Truth about Leo (16 page)

Leo painfully slipped on his coat, wondering when the pain in his shoulder was going to ease, but casting a sympathetic glance at his friend nonetheless. Nick looked like hell. Good. With the satisfaction brought by a wedding night behind him and anticipation of many more nights to come, Leo was full of enthusiasm for the wedded state. It was time that Nick stopped mooning about claiming he wasn't good enough for Thom and settled down to marrying her. “All of them are here, including Thom. Nice girl, Thom.”

“Yes, she—”

“Smart as a whip and doesn't waste your time chatting about insipid things like babies and the latest tittle-tattle.”

“I know—”

“Nice-looking too. She's not a beauty like Dagmar, but she's easy enough on the eyes. Any man would be lucky to wake up to her each morning.”

“Who is Dag—”

Leo made the killing blow with a flourish of his hat. “Pity no one has married her. Girl like that oughtn't be spending her life living with her aunt and Harry.”

Nick looked beyond miserable. Leo congratulated himself on a job well done. “She isn't—”

“Yes, she's very helpful and accommodating. In fact, Plum and Thom will be giving assistance to Dagmar this morning. Blast. I'll have to run for it. Salter can damn near raise welts with the tongue-lashing he gives people who keep him waiting.”

He dashed off before Nick could say anything more, and after planning what response he would make when Nick asked him to be best man at his wedding, mentally began constructing an apology for his late arrival that would hopefully appease his superior.

Princesses do not—repeat, do not—put toads into their cousins' beds.

—Princess Christian of Sonderburg-Beck's Guide for Her Daughter's Illumination and Betterment

“I don't understand, Your Highness—”

“If you wish for me to call you Thom, then you must call me Dagmar without the Highness.”

The small, round woman with a heavy Cockney accent said something that Dagmar took to be a request for her to raise her arms, and she did so, averting her eyes at the number on the tape as it encircled her bosom. She didn't care what anyone said; the sea air had made it grow.

“Very well, Dagmar. I don't understand why Mrs. Hayes had such an aversion to your companion. Are you certain that she didn't…” Thom's hands danced in the air in a vague attempt to express a blunt thought, finally resorting to just saying it. “Are you certain that your friend didn't do what Mrs. Hayes said she did?”

“Nonsense! Julia would never attempt to kill her, either by strangling—oh, higher, please. My husband seems to feel that too much of my bosom shows as is—either by stabbing, as Louisa claimed happened in her dream, or by any other means.”

“What's this about strangling?” Plum bustled into the room, greeting the seamstress with a cry of pleasure. “Oh, Madame Bentwhistle, how happy I am to see you. You've met our princess, I see. Dagmar, Madame is the most talented modiste I know, and I'm sure she'll have you dressed to the nines in no time at all. Are you almost done with the measuring?”

“We're done now. At least we are if Margaret took down those numbers right.” Madame gave a pointed look at the young woman with her, who appeared to be suffering from a perpetual, adenoidal sniff. “I have a few things that I can alter quickly, but the rest will take a few weeks. The shifts I can have done by tonight, and one walking gown that I was making up for a duchess, but as she's not seen fit to pay me for two years, your princess can have her gown.”

“That will be excellent, I'm sure,” Plum said, examining some fabric samples. “Oh, this would look splendid on you, Dagmar. Now who was strangled?”

Thom looked confused. “I don't know. All I heard about was a threatening note. Was there an attempt on Mrs. Hayes's life?”

“No, there wasn't. I told the story badly. No, no ruffles, Mrs. Bentwhistle. I am very anti-ruffles. My sainted mother said that only very young girls could wear ruffles without looking desperate, and I haven't been a very young girl for ages. I wouldn't be opposed to a touch of lace though. Mama always said you can't go wrong with good lace. Where was I?”

“I'm not sure,” Thom said, casting a glance toward Plum, who was perusing a sheaf of fashion drawings. “Maybe you should just tell it all again, since Aunt Plum didn't get to hear it.”

“There's not that much to tell, really,” Dagmar said, pointing to a pale green velvet when the seamstress held up two pieces of fabric. “That will do nicely for a pelisse. With gold trim. We were in the breakfast room, which faces the street in order to catch the morning sun, and Louisa noticed the post being delivered, so she said something about it always taking her butler so long to bring it in, and Julia offered to run out and fetch it from a footman, and Louisa said that would be nice, and so Julia did. Fetch the post from the footman, that is. No, the russet brown, Mrs. Bentwhistle. My mother told me to avoid deep reds since they make my skin look as green as a toad's. Well, Julia and I were chatting about what sight we might see this afternoon once the fitting is done, not really paying attention to Louisa—Mr. Dalton had left the breakfast room right after Leo departed—and all of a sudden there was a shriek and Louisa collapsed against her chair. We ran to her, naturally, but she started screaming and pointing at Julia, and saying that she had tried to curse her, and then she showed us the handful of salt on her plate that she said came in a letter.”

Dagmar paused, reliving the moment again: Julia, clutching her throat and protesting of her innocence, Louisa Hayes sitting at the table, her face red with anger, holding out a letter for Dagmar to see, and before her, a plate with a tiny mound of salt. There was something not right about the whole scene, but she couldn't put her finger on just what.

“Heavens,” Plum said, clearly fascinated by the tale. “And did the letter say anything to clear it up?”

Dagmar shook her head. “There were no words on it, just the symbol of a snake twined around a diamond shape. Louisa said it was an old Swiss curse that meant death was coming to the house. She claimed Julia slipped the letter into the stack of mail that had arrived, but she couldn't have. I would have seen a letter if she'd had one.”

They discussed the situation for the duration of the session with the dressmaker, but came to no conclusion other than that lace was definitely superior to ruffles and that Louisa might well be a bit round the bend so far as mental stability went.

“Not that I would blame her if she was overly distraught. Not with her son being killed by a deranged Englishwoman.” The ladies stared at her in horror. She hastened to add, “Oh, this was many years ago. Evidently the woman ran away to Copenhagen, and they wanted to know if I had ever heard of her. I haven't, sadly.”

“An Englishwoman…such as your companion?” Thom asked slowly.

“Good Lord, no! Julia wouldn't kill anyone. She's far too delicate for such a thing.”

“It's very curious nonetheless.”

“Regardless, I think Louisa is…perhaps overly imaginative is a good description.”

“A charitable one, to be sure. I'll be ready to go in a few minutes,” Plum said as they were donning their hats and coats a short while later, adding as she trotted up the main staircase, “I just want to check on the twins and make sure they're resting and not playing horse races, as they were this morning.”

“They play at horse racing?” Dagmar pulled on her gloves.

“Yes, but not often,” Thom said. “You have no idea how hard it is to get two grown horses up the back stairs. I won't be a moment. I just want to fetch my diary so that I can note any houses that you like, in case Leo would like to see them later.”

Dagmar emerged from the house to the sunny street, looking around her with pleasure. This was a pleasant neighborhood, with a central square and a few people strolling the streets. One was approaching her now, a familiar man who sped up when he saw her.

“To the very princess a morning most good,” the butler Juan said, stopping before her to kiss her hand and waggle his eyebrows. She buttoned her coat when his eyes strayed to her chest. Perhaps Leo was right that her bodices were a bit low. They hadn't seemed that way in Copenhagen, but then, her bosom hadn't appeared to be as large there.

“Good morning. Isn't it a lovely day?”

“Very so, chyes.” Juan glanced over at a carriage that stopped, his eyebrows rising at the man who emerged from it. “It is you! Britisher! But it has been the years of many, has it not?”

“My name is Britton, not Britisher. And yes, it's been a few years. How are you, Juan?”

To Dagmar's surprise, the man who exited the carriage was the servant from Leo's lodgings. What on earth was he doing there? He obviously knew Juan; perhaps they were old friends.

“I am excellent fine because I have been seeing my manager of the ladies,” he said, smirking at her in a way that made her want to button her coat a second time.

“Manager of the…oh.” The servant gave her a thoughtful look that turned to one of dismay when he glanced behind her at the open door. “Dear God, you're…what are you doing here?”

She stared at him in surprise for a few moments before saying, “Leo—”

“For the love of all that's holy, woman,” he interrupted, startling her when he took her arm and forcibly marched her down the street. “Leo isn't there! I just met him a short while ago, and he was off to Pall Mall. You must leave immediately. If you need assistance or help in escaping the woman in charge, I can help you, but not here. This is Lord Rosse's house, and his wife would have my balls on a platter if she thought I was bringing pros…er…working ladies around.”

“I am not a working lady,” Dagmar said indignantly, pulling her arm from his grasp and stopping despite his obvious desire to remove her from the premises. What a very odd servant he was. Then again, Juan the butler was just as odd, and he had disappeared into the house. Perhaps all servants in England behaved in such a curious manner. She would have to ask Leo at the first available opportunity. “Leo won't let me work.”

“No, of course he won't. He never was one to share his women. That's beside the point. If you have a message you wish to get to him, I will take it, but—”

“Nick!”

The servant froze, swearing under his breath before he shoved Dagmar behind him when he turned to face the door of the house. “Oh, hello, Thom.”

“Oh, hello, Thom?
Oh, hello, Thom?
Really? Is that how you greet me after four years, seven months, and eleven days since the ball at Britton House, not that I was counting?” An incensed Thom marched down the street to where they stood. She clutched a red Morocco diary in a manner that indicated she might at any moment smack him alongside the head with it.

“I'm sorry that I had to leave without letting you know—” Nick started to stay, but to Dagmar's intense enjoyment, Thom cut him off with jerk of the diary.

“You ran away because you couldn't give me a straight answer to my question. Just like a coward, Nick. A
coward
.”

“It wasn't that at all. I had a job—”

“You didn't want to give me an answer, so you ran away to France for seven months, and then when you came back, you were
still
too cowardly to face me!”

“I'm not a coward—”

“That sounds like the actions of a cowardly man to me,” Dagmar said, moving to the side to watch Thom, lest she suddenly start beating the odd servant with her diary. Not that the man wouldn't deserve a sharp talking-to after the manner he used while trying to get rid of her, but still, she didn't condone beating people with diaries. “What question was it that he refused to answer?”

“Madam,” Nick said, scowling at her. “This is a private conversation, and I will thank you to take yourself off.”

“Oh!” Thom said, taking Dagmar's arm and holding her tight. “How dare you speak to my friend like that, you…you…”

“I thought coward was a perfectly good adjective,” Dagmar commented. “Men seem to dislike it so very much. Though you might risk being considered repetitive if you use it again.”

“Coward!” Thom finished.

“Friend?” Nick's shoulders slumped. “I might have known you would take up with someone the likes of her. No offense intended, madam. It's just that Gillian's influence is reaching further afield than I thought.”

“Who's Gillian?” Dagmar asked Thom.

“Nick's stepmother, the countess of Weston. She's very nice and is my aunt's great friend, although you don't want to get into a confined space with her dogs. They tend to be odiferous.” Thom turned back to Nick, ire flashing in her eyes. “As for you, sirrah, since you obviously have no excuse for your actions of the last four years, seven months, and eleven days—”

“Not that anyone is counting,” Nick said under his breath.

“—then you can just take yourself off.”

“I came just to see you!”

“Really? Why?”

Dagmar had to applaud her new friend's straightforward manner. She liked the fact that Thom didn't put on airs or throw grand, dramatic scenes. She watched with interest as Nick's face worked through a variety of emotions: irritation, dismay, embarrassment, and finally, a sort of pathetic resignation that had her stifling a giggle. Clearly there was a history between the two people, and just as clearly, Thom wasn't going to let Nick off the hook.

Nick glanced at Dagmar. “I wanted to explain to you where I've been, and see how you've been and how you are keeping yourself, and…and that sort of thing. Could we possibly discuss this without your
friend
?”

The emphasis on the last word was unmistakable, and Dagmar had a feeling she'd just been insulted somehow.

“Why?” Thom asked again, a little frown between her brows. “Do you have something to say that would embarrass Dagmar?”

“No, but—”

“Nick! What a surprise to see you! Harry told me you were off in the countryside saving fallen women and lost orphans. How have you been? You look horrible.” Plum emerged from the house and swept Nick into an embrace that he returned. “Have you been ill?”

He laughed, giving her a squeeze before releasing her. “Not at all, just underfed and overworked as usual. You look as wonderful as ever. Is Harry at home?”

“Not right now, no, and before you ask, you can't stay with us unless you've had the chicken pox. The twins have it and insisted on spreading it to everyone who comes within a ten-yard radius of them. Are you in town for a while, then?”

“Yes.” He slid a glance toward Thom, who was still frowning at him. “I wanted to speak with Thom, but it appears you're going out.”

“We are indeed. We promised to show the princess some houses.”

“Princess?” He looked puzzled, and at that moment, the penny dropped in Dagmar's brain.

“Oh!” she yelled and, grabbing Thom's diary, whomped him on the chest with it. “You think I'm a harlot!”

“What?” he yelped, rubbing his chest and looking confused. “Me? No. I never! Wait, you
aren't
a prostitute?”

Thom took the diary from her and walloped him again on the chest. “She's a princess, you ignoramus!”

“How the blazes was I supposed to know that? A princess? A real one? Not just…er…she's not just saying she is, is she? You have some proof?”