The Princess Plan

“Of course,” Eliza agreed.

“Oh, well,” Hollis said. “Mrs. Pendergrast gave me a lovely pattern for sewing a baby’s christening gown.”

The lack of tantalizing content for Hollis’s gazette did not remain a problem for long, however. It changed one morning when Mr. French, who normally delivered the post, did not appear at the house in Bedford Square. In his place came a stout little fellow who was scarcely taller than a child, wearing a greasy cap and dirty coat. Eliza had seen him around a time or two lurking near the Covent Garden Market.

He handed the post to Eliza.

“Where is Mr. French?” she asked curiously as she gingerly took the post from hands that were gray with dirt.

“Dunno, miss.” He seemed anxious to be on his way, and indeed, once she had taken the mail, he hurried down the steps and across the square as quickly as he could.

In that stack of mail was a handwritten note that would change the course of Eliza’s life.

CHAPTER SEVEN (#u88a6cd9c-f8cc-5d71-93e3-8de0058f6a94)

THERE IT WAS, in black-and-white—a rumor implicating Rostafan, printed in a women’s fashion gazette, of all things.

The pomp and gaiety of the Royal Masquerade Ball was marred by the tragic death of an Alucian principal. While it would be untoward to speculate, one cannot help but wonder why or where a certain high-ranking Alucian official, with a generally large presence, would absent himself before the last set of dances?

And neither should one speculate on what a recently wed lady, lithe in appearance and light of heart, will do when she discovers her husband has taken a keen interest in her dearest friend. Therefore, we will not speculate.

—Honeycutt’s Gazette of Fashion and Domesticity for Ladies

“A generally large presence,” Caius repeated, his brow furrowing. “Generally? General? A high-ranking general? Is it meant to implicate Rostafan?”

Caius, Sebastian and Leopold were bent over the gazette that Leopold had brought to Sebastian. Leopold said a friend had pointed out this rumor, this accusation, very plainly printed. But who would say such a thing? Based on what information?

Sebastian flipped through the pages of the gazette, looking for anything else that might inform him. The pages were mostly advertisements for ladies’ dresses or products such as teething syrup for babies or pomade guaranteed to produce a thicker, longer head of hair if rubbed into the scalp three times a day. There were ads for household products that would make a home sparkle and a husband smile. There was a brief article detailing the proper way to set a table and instructions for making a child’s christening gown.

But here, on the last page, under the heading News About Town, this...rumor? Jest? False clue? “I want to speak to whoever has seen fit to publish this rubbish,” Sebastian said, pushing the gazette away with disgust. “What sort of person profits from gossip?” He focused on his foreign minister. “Who would allow such rubbish to be printed without any evidence whatsoever?”

Caius looked at Leopold. Leopold shrugged.

“Find out,” Sebastian said curtly. “Bring him to me. I would speak with the author.”

“You?” Leopold shook his head. “You can’t speak to him, Bas. Anyone but you.”

There was nothing Sebastian hated worse than being told what he could or could not do. “Why in bloody hell not?”

“You know why. The English authorities are handling the investigation. You can’t undertake one of your own. Think of how it would appear if the crown prince of Alucia was chasing around London in search of clues like a common constable.”

Sebastian flicked his wrist at his brother. He didn’t care what anyone would say of him. He was devastated by Matous’s murder. He had to do something.

“All right, you don’t care,” Leopold said curtly. “But think of what our father the king would say about it.”

That gave Sebastian pause. His father very much cared about appearances. King Karl believed that the appearance of fair and impartial rule, and his projection to the world as a true and just monarch were what kept him on the throne when there were whispers that Felix’s claim was legitimate.

Sebastian looked out the window. He couldn’t erase the image of Matous lying on that bed with his throat cut. He couldn’t stop feeling the ravage of guilt for not having come back to his rooms that night. Had he come when he’d said he would, Matous would have been with him. “Find who wrote this,” he said quietly.