The Royal Assassin by Kate Parker Read Free Book Online Page A

princess suddenly said the French word for bus.
    â€œBus, or omnibus,” I replied.
    â€œHorse.”
    I translated. “Why?”
    â€œI must have a general knowledge of English.”
    â€œWhen does a duchess need to know the word for bus?”
    Her answer was “Bread.”
    We went through several more common words until the men rejoined us. Then she switched to painting terms again.
    Walking into the next room, the princess froze. Then she started talking about the painting to our left in rapid French. To me it was an ordinary painting in the impressionist style, but the princess and Sussex were not the only ones studying it carefully.
    A blond woman in her early twenties was also looking wistfully at the canvas. Her mauve-colored dress, with dried mud imperfectly brushed from the hem, was out of style, at odds with her stylish hat with two large feathers and her pristine gloves. She was the same height as the princess and at a distance could pass for her. Up close, however, the two women wouldn’t be mistaken for each other for an instant.
    I wondered if there was a plan to swap this woman for the princess. It would only work if the impersonator kept at a distance from all who knew her. I found myself looking over my shoulder for thugs to drag off Princess Kira and replace her with this woman.
    Was this the reason her bodyguard needed to be killed?
    â€œI need to get back before they miss me. Will you gentlemen please summon the carriage? We’ll meet you in front of the building,” the princess said in French.
    â€œOf course.” Sussex bowed over her hand and then he and Blackford left to do her bidding.
    I started looking for the threat I suspected was coming, my pulse rushing in my head and my muscles poised to spring. Then I heard a rapid exchange of what I’d begun to recognize as Russian.
    I swung back to see the princess and the other blonde standing close together without touching, leaning toward each other, talking in their indecipherable tongue. The princess was getting teary eyed, and the young woman’s tone was soothing.
    After a scant minute of talk, a well-dressed couple began to approach our alcove. Instinctively, I cleared my throat before I’d made a conscious decision to keep the princess’s secret.
    With a few parting words, Princess Kira whipped around and marched over to me. “Shall we go?” she said, reverting to French.
    I nodded and walked through the gallery toward the front entrance with her. “Who is she?”
    â€œWho?”
    â€œThe woman you were talking to.”
    â€œI wasn’t talking to anyone.”
    â€œNonsense.”
    â€œIf you say I was talking to anyone, I shall deny it. No one will believe you.” Her tone and her expression were haughty.
    â€œThis isn’t Russia. I will be believed. However, I’ll keep your secret if you’ll tell me what is going on.”
    â€œShe, uh, was a maid in my parents’ house. She packed up and left without a word. I was surprised to see her here. There was a man involved, of course. They came here, but life hasn’tbeen as easy as they expected.” She looked straight ahead as she spoke, moving rapidly through the gallery’s rooms without glancing at the paintings.
    That was too easy. I didn’t believe her. Not because she didn’t look at me—I wasn’t of her class, after all—but because she couldn’t look at her beloved paintings while she lied.
    I was going to have to keep a very close watch on her.
    We walked back into the sunny afternoon, blinking at the change in light. As we descended the wide stairs, the Sussex carriage came into view circling Nelson’s Column. The princess was handed up into the carriage, I was next, and we rode back to Hereford House.
    â€œDo you want me to go in and smooth things over with the duchess?” Sussex asked.
    â€œNo. We’ll go in the way we left. Perhaps tomorrow we