“There might be a more cynical reason,” I proposed. “The Alpenwalders derive a good deal of their national income from the money spent by mountaineers traveling to climb the Teufelstreppe. They must be desperately embarrassed that Miss Baker-Greene died on their alp.”
“You may indeed be right,” Lady C. said briskly. “Alpinists are a superstitious lot and one of their contingent has already let slip that the numbers of planned expeditions for the next season are decidedly low. A bit of good publicity will certainly not hurt, if that is what they are after. I only know that I have been instructed by Her Serene Highness’s people to make certain the grand tradition of climbing in the Alpenwald is sufficiently reflected in this exhibition to further formal Anglo-Alpenwalder relations.”
“I wasn’t aware therewereformal Anglo-Alpenwalder relations,” I put in.
“God yes,” Stoker replied. “Father used to do business with them.We do not have a proper embassy in Hochstadt, but he acted as a sort of de facto consul for a few years—well before I was born. He said it was the oddest little place he had ever been. One mountain, one small city, one castle, and seventy varieties of beer. He remembered it with great difficulty,” he finished with a grin. I was not surprised the late Viscount Templeton-Vane had afforded himself of whatever libationary charms the Alpenwald offered. He had not been a particularly abstemious man, if his reputation was correct.
“And one of our own royal family married into theirs a few generations back,” Lady C. put in. “A sister of George III? Or was it George IV? In any event, we have an entire exhibition to finish and less than a week in which to do it. Do you think we can manage?” A trace of worry touched her brow, creasing it.
“Certainly,” Stoker soothed. “If I have to hold this blasted goat together with my bare hands while the princess walks by.”
She smiled. “Thank you. And naturally, you will both be expected to be here for Her Serene Highness’s official opening of the exhibition. You will be presented to the princess.”
Stoker and I exchanged glances again. After a few of our more recent adventures, I had had quite enough of princesses, but Stoker’s concern was more pragmatic.
“Surely you do not mean to present me,” he said gently.
Stoker’s status as a man whose marriage had ended in divorce put him socially beyond the pale. He could never be presented at Court, nor would any member of the royal family or the highest circles of society recognize him in public. This troubled him not at all; in fact, on more than one occasion he observed he would have divorced his mildly homicidal wife far earlier if he had known it would result in people leaving him in peace.
Lady C.’s expression was one she did not often adopt, but it was sternly effective. She could not bear hypocrisy, and the notion thatStoker should be ostracized for divorce when almost every member of refined society was cheerfully committing adultery was one she found enraging.
“I have spoken to the princess’s entourage and made it quite clear that the dictates of the Hippolyta Club forbidding exclusion on the grounds of marital status are to be honored, regardless of royal custom.”
I grinned at him. “You know the rules, Stoker. We do not discriminate against the divorced here, but the fact that you are a man means you are welcome only on sufferance.”
I turned back to Lady C. “And I am to be presented as well?”
“As one of the official representatives of the club,” she said, clearly expecting I would appreciate the honor.
I thought of what would most likely be endlessly boring rules on protocol and forced conversation with a princess who would most likely be dull in the extreme if not actively stupid. I bared my teeth in a smile. “What an unexpected delight,” I told her. “I cannot wait.”
CHAPTER
2
The next few days were ones of frantic activity, with more boxes being delivered from Alice Baker-Greene’s grandmother. That imperious old lady sent each with lengthy instructions on how the memorabilia were to be displayed written in a firm, bold hand. There was a small crate filled with tiny belts and pickaxes—a child’s collection of climbing gear. I brandished the murderous little things at Stoker.
“Can you imagine learning to climb as a child?” I asked.
Stoker looked up from where he was applying lavish amounts of glue to a sculpted base. “Did she?”
“She did indeed. Her grandmother taught her. Have you not readClimbing in the Peaks: A Lady Mountaineer’s Guide to the Penninesby Mrs. Pompeia Baker-Greene?”
“I have not,” he admitted.
I curled a lip. “She is a pioneer of the alpinist movement, a founding fellow of the Hippolyta Club, and yet you haven’t read her magnum opus. You are a dreadfully lax explorer.”
He gave me a repressive look. “I have hadrathera busy time of it lately,” he reminded me. He was not entirely wrong. Between sleuthingout murderers, cataloging the Rosemorran Collection, and allowing ourselves to experience the rumbustious pleasures of the flesh, we had had little time to spare for hobbies.
“It is quite a good read, although she does spend rather a lot of time discussing rocks. Mountaineers do love their rocks,” I added wistfully. “In any event, she chronicles her attempt first to teach her son to climb as a child still in skirts and later her granddaughter.”
“Where is her son now? Alice Baker-Greene’s father?” he asked as I plucked a jaunty little Tyrolean cap from the box.
“Dead,” was my succinct reply. “A climbing accident in the Karakoram.”
“Two climbing deaths in one family?” He gave a visible shudder. “How unspeakably tragic.”
“Three, actually,” I corrected. “Pompeia Baker-Greene’s husband, Alice’s grandfather, also perished on a mountainside. Somewhere in the Andes, if memory serves.”
