“I won’t ask you to betray professional secrets,” Susan said, “but your smile tells me it went well.”
“I think I was able to reassure Her Majesty.”
“What a relief,” Susan said.
“The queen mentioned luncheon. I brought an evening dress, but …” Julia spread her skirt.
“You’re fine as you are. We’ll sit down at one o’clock with the three princesses and Prince Leopold.”
“Dining with the royals.” Julia smiled. “You’re an old hand at it.”
Susan patted Julia’s arm. “It should be lively today with Louise back. And Henry Ponsonby is always amusing company at the table. He’s rumored to be next in line as the queen’s private secretary. I’ll give you a few minutes and come back for you.”
Twenty minutes later, Julia waited inside the dining room for Her Majesty’s arrival. She stood between Colonel Henry Ponsonby and Lady Sarah Winthrop, a lady of the bedchamber. Lady Sarah surprised Julia with a connection.
“I knew your great-aunt quite well when we were young,” she said. “Once upon a time. Caroline and I had tea last spring and reminisced, as the ancient are apt to do.”
“Ancient? Never. I won’t hear of it,” Colonel Ponsonby said.
“My aunt seems ageless to me. And redoubtable.” Julia smiled. “She’s never shy about giving me good advice, although I don’t always admit it. What was she like as a young woman?”
Lady Sarah laughed. “Much the same, and with a wicked sense of humor. She had me in disgraceful stitches at a wedding, whispering about the hideous hats on the bride’s side of the family.” Then Lady Sarah frowned. “But I’m forgetting.”
“Forgetting what?” Henry Ponsonby asked.
“I was thinking of poor Lady Middlebury’s wedding. Carolineand I were attendants.” She sighed. “My, those two Fitz-Maurice girls were lovely. The sisters were the beauties of their seasons. They hadn’t a farthing between them, but they were well connected. Cousins to the Duke of Leinster, if I remember.”
Ponsonby said, “The Duke of Leinster?” Then he launched into a story about the duke, His Grace’s second cousin, a horse, and a well-known fountain in central London. In telling the anecdote, Ponsonby used the duke’s and his cousin’s full names.
“I apologize, but you must excuse me,” Julia said, turning away. She gripped Susan’s arm and said, “May I speak to you? Quickly, before the queen arrives?”
Susan walked Julia to the door. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I must send a telegram at once.”
Just before noon, Sir Lionel strolled into the smoking room of the Army and Navy Club, looking for a drink before luncheon. He cursed his luck and nearly turned on his heels, but he’d been spotted. The club’s biggest bore—and resident sot—weaved his unsteady way toward Dermott.
“Lionel, old chap. Just the fellow. Crimean comrades-in-arms and all that. We were refighting the Battle of Inkerman before you arrived.” He saluted unsteadily. “Come along. I’m buying.”
At least the fellow signed for his share of drinks. Lionel gave him credit for that. He nodded his thanks, and they moved to chairs by the fireside.
“Speaking of the Crimea reminded me. Saw a fellow on the street the other day. Thought he’d be hanged by now. Do you remember … no, you were in the Blues, so you wouldn’t know the chap.”
That didn’t stop the man from boring him with several stories attached to an unfamiliar name. Someone he called the PaleAssassin. While Dermott waited to sign for a second round, he idly asked, “Why was he called the Pale Assassin?”
“Chap looked like a cadaver. Like he had no blood running through him. Beanpole of a man, but strong, with a grip of iron.”
“Really?” Lionel took a sip and a discreet peek at the mantel clock.
“The fellow had a signature way of handling the Ivans. He’d smash a Russian to the ground with the butt of his rifle and drive the bayonet into his throat, just under the chin. Carved notches on the butt of his rifle. And he had the coldest, palest blue eyes you ever saw. Got a field promotion to sergeant.”
Dermott spilled his drink and mopped his lapels. “What’s his name?”
“The Pale Assassin.”
“His real name. Damn it, man. Think.”
He screwed up his face and then snapped his fingers. “Flood. Sergeant Simon Flood. That’s the chappie.”
