, perhaps nearly three thousand miles distant from New York.”

“The farther it is, the better. I don’t want to be on this side of the Atlantic Ocean when Maxim marries Anne Greveney. It is already being trumpeted as the wedding of the year, and I just don’t want to know about it. Neither do I want to continue living as I am, not
being invited anywhere. I might as well be a leper for all the invitations I receive.”

Without removing the cigarette that was plastered to his lower lip, Strickland said, “What does your family think?”

“Nothing as yet. There’s no time to go down to Snowberry and tell them, and so I’m going to write letters once I’m aboard the ship.”

“That’s a coward’s way of doing things, Marigold—and I never took you for a coward.”

“Because I’m not. I’m doing it because it’s after midnight now and I have to be at the dockside by ten o’clock tomorrow morning. So before you tell me I could telephone Snowberry, I think breaking such news on the telephone would be far more distressing for everyone concerned than doing it the way I’m going to do it.”

She looked around the studio. “I’m going to miss you, Strickland. Life won’t be quite the same without you.”

“Ditto,” Strickland said feelingly.

“And Persephone? Where is she? I thought I might take her with me. I think that one look at it might be enough to persuade Mr. Zimmerman she’d be a good subject for a movie.”

Strickland removed the cigarette from his mouth and a fleck of tobacco from his tongue. He’d never told her that it was Lord Jethney who had bought the painting from Maxim. He’d simply told her she needn’t worry about it anymore, that it was no longer in Maxim Yurenev’s possession. On reflection, he still thought it was better for her not to know the truth.

“She’s safely under wraps—and too valuable to manhandle all the way across an ocean and a continent. Listen to me one last time, Marigold. Going off in this manner is going to devastate your family. You don’t know the kind of man Zimmerman is. You don’t know a single person in America. It is the craziest, most reckless scheme I’ve ever heard of. Think about it sensibly and don’t go to Southampton tomorrow. Please.”

She kissed him on the cheek. “You’re growing into an old
fusspot, Strickland. Now I must go. I came here in a hansom and it’s outside, waiting to take me back to St. James’s Street.”

He walked out of the house with her and her last words to him, as the horse trotted away down the street and she leaned out of the hansom’s window, were: “Isn’t it wonderful, Strickland? Next time you see me I’ll be on the silver screen!”

He stomped back into the house, not thinking it wonderful at all. There was an endearing warmth to Marigold’s allure that he was going to miss. He was also certainly going to miss her volatility and sheer exuberance. He had become fonder of her than he was of any other human being, and he was convinced she was heading for disaster. He’d done his best to make her see how dangerously reckless she was being, and, as usual, she’d taken not the slightest notice. Who, then, would she take notice of?

The answer came to him with the same certainty it had when he had been pondering how to persuade Maxim Yurenev into parting with Persephone.

Lord Jethney.

He could hardly ring Lord Jethney up at one-thirty in the morning, though. Or could he? He decided he couldn’t.

Marigold had told him the
Titanic
sailed at midday. If he spoke to Jethney first thing in the morning, Jethney would have time to travel by rail down to Southampton. With a good chauffeur, he would even have time to be driven there.

He went to bed to dream of white slave traders called Zimmerman and of Marigold being tied to a railway track where, when the train bore down on her, no rescuer appeared.

“Lord Jethney is not at home,” a butler said when, at seven o’clock, Strickland telephoned Lord Jethney’s home in Hampshire.

“Where will I be able to contact him? It’s a matter of urgency.”

“I’m not at liberty to say, sir.”

It was the exact same stuffy response he’d received when trying to track Prince Yurenev down. Damning all butlers to hell, he forced himself to think. If Jethney wasn’t at his home in Hampshire, then he must be at his London home. Other than knowing it would be within handy reach of the Houses of Parliament, Strickland didn’t have a clue as to where it was. He certainly had no London telephone number for Jethney.

Looking at the clock, realizing that time was fast running out, he crammed a wide black-brimmed hat on his head, swirled a black cape around his shoulders, and looking like a Transylvanian vampire unhappily abroad in daylight, he set off for the House of Lords.

No one was willing to help him. Lord Jethney was expected at the House at ten o’clock when he had an important government meeting. And his lordship would certainly not be able to see anyone until afterward, and not even then unless they had an appointment with him.

Ten o’clock would, he knew, be far too late. It simply wouldn’t give Jethney enough time to make up his mind to go to Southampton, and to get there before midday. He wondered if the
Titanic
was putting in at any other port before heading out across the North Atlantic for New York. Many transatlantic liners docked at Cherbourg, in France, to pick up continental passengers. Nearly all of them also stopped at Queenstown in Ireland, to collect Irish emigrants traveling steerage.

He strode out into Parliament Square wondering where he could get the information he needed, wondering where the nearest shipping office was.

A familiar, top-hatted figure, dressed appropriately for the House of Lords in a frock coat, was striding down toward him, a briefcase in one hand, a walking cane in the other.

“Jethney!” he cried. “Thank God! Jethney, you have to give me five minutes of your time! It’s about Marigold!”

Theo came to an abrupt halt.

“She’s sailing on the
Titanic
in just over three hours’ time with
an American by the name of Zimmerman. She only met him yesterday. He’s told her he’s going to make her into a movie star. I’ve done my best to dissuade her, but she thinks it’s all going to be a marvelous adventure and …”

Theo was no longer listening to him. Big Ben was showing 8:45, and the only boat train to Southampton left Waterloo at nine o’clock. If he missed it, he didn’t have a hope in hell of boarding the
Titanic
before she sailed.

Without another word he stepped out into the street to flag down a taxi. “Waterloo,” Strickland heard Theo bark at the driver. “I’m a government minister and the matter is urgent!”

Once in the cab Theo marshaled his thoughts. Where Marigold was concerned he’d been going to make no approach to her until after Jerusha had been dead for a year. When her affair with Prince Yurenev had come to such an abrupt and ugly end, he had been tempted not to wait so long; but in the end he had decided that it was best for both his reputation and Marigold’s that he keep to his first decision. Now he absolutely could no longer do so. He couldn’t allow her to sail to America. If she did, she would in all likelihood be lost to him forever—and he couldn’t allow that. Not when he loved her as much as he’d ever done.

At Waterloo he found God was being good to him: the boat train was still in the station. As a government minister he didn’t waste time buying a ticket. He sprinted down the platform, stepping breathlessly into a first-class carriage. He would buy a ticket from the guard. For the moment he would simply get his breath back.

It was only as he did so that he remembered he was supposed to be chairing a government meeting at ten o’clock. There was nothing that could be done about it. Someone else would have to chair it. He would apologize profusely when he was back in London, explaining he had been faced with a life-and-death situation—and he would do so feeling he was speaking the truth.

The journey gave him time to reflect on the two possible outcomes of what he was doing. Either Marigold would listen to sense,
or she wouldn’t. He had a dreadful feeling that when it came to the choice of being made into a movie star, or becoming the second Lady Jethney, Marigold was going to opt for being made into a movie star. Whichever choice she made, one thing he was going to do was tell her that Persephone was in his possession, not Strickland’s.

Marigold was in her element. Wearing a chinchilla fur that had been one of her first presents from Maxim, she was leaning over one of the first-class deck rails, Zac Zimmerman at her side. On either side of them were scores of other first-class passengers, all determined to enjoy the moment of departure to the full. The ship’s orchestra was playing on deck, while on the dockside a brass band was entertaining the vast crowd waiting to see a moment of history being made: the moment when the biggest ship in the world slid from its berth and out to sea.

There were so many last-minute passengers hurrying up the gangplank and so many relatives of those who were traveling on the liner scurrying down again after saying their good-byes that Marigold didn’t see Theo board, nor did she see him having a swift urgent word with the ship’s officer whose task it was to welcome passengers.

Once on the first-class deck and with only minutes to go before the ship sailed, Theo spotted her and began barreling his way through the crowd toward her.

“Marigold!” he shouted, but it was pointless. Everyone was shouting. Those on deck were shouting good-byes to friends and relatives on the dockside; friends and relatives were responding in kind. All were trying to make their voices heard over the sound of the brass band and the ship’s orchestra.

Only when he laid a hand on her arm and she turned to see who was being so impertinently familiar did she realize he was on board.

“Theo!” The shock was so great that she put a hand over her heart.

“Now what the hell …” Zac began proprietarily, but then, seeing that the thick-set, grim-faced intruder was known to Marigold—and remembering the circumstances under which Marigold was with him—he thought better of what he’d been going to say and fell silent, watching Theo with narrowed eyes.

No other visitors were now scurrying down the gangplank. Ropes were being cast off. The deck beneath their feet was throbbing as the ship prepared to get under way. Knowing he had only three or four minutes at the most before the gangplank was raised, Theo said urgently, “Forget America, Marigold. I love you and I want you to marry me. We only have seconds, darling. What is your answer going to be? Yes or no?”

The drama of the moment was meat and drink to Marigold. She could go to Hollywood with Zac, or she could marry Theo, who stood every chance of one day becoming prime minister. If she married Theo, it didn’t have to mean that she’d have to put an end to her dreams of being a movie star. Hadn’t Zac said at dinner the previous evening that there was a British Film Company by the name of Barker Motion Photography and that Will Barker had just made a full-length film about Henry VIII and that he was going to make another one about Queen Victoria?

If the idea was put to him, why shouldn’t Barker make a film about Henry’s daughter Elizabeth, who had become just as great a queen—if not greater—than Queen Victoria? Like Elizabeth, her hair was a blazing, fiery red. As Good Queen Bess she would be sensational. Off-screen, she would be Lady Jethney.

When it came to such a choice, the decision was easy.

“Yes!” she shouted above the cacophony of noise being made all around them.

Exultantly Theo grabbed hold of her hand and, ignoring a bewildered Zac Zimmerman, dragged her after him as he fought a way through the crush in the direction of the gangplank.

They reached it without a second to spare. The
Titanic
’s mammoth whistle blew. And blew again. And again.

It was the signal for the moment of departure. As the gangplank juddered and shook, Theo and Marigold hurtled down it, hand in hand.