A ghost of a smile flitted over Pippa’s face.
“Pippa. Pippa!” Henni hissed, panicked. “Someone is coming!”
Oh no. Not again! Once more she was caught, with no way to go.
This time she had the frame of mind to grab herbrushes and pail and shoved it sideways, towards the stone urn that stood on a pillar by the wall. A rattle, a clinking of spurs, followed by rapid footsteps that descended the stairs, and the sound of two male voices that approached.
She ducked low and turned sideways towards the wall, praying they wouldn’t see her. She did not want to have another encounter like she had with that awful man, Metternich. These encounters never went well.
Two men were approaching. One in a white uniform, with his tricorn under his arm, the other in a dark blue one, who was currently speaking.
“We’ve done everything there could be done. The last resort that I might—most humbly—suggest is that we involve the secret police. It is a fact that they have more resources than we do?—”
“Do not, in your wildest dreams, even consider that.”
Pippa’s head snapped up.
That voice!
“But we have no other choice,” the other man argued, desperation in his voice. “I’ve personally combed through every inch of the area, like you ordered, and there is not a single indication, no hint of an inkling, of where she could be.”
“Then you haven’t tried hard enough.” The voice was cold, hard. “Breathe one word about this matter to Metternich and I’ll call you guilty of treason.”
Pippa’s mouth dropped.
“But Highness,” the man’s voice sounded hurt. “I would never dream of doing so.”
“Good. I want you to continue the search. This is an order.”
A strange kind of ringing entered her ears.
The men were almost upon them; they reached the bottom stair; they were here, right next to her, passing her.
His glance swept over her—saw her… He saw her!
And dismissed her.
Pippa’s body grew rigid and cold, and she forgot to breathe.
They passed her, turned, took the second staircase down—and were gone.
Her entire body shook uncontrollably, and she sat down, full bottom, on the cold marble floor.
Of all the thoughts she could have thought, the only thought that remained uppermost in her mind, that somehow hurt more than anything else he could have done, was:
He didn’t recognise her.
ChapterEleven
Representation.Representation. Representation.
And, to alleviate the tedium of it all, duty and obligation. And, just in case there wasn’t enough to fill his days, some more duty.
This, Leopold Klemens Alexander concluded, as he descended from his Lipizzaner stallion, was what summed up the life of an archduke, from the moment he was born until now. Every minute, every second was filled with it.
The moments of genuine joy and freedom he had experienced in his life were rare and he had bitterly fought for them, and kept them secret from everyone.
Like his summer trips to Tirol, where he studied with his favourite tutor, Professor Basil Cranwell.
