He bristled. “What on earth did I do?”
“You threw yourself between the ‘princess’”—she jabbed a finger in my direction—“and the explosive. And after I had written a beautiful piece detailing Maximilian playing the hero. Anyone standing on that pavement knows what really happened.”
“It was chaos,” I told her. “But your account was detailed—to a suspicious degree. In order for you to know how things were meant to play out, you must have had advance knowledge.”
To her credit, she flushed again. “Iamsorry. I ought to have told you, but Maximilian swore me to secrecy and said there was no danger whatsoever.”
“Maximilian.” This time I did not bother to conceal my triumph. “He knew.”
“He arranged it,” she said dully. “It was only a large firework. It was meant to make a good deal of noise and smoke and nothing more.”
“Then what was the point of it?” Stoker asked.
“To let Max play the hero with Gisela,” J. J. explained. “She has been dragging her feet over accepting his proposal and he is growing desperate. It was put to him that if she felt vulnerable, it might nudge her towards marriage. A situation where she was threatened—even if only for a moment—and he acted decisively and courageously might be just enough to tip her into his arms.”
“Suggested?” Stoker pounced upon the word. “By whom?”
“By an unlovely gentleman to whom he owes money. Maximilian is a bit of a gambler. He likes betting on horse races, dog races, turtle races.”
“Turtle races?” Stoker asked. “How the bloody hell does one race a turtle?”
“Slowly,” she said with a ghost of her old smile. “He went to Deauville after a quarrel with Gisela and found himself overextended. The fellow to whom he owes the money has rather nasty schemes for getting his debts repaid. The French lads in his employ are not above using a few persuasions—a club applied to a kneecap, an explosive tossed through a window. Whatever the situation requires. One of them threw the squib last night at a signal from Max. He blended into the crowd and was back in France on the first Channel steamer. You can despise him all you like, but I can assure you, the alternative would have been worse. The duke has fallen in with a particularly nasty crowd who will not take it well if he fails to pay his debts of honor.” She paused, drawing in a breath. “See here, I know what I did was very wrong, but no harm was actually done. I have spent my entire life taking risks like that—I haven’t had any other way to get ahead. And I have my first front-page byline out of it, so if you are expecting an apology, I’m afraid you will be sitting in the anteroom of hell before you hear one out of me.”
She lifted her chin, and in spite of her defiance, I was rather glad to see something of her old spirit in evidence. I did not like a defeated J. J.
“What about the chocolate box?” Stoker asked. “There was a threat left inside a box of rose and violet creams on the princess’s dressing table.”
“Another suggestion from Max’s unsavory companion from Deauville. He wanted to put Gisela on edge a bit so the ‘bomb’ would feeleven more frightening when it went off, make her feel like she was surrounded by enemies, that sort of thing.”
“That is diabolical,” I said. “How on earth can she possibly marry such a man?”
J. J. waved a dismissive hand. “He is no worse than most and better than many. The duke is treading water just now, you know. He owes a great deal of money and he is frightened. I think we all know how stupid frightened people can be.”
We all fell silent for a moment, and then Stoker spoke. “When Maximilian and Gisela stopped on the way to the station, where did they go?” I asked.
J. J. studied her nails. “I do not think I should say.”
“What?” I asked, resisting the urge to shake her.
J. J. shook her head and smiled. “I have told you quite enough and got nothing in return. Now, if you want anything else, you will have to make it worth my while.”
“Stoker, your notecase,” I said quickly. “How much have you got?”
“I do not want money!” she protested, clearly offended. “I want something far more valuable than that.” She sat back with an air of triumph.
“What on earth could we have that is more valuable than banknotes?” Stoker asked.
Her smile was rapacious. “It is very simple and will cost you absolutely nothing. I simply want to go to the dinner at Windsor Castle. As the attendant of Her Serene Highness, the Princess Gisela of the Alpenwald.”
A long moment of horrified silence followed her pronouncement.
Stoker spoke first. “Out of the question.”
“How do you even know about the dinner?” I asked.
“It is all the Alpenwalders talk about,” she said. “They are veryexcited. Apparently, it is one of the grandest things to happen to them since the Holy Roman Emperor came to tea in 1225.”
“No one in Europe was drinking tea in 1225,” I informed her acidly.
