Royal Blood - By Rhys Bowen Page 0,79

are you looking at, darling?” my mother asked.

“This portrait on the wall. Doesn’t it remind you of Count Dragomir?”

“They all look similar in this part of the world, don’t they?” Mummy said in a bored voice. “It was those Huns. They were so good at raping and pillaging that everyone now looks like them.”

I was still staring at the portrait. It reminded me of someone else I knew, but I couldn’t quite put a finger on it. Something about the eyes . . .

“Darling, as I told you at dinner the other night, your hair is a disaster,” Mummy said. “Who is your hairdresser in London these days? You should get a Marcel wave. Come up to my room and I’ll have Adele do it for you. She is a whiz with problem hair.”

“Later, Mummy,” I said. “I really have things I should be doing now.”

“More important things than keeping your poor lonely mother company?”

“Mummy, there are plenty of other women who would love to sit and gossip with you, I’m sure.”

“They love to gossip in German and I never could get the hang of that language. And I’m not too hot at French either and I do so love to be the center of things, not a hanger-on.”

“You could always find Belinda. She likes all the things you do.”

“Your friend Belinda?” A frown crossed that flawless face. “Darling, one hears she is nothing more than a little tramp. Did you see how she was virtually throwing herself at Anton the other night? And I gather her bed wasn’t slept in after that.” She gave me a knowing wink.

I was amused at the pot calling the kettle black. Little tramp, indeed. So I suspected it was sour grapes, since Mummy had confessed to being attracted to Anton. “Well, you’ll have to find someone else to amuse you, because I’m supposed to be at the fitting for my bridal attendant’s dress,” I said. “You heard that I was one of Matty’s attendants, didn’t you?” I knew that a dress fitting would count as a good reason for my mother.

“Oh, well, then you should hurry off, darling,” Mummy said. “I hear that the princess has brought in Madame Yvonne, of all people. She’s a trifle passé, but she still makes some divine gowns. What’s yours like?”

“Divine,” I said. “You’ll be pleased with me. I actually look elegant.”

“Then we have hope of snaring a prince or a count for you yet,” Mummy said. “Toddle along then. Don’t keep Madame Yvonne waiting.”

I took the opportunity and fled, leaving her sitting with her legs stretched out in front of the fire. When I came out to the vast entrance hall I paused. What should I be doing? Seeking out Nicholas; speaking with Count Dragomir? It all seemed so pointless. Would Nicholas want to know that someone had tried to kill him? And what about Dragomir? Obviously my mother was right and the resemblance to that portrait was purely a coincidence. He hadn’t been alive since 1789—not unless he was one of the undead. That ridiculous thought flashed through my mind and I tried to stifle it. He had all the qualities one would expect of a vampire count—that pale skin, elegant demeanor, strangely staring light eyes, hollow cheeks. Rubbish, I said out loud, having picked up the word from Lady Middlesex. And as I had decided earlier, no undead person would need to administer poison. Poison at a dinner table bore the mark of a desperate, daring human being.

I wandered along hallways until I heard voices and came upon a group assembled in the anteroom next to the banqueting hall. I spotted Prince Nicholas among them and was making my way through the crowd toward him when a voice said, in French, “Now, who is this charming young person?” and of course I realized that I was among the royals who had arrived earlier. Then, of course, I felt highly embarrassed, because I was dressed for warmth rather than elegance. The embarrassment was doubled when Siegfried stepped forward, took me by the elbow and said, also in French, “Mama, may I present Georgiana, the cousin of King George.”

The elegant, perfectly coiffed, exquisitely dressed woman beamed at me and extended an elegant hand. “So you are the one,” she said. “How delightful. You don’t know how we have longed to meet you.”

I curtsied warily. “Your Majesty,” I murmured.

“And you speak such fluent French too.”

I hardly thought the word “majesty” comprised good French and was seriously worried