Chapter Twenty-Three Hélène
Chapter Twenty-Three
Hélène
Hélène had not counted on seeing Emanuele, the Duke of Aosta, again so soon. Part of her had thought she might never see him. But that was unmistakably his voice, announcing to a bemused footman that he had a delivery for the Princess Hélène.
“Emanuele!” she cried out, hurrying to the entrance hall.
At the sight of her, Emanuele grinned. In his embroidered waistcoat, with a cravat tied in a Continental knot, he looked every inch the visiting prince.
Hélène felt a clang of cognitive dissonance seeing him this way, when the last time they’d been together, they had been climbing trees in the moonlight.
The very next morning, the Orléans party had left for Malta; and then Hélène’s parents must have decided they were done sailing, because they’d sent the yacht on to Livadia.
They had returned to England the slow way, overland, still making stops to see family members and friends—Prince Baudouin in Belgium, King Ferdinand in Bulgaria.
Hélène had been back in London for a week now.
She hadn’t attended any balls or social events; she couldn’t bear to witness the farce that was Eddy and May’s engagement.
Her parents were hardly pushing her to go out; they now knew that she and Nicholas would not get engaged, since a letter from the tsar had been waiting for them at Sheen House.
“Romanovs,” Philippe had said dismissively, tossing the letter in the trash. “So painfully snobbish. Good riddance.”
Her father seemed to have assumed that Nicholas thought Hélène wasn’t good enough. Hélène let him think that, because there was no way she could explain the truth.
For now, she was happy enough to stay home.
Everything in London felt too painful to face.
Just yesterday she’d ventured out shopping with her mother, only to see an eau de cologne labeled Princess May’s Scent.
It took all of Hélène’s self-restraint not to shatter the bottle right there on the paving stones.
At least Eddy was currently out of town.
He’d gone to Scotland with his sister Louise and her husband for some autumn shooting, leaving May to swan about London alone, playing the role of the royal bride-to-be.
Hélène liked to think that Eddy had gone specifically to avoid May—that the wedding fever that had taken over London was as disgusting to him as it was to Hélène.
“What are you doing here?” she said now, coming to greet Emanuele. “I didn’t know you planned on visiting London!”
“I was in Menton, and wanted to stop by,” he offered, as if the south of France were a block away instead of several days’ journey. “I have something for you,” he added.
Hélène tugged him into the airy blue-and-white sitting room down the hall. She left the door open for propriety’s sake, then whirled on him eagerly. “Well? What is it?”
Emanuele withdrew an envelope from his pocket. “I would have forwarded it through the post, but after your previous experience with letters getting stolen— Well, I wanted to deliver it myself.”
It was from Laurent.
“Finally,” Hélène exclaimed, ripping it open.
That night in Rome, when they’d come down from the trees, Hélène had written Laurent to ask about his conversation with May. At last, she had his reply.
“I’m sorry,” Emanuele was saying. “Your Laurent must not have known to send his reply to Sheen House, because he posted it back to my uncle’s palace in Rome.
It’s amusing, really, that the letter went from France to Italy and then back to me in France…
.” He trailed off when he realized that Hélène wasn’t listening.
Your Royal Highness, Laurent had begun—a title he had never used while he and Hélène were together. He had finally learned to be circumspect, though it was a little too late.
Please allow me to express my deepest apologies for any distress I may have caused you.
The conversation to which you are referring occurred between myself and a Miss Agnes Endicott, an American.
I was under the impression that she was a friend of yours.
I have never met Her Serene Highness the Princess May, and was not aware that she was involved in any of your affairs… .
“Well?” Emanuele prompted. “I must admit, the suspense is torturous.”
Hélène showed him the note. “He says that he gave the incriminating letter to someone named Agnes Endicott.”
“Endicott, as in the steel family?”
“Who are they?” Hélène asked.
“Wealthy Americans.”
Hélène cast her mind back, trying to put a face to the name, but she never paid all that much attention to other young women.
“So, how are we going to retrieve your letter from Agnes?” Emanuele settled back on her family’s cushions with decided purpose.
That we caught Hélène’s notice. “I wasn’t…You don’t need to help.”
“But London is so boring, and I promised Giuseppe I would stay for at least a few days.” Emanuele’s eyes glinted mischievously. “Please allow me a part in your plan.”
“Who is Giuseppe?” she asked, stalling for time.
“Tornielli. Our ambassador to England.”
Emanuele, second in line to the Italian throne, was staying at a bachelor’s townhouse near Whitehall.
That struck Hélène as something oddly admirable.
He could have visited any number of family friends, calling upon the endless skein of relations and obligations that tangled all of Europe’s royalty—could be at a grand estate, being fêted with champagne and caviar.
Instead he was staying with an ambassador, the way a statesman would. Not a prince.
“I need to make some inquiries about this Agnes Endicott,” Hélène mused aloud. “You’re welcome to join me, of course, but…”
“Oh, I intend to do more than make inquiries. You are going to need my help if you hope to sneak into Agnes’s home and steal that letter back.”
Hélène was torn between amusement and confusion. “And what role will you play?”
“I shall be the diversion, of course,” Emanuele announced. “If we were fishing, you might call me the bait.”
Hélène waited until Emanuele was on the Endicotts’ front steps before ducking into the alleyway. Behind her, she heard the inward swing of a door, and the low tones of a butler’s puzzled voice.
“Good afternoon,” she assumed the butler would say, studying Emanuele with confusion.
Though she couldn’t hear her friend’s reply, she could guess at it: “Please tell His Grace that his friend the Duke of Aosta has arrived.”
She and Emanuele had agreed on this approach, knowing that news of his arrival would travel rapidly through the house, as exciting things always did.
Hélène imagined the butler repeating loudly, “His Grace…the Duke of Aosta? But, sir, I’m afraid you have the wrong residence….” At which point a footman would whisper it to a lady’s maid, who would run up within seconds to tell Mrs. Endicott. And hopefully put the whole house in a bit of an uproar.
“My apologies,” Emanuele would reply, “I’m looking for His Grace the Duke of Sutherland, and am clearly mistaken in my address. I shall trouble you no further.”
“But wait, sir, let us assist you!” the butler would exclaim, trying to detain him.
There was no time to waste; Hélène held her breath and walked down the half flight of stairs that led to the Endicotts’ staff entrance. As she’d expected, it opened directly into their kitchen.
Hélène was dressed in an outfit borrowed from Violette, a starched white shirt and serge skirt.
While it didn’t quite match those of the Endicotts’ maids, she hoped that no one would look at her closely enough to notice.
This was a large household, and probably had a good deal of turnover among the staff.
A woman stood at the sink, elbow-deep in dishes; she barely glanced up at Hélène’s arrival. Hélène murmured something vague and turned a corner. She needed to walk briskly, head ducked down, like a maidservant on an errand—
She collided with a real maidservant holding a stack of plates.
“Oh no!” Hélène grabbed the edge of the stack, which was swaying precariously, then lifted the plates from the girl’s grasp. She looked a few years younger than Hélène, with frizzy blond hair escaping from beneath her bonnet.
“Thank you,” the girl breathed. “I know I shouldn’t have carried so many at once, but I still haven’t swept the stairs, and Mrs. Travers will be so angry.
There’s a gentleman just arrived, and Jane said he’s dressed like a king!
” She paused, seeming to notice that there was something slightly off about Hélène’s uniform. “Anyway, thank you…”
“Violette. I’m new.” Hélène set the plates in the pantry, alongside all the others in the same china pattern. She hoped that was the right spot.
“Violette,” the girl repeated, sounding unconvinced. “I’m Annie.”
Hélène started up the back stairs before Annie could detain her. The staircase emerged into a hallway with multiple doors, ending in a much wider grand staircase toward the front of the house.
“Good afternoon, Your Grace!” Hélène heard a female voice exclaim downstairs. “I’m Mrs. Endicott. You’re looking for the Duke of Sutherland? We must help you track down his address! Won’t you have a cup of tea while you wait?”
“You’re too kind,” Emanuele replied. Hélène could picture him bowing with a little flourish, causing Mrs. Endicott to swoon. “I’m in town from Italy, and still don’t know my way around London very well.”
“Agnes! Come down!” the woman bellowed up the stairs. Never shout in company, Hélène’s mother would have said. You sound as coarse and loud as a fishmonger’s wife. Poor Mrs. Endicott didn’t know that the appropriate course of action would have been to send a footman to fetch Agnes.
Hélène kept moving down the hall, briskly opening each door in succession: a linen closet; an empty bedroom, probably meant for guests; another closet, this one full of cleaning supplies—
A door swung violently open down the hall. A young woman stormed out, green eyes flashing.