Another Scandal in Bohemia by Carole Nelson Douglas Read Free Book Online

whose coloring was as pallid as whey, I thought uncharitably. Queen of Bohemia or not, Clotilde Lothman von Saxe-Meningen had far to go if she was to make me forget her role in destroying Irene’s fondest expectations, if not breaking her heart.
    This so-called Queen was self-conscious enough to start at our entrance and move as if to rise. Irene restored the situation to its proper tone by executing a small curtsy. I managed an uncivil bob, but the Queen seemed little interested in social courtesies.
    “Madame Norton.” She looked unerringly toward Irene. “Please be seated, but your companion, I fear—”
    “No one fears Miss Huxleigh,” Irene said, stepping around the sofa to take the indicated seat. “I never consult without her; she is the soul of Prudence, even though her Christian name is the classical Penelope. Besides, who is to pour if we have urgent matters to discuss? I cannot manage teapots and think at the same time.”
    “Oh, I as well!” the Queen exclaimed in a tone of pathetic relief. Her French had a slight, Scandinavian singsong, and she eyed me nervously. “Miss... Hussey may stay if she will swear to say nothing of what we discuss.”
    Irene smothered a hoot at this latest corruption of my surname. “Oh, she will be as silent as the grave, our Miss Hussey. Depend upon it. I do, however, ask her to take notes on occasion. You must warn her if any matter is of such sensitivity that she dare not write it down.”
    The Queen slid me another uneasy glance from dismal gray-green eyes. “Miss Hussey will recognize such a juncture, I fear, only too well.”
    Her nod admitted me to the society of the sofa. I came around the one Irene occupied and found myself neatly finessed into position behind the Georgian silver teapot that I would command.
    Now that I was seated, and virtually ignored as the two women warily eyed one another, I could further examine the Queen’s appearance. When Irene and I had studied her likeness in the newspapers at the time of her engagement to the King of Bohemia—and “studied” is too scholarly a word; we had dissected her like a biological curiosity—our verdict had been unflattering.
    I saw nothing before me to change it. Queen Clotilde was a vapid blond woman, a sort of human daisy who looked as if she would shed her petals at the mildest breeze. Her pale hair, so fine it shone like wet satin, made her oval face seem browless and lacking eyelashes. True, this gave her large, limpid eyes a certain sad prominence, like a spaniel’s, for they drooped at the corners.
    And her nose! This long, unlovely feature ended too short a distance from her upper lip. She had one of those overpraised rosebud mouths, small and bowed, but with little natural color. Apparently she lacked the artifice to enhance a single one of her unfortunate features. I am not in favor of artifice, but could see its need in this case. Her eyes were rimmed with the red that should have warmed her cold lips and cheeks, not from weeping, but by virtue of her almost-albino nature. Even her hidden ears, I suspected, would be awkward in some way.
    I made my observations, all the while fussing with the tea things. Most domestic chores are a perfect disguise for a wandering mind or eye. I couldn’t help clattering spout to cup and spoon to dish; did the Queen know of Irene’s former connection to the King? As soon as I offered a cup of tea to her gloved hand, the Queen, in fact, seemed to forget me, and saved her nervous glances for Irene. What did Clotilde know?
    My friend suddenly took the conversational reins that had lain slack for far too long.
    “And how may I assist Your Majesty?” she asked outright. “Monsieur and Madame Worth said that you wished to consult me.”
    “Consult you,” the Queen repeated. “You make it sound like a transaction. Perhaps it is. I could not help overhearing you... admonish the ladies in the dressing room.”
    “Ah. The flaws of theatrical training. My voice, I am