Chapter 29 The Sting #2
When she steps back and straightens her gown, it’s with a rush of renewed purpose. Her eyes dry up in a blink.
Revenge has felt bitter all this time. Now, she suspects, it will only be sweet.
Béa returns to her station at the desk before the telegram machine, shooting her a grin from across the room as Alice opens
the door. After clicking it closed behind her, she strides into the Württembergian embassy with her head held imperiously
high.
Alice nods to Dagmar and manages not to laugh at her cook’s getup—Alpine maiden garb purchased from a theatrical costumer,
the look complete with two long, plaited pigtails. Dagmar picks up a tray of drinks and nods back, grave.
Alice glances reassuringly at Cora, who is pacing the room in her pretty pink dress. Cora answers the look with a nod of her
own.
To Ward, seated at a table in the corner, his ledger at the ready, she grants a rather cooler smile.
Last, she inspects their ambassador, standing proudly beneath the mounted Württembergian flag.
Dagmar’s bartender sweetheart, Konrad Weber, fits the bill even better than Alice could have hoped. In his tailored diplomat
uniform decorated with dangling war medals, his bristled mustache trimmed and oiled, he looks every bit the Bavarian grandee.
“Zay are already waiting to enter,” he notes, nodding to the front door. Even his accent is perfect, Alice marvels. “Care
to do zee honors?”
Konrad steps gallantly aside.
And the Duchess Marie Charlotte Gabriella of Württemberg opens the parlor-level door to the entrance hall.
Cora has never felt so nervous and exhilarated for a performance in her life. Her heart takes off, galloping like a wild pony,
as the embassy door flings open.
Mr. Vandemeer stands waiting in the vestibule, the first to arrive, naturally, looking as puffed and barrel-chested as a rooster
in his trim business suit.
“Velcome, velcome!” Alice’s newly minted ambassador cries, clicking the heels of his gilded and medaled green uniform. A bit
on the nose, Cora had thought of the costume as a first impression, but Alice had insisted that subtlety is lost on these
people, and now Cora can certainly see her point.
Konrad extends his hand to Mr. Vandemeer. “I am Gustav Roderick, zee Württemberg ambazeedor, yes?” He pumps Vandemeer’s hand
vigorously. “Zee well has run dry, eh? Now it ez time for a new type of green!”
Cora risks a glance in Alice’s direction. Was that an ad-libbed riff on their Württembergian folk saying? And is it her imagination,
or is Konrad’s accent growing more pronounced?
Alice, though, remains placid, immovable as marble beside the man.
“Err, James Vandemeer. A pleasure, Ambassador Roderick.”
“We make you at home.” The ambassador waves them in. “Come, come, take ze seats.”
As soon as Mr. Vandemeer makes himself comfortable in the embassy’s sitting room, Dagmar moves from her position next to the wall, braids flopping as she hurries over to the serving trolley.
She begins adding a thick brown mixture into a sherry glass, topping it off with a healthy pour of red wine from the nearby decanter.
Alice sits down prettily in an empty chair.
“An Esslingen cordial,” Alice boasts as Dagmar hands James Vandemeer the glass, the contents of which are disturbingly murky.
“At nine in the morning?” Vandemeer raises his eyebrows.
“Our country’s signature breakfast drink,” Alice explains. “It is meant to bring good fortune.”
Vandemeer takes a sip, sputtering, “Thick as molasses.”
“It is mainly Württembergian berry wine,” Alice adds. “Plus honey, spices, and a splash of fig liqueur. Prost!”
“Prost,” Vandemeer mutters.
“And for zee young lady.” The cook-turned-secretary hands Cora an identical glass of plain old juice.
How Cora wishes her own drink was spiked. She could use something right now to calm her nerves.
Entering soon after is Mrs. Witt, by herself. She struts inside, dressed to the hilt, a garish feathered hat, head to toe
in blinding green. She’s also clutching the largest crocodile skin handbag Cora has ever seen.
A minute later, Mr. Ogden arrives, alone as well. Cora imagines he must have suffered quite the argument leaving his clinging
wife to venture out for a meeting with Alice.
Next come the Peytons. Harry, suit pressed, hair combed, wearing a cautious smile, pushes inside a golden wheelchair bearing
a livered scowl of a man.
Alice and the ambassador hurry to greet them at the door, while Cora trails behind.
“Mr. Peyton,” Alice says crisply. “What a pleasure to meet you at last.”
“Are you the gal my blockhead son plans to marry?” Peyton Senior sneers up at Alice in appraising silence.
She stares back at the ancient man, every bit as coldly. To any unsuspecting onlooker, this would be the natural response
of any upstanding woman to a man as boorish as this. But Cora can see a deeper satisfaction in the set of Alice’s smile.
She’s locked eyes on him at last. Drawn him out, into her web. The worst of them.
“Ah, no,” Cora says quickly, stepping forward, lest the bald hatred playing over Alice’s face becomes evident to everyone.
“That would be me.” Cora gives a deferential curtsy. “I’m so pleased to meet you, Mr. Peyton.”
“Humph.” Peyton Senior’s eyes narrow as he studies her like a piece of meat. Cora resists the urge to squirm. She must have
passed his examination, at least in some fashion, because the old man nods faintly, then shouts behind him, “Move it, Harry!”
Harry does as commanded, flashing Cora a manic smile.
“It’s all very exciting,” he murmurs, wheeling the chair forward. “My father hardly likes anyone, but I dare say—”
“Quit jabbering and let’s get on with it!” Peyton Senior snarls. “What did I tell you, boy?”
“Simply waiting for one more,” Alice says. “Please. Make yourself comfortable.”
The marks attempt to mingle, a general air of expectation, discomfort, as the morning ticks toward the inevitable opening
bell. Eventually, though, they all take their seats, accepting Dagmar’s aggressive urging to try the Esslingen cordial, sipping
on the oversweet beverage with barely disguised reluctance. The room now reeks of impatience.
Alice glances conspicuously at the clock.
“Nearly opening time for the markets,” she says, feigning nonchalance. “Does everyone have their initial buy-in amounts at
the ready? Am I saying that right, Mr. McAllister?”
She laughs helplessly.
“You are indeed, Your Grace,” Ward calls out from his seat in the corner, a wide ledger on his lap, pen at the ready.
The ambassador adds with gravity, “I do hope you all understood zee need for an initial deposeet of zee cash.”
This time Alice barely suppresses a glare. Yes, Konrad is most certainly overplaying his role—that was meant to be Alice’s
line, wasn’t it? And she would have pronounced the words far more convincingly.
“Izz everybody here?” he adds curiously.
“What the hell is the holdup?” Peyton Senior snaps.
“We’re expecting two more.” Alice stands swiftly but keeps herself anchored to her silk-upholstered chair, knuckles turning
white against its back. “Perhaps they’ve gotten lost.”
The Ameses, Cora realizes, her thoughts beginning to free-fall. The Ameses are the ones missing.
In a panic, she replays her conversation with Arabella during the poverty ball. Her request for the girl to not only join
them but follow Cora’s lead. Did Cora’s appeal tip her off in some fashion? Could Arabella have sensed something amiss? Did
she warn her parents, implore them not to come?
“Nearly nine thirty, Your Grace.” Mr. Ogden leans across the arm of his chair to stroke Alice’s hand.
She flinches so minutely Cora’s sure the cretin hasn’t noticed it.
Mr. Vandemeer puts down his glass. “Yes, let’s get this show on the road.”
Alice’s gaze remains tenaciously fixed upon the door.
Cora ignores the muted pangs of guilt and shame coiling inside her. No. She made the right decision about Arabella, she’s certain of it. Someone needs to break this vicious cycle.
Cora just hopes she didn’t blow the whole sting in the process.
A minute later, the door slaps open once again.
Cora lets out a low whistle. Abracadabra, there they are.
Robert Ames skitters in first while Arabella trails behind him, looking guileless as ever, her hair prettily curled, her tiny
figure flattered by a simple violet tea dress. If Alice is surprised by the girl’s uninvited attendance, she doesn’t let on,
greeting her with a kiss to the cheek. Mrs. Ames brings up the rear and appears to have dressed for Arabella’s royal wedding,
puffed up in a huge lace hat and overly frilly ensemble complete with train.
The three of them sit down together on one settee, huddled, like three blind mice.
“I do hope you don’t mind that Arabella has decided to attend as well,” Mrs. Ames says, squirming to get comfortable. “It
only seemed appropriate to Robert and me, given how this occasion will impact her future among the royal ranks—”
“Of course, the more the merrier.”
Alice once more glances at the clock, her eyes now sparkling with resolve.
The game is on.
“Mr. McAllister,” Alice demurs, turning to Ward in the corner. “Would you mind terribly outlining the financial proceedings, as you suggested them to me? You know I have a distaste of talking about money.”
“It’s one of the things we love most about you, our dearest duchess,” Ogden says in a sultry tone. “The particular delicacy
with which you wear your sex.”
Alice becomes freshly attuned to the comforting weight of the pistol she wears in her pocket as she gazes up at the devil
through demurely lowered lashes.
“I’d be more than happy to oblige,” Ward drawls, setting down his oversize ledger. He steps to the middle of the room, assuming
center stage. “For the purposes of our American partnership, we’ve created an entity we’re callin’ Württembergian Gem Exports
Incorporated, which will be the beneficiary of fifty percent of the profits of all Württemberg emeralds sold in North and
South American markets.”