The Princess Plan. Julia London

Palace. Hollis was a frequent visitor to the house in Bedford Square, updating her family on the most recent theories as to who or what had befallen the gentleman, whose name, she’d discovered, was Mr. Matous Reyno. At first it was suspected the culprit was English, perhaps someone opposed to the trade agreement, for who would have access to that part of Kensington but an Englishman? And yet all the servants at the palace had been questioned and no clue had emerged.

      The queen herself had offered a reward for anyone with information who came forward.

      When no one came forward, suspicion shifted to the Alucians—there was turmoil in their part of the world, everyone said, and surely it had to do with that. But the whereabouts of the Alucians, including their serving staff, were accounted for on the evening of the ball.

      “One could conclude that poor Mr. Reyno cut his own throat,” Hollis said drily. She reported that the Alucian princes were made distraught by the crime, and understandably so. “But the crown prince has conducted himself admirably in the course of the meetings in spite of his tragic loss,” she said confidently. “He continues to push for the trade agreement.”

      Eliza thought of the green eyes behind the mask and tried to imagine them distraught.

      “And now I’ve nothing for the gazette.” Hollis sighed. “It seems rather gauche to speak of fashion in light of the tragedy, does it not?”

      “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

      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.