There were a few other buildings close by. A fine barn, which likely housed Mr. Throckmorten’s horses and carriage. Through the trees, a much smaller barn stood next to a smaller cottage, which had once been a dower house—and if all went well, would soon host the Wynchesters.
Their plan was to impose on the Throckmortens’ hospitality and stay in the guesthouse tonight, in order to easily slip out to interview witnesses and later inspect the manufactory when no one was watching.
But first, they needed to beinvited.
Elizabeth and Chloe led the way, with Kuni striding imposingly on Elizabeth’s other side.
She had left the tall bearskin hat in the carriage. Not only wasn’t this a ceremonial occasion, the Throckmortens’ door wasn’t tall enough for Kuni to walk through wearing so much hat on her head. Carrying it under her arm would have spoiled the effect completely.
Chloe wore an elegant, but unostentatious traveling gown of subtle blue stripes with swansdown trim.
Elizabeth…well. She was decked in a little bit of every style, going back centuries. An enormous train filled with layer upon layer of bows and ruffles. Prodigious panniers jutted out from her hips, forcing her to navigate doors sideways. Leg-of-mutton sleeves, tight at the wrists only to balloon to impossible heights at the shoulders. An alarming ruff the likes of which Kuni had only seen in paintings, orbiting around her neck in a zigzag of starched lace. Her sword stick was festooned with bows and ribbons.
And all this in contrasting shades of bruised purple, garish yellow, and lurid pink. Even Elizabeth’s plump cheeks had been rouged an unearthly pink, and her lips painted like plums.
Kuni would have been embarrassed to be guarding her. She did not look the least bit Balcovian.
Marjorie said this was the point. Tommy had designed “Princess Mechtilda’s” ensemble to ensure the princess remained the only object of interest during the visit. The Throckmortens would be so busy staring at Elizabeth that they wouldn’t notice a handful of unremarkable servants disappearing into the woodwork.
Chloe rapped the knocker.
An understandably startled butler opened the door.
“Why, good day, sir,” Chloe said, as though it were the butler who was the unexpected surprise. “I am the Duchess of Faircliffe, and my esteemed companion is Her Royal Highness, Princess Mechtilda of Balcovia.”
The poor butler’s eyes widened with each word until they nearly fell out of his head. No sounds escaped his gaping mouth.
“We’ve come to pay a call on Mrs. Throckmorten. Is your mistress receiving today?” Chloe lifted the butler’s limp hand and placed two calling cards in his gloved palm.
One was the Duchess of Faircliffe’s actual calling card. The other, painted by Marjorie, was a florid riot of colors almost too decorative to make out Princess Mechtilda’s name.
The butler stared at the cards as though they might grow wings and fly away.
“Come in,” he gasped at last. “I will…I will see if my lady is at home.”
There was no need. Mrs. Throckmorten had heard the commotion and was briskly descending the staircase to investigate.
“What is the meaning of this, McCall?” she demanded.
“It’s a duchess,” the butler stammered. “And a princess.”
He handed her the calling cards.
She took them and blanched at the rich, gold-embossed names. Then spots of color bloomed high on her pale cheeks.
“Oh—of course—I didn’t realize—I—” She dipped a fawning curtsey, her head lowering almost to the floor.
“None of that,” Chloe said cheerfully, striding forward to give Mrs. Throckmorten’s hand a firm shake. “This is how they greet in Balcovia. Isn’t it fun? Your Highness, come see how charmingly Mrs. Throckmorten shall shake your hand.”
Elizabeth stepped forward, her frills and bustles and ruff almost blocking Mrs. Throckmorten from sight.
Chloe slid one hand behind her back.
Kuni palmed the pair of calling cards the duchess had just nicked from their hostess. She handed the cards to Graham behind her, who slid them into a pocket. Now there would be no physical record of their pretensions to royalty.
Chloe smiled at Mrs. Throckmorten. “I know our unexpected visit is a shock and an imposition…”
“No, no,” Mrs. Throckmorten said. “Not an imposition at all. Come in. Stay as long as you like.”
