Royal Blood - By Rhys Bowen Page 0,78
Passionate?” I burst out laughing. Mummy laughed too.
“You must come and stay with us in Germany, darling,” my mother said. “Max can introduce you to a nice German count. Come to think of it, why don’t we set you up with one of Nicky’s groomsmen? Young Heinrich of Schleswig-Holstein has oodles of money.”
“I don’t think I’d like to live in Germany, thank you,” I said. “I’m amazed how you can do it and not think of the Great War.”
“Darling, the people we mix with had nothing to do with it. It was those nasty militaristic Prussians. Your father’s wretched cousin Kaiser Willie. No, you’d live well in Germany. Good food, if a little stodgy, and great wine, and Berlin is such a lively city. Or we could find you an Austrian and live in Vienna. Now there’s a delightful city for you. And the Austrians—all so fun loving and absolutely no interest in war or conquest.”
“Isn’t this new chap Hitler an Austrian?”
“Darling, we met him recently. Such a funny little man. I’m sure nobody will take him seriously. And there’s also Nicky’s brother, Anton. Now he would be quite a catch. I rather fancy him myself, but with Max as his brother’s godfather—well, one has to draw the line somewhere.”
“I’m surprised you’re still with Max,” I said. “He doesn’t seem your type at all. He doesn’t seem very lively. You’re much more at home with people like Noel Coward—theater people.”
“Of course I am, but so many of them are like dear sweet Noel—pansies, darling. And let me warn you that a certain prince in this house is one of them too. Because I have heard rumors that you’re being considered for the post of princess.”
“Siegfried, you mean?” I laughed. “Yes, he’s already proposed and let me know that I could take lovers after I produced the heir.”
“Aren’t men funny?” Mother laughed again. “But I rather think your interests lie in another direction. A certain Mr. O’Mara?” She laughed at my red face. “Darling, you have bitten off more than you can chew there. He does have a reputation, you know. Wild Irish boy. I can’t see him settling down and changing nappies, can you? And of course he has no money and money is rather important to happiness.”
“Are you happy with Max?”
Those large china doll eyes opened wide. “What an interesting question. I get bored and think I’ll leave and then the poor dear adores me so much that I simply can’t do it. He wants to marry me, you know.”
“Are you thinking of marrying him?”
“It has crossed my mind, but I don’t think I’d like to be a Frau. I know he’s nobility and a von and all that, but I’d still be Frau Von Strohheim and it simply isn’t moi. Besides, I believe I’m still officially married to that frightfully boring Texan chappy, Homer Clegg. He doesn’t believe in divorce. If I really felt strongly I could go to Reno or wherever it is that people go and pay for a quickie divorce there, but I simply can’t be bothered. No, my advice to you, my darling, is that you marry well and keep someone like Mr. O’Mara on the side. Choose someone with dark hair and then the baby will match whoever the father is.”
“Mummy, you say the most outlandish things. I can’t believe how I came to be your daughter.”
She stroked my cheek. “I abandoned you too young, I realize now. But I couldn’t take another minute of that dreary castle. I never realized your father would want to spend half the year there and go tramping about the heather in a kilt. Simply not me, my sweet, although I have to confess that I enjoyed being a duchess. One got such good service at Harrods.”
As she twittered on I sat there uneasily, aware of all the things I should be doing. My gaze drifted from the cracking fire to the portrait above the mantelpiece. Then I blinked and gave it another look. The man in the picture looked like Count Dragomir.
I got up and stood in front of the fire, staring up at it. The man in the portrait was younger than Dragomir but he had the same haughty face, the same high cheekbones and strangely cat-like eyes. But one hardly puts a portrait of a castle servant on the wall. Then I looked at the writing at the bottom. The painter had signed his picture and it looked as if the date was 1789.
“What