“Yes,” she said, and folded her arms. “Let’s talk about that, Bibbie. Not that I’m not pleased you’re coming, but you did rather belabour the point about doing King Rupert a favour.”
“Did I?” said Bibbie, the picture of innocence.
Melissande gave her a look. “You know bloody well you did. What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“No, it’s something,” she retorted. “Bibbie, by any chance is there a ridiculous notion floating about the Markham mansion that perhaps you and my brother might possibly-I mean to say, that you and he could-”
She couldn’t finish the preposterous sentence.
Bibbie heaved her deepest sigh yet. “Well… yes.”
“Emmerabiblia Markham!”
“Now, now, Mel, there’s no need to panic,” Bibbie protested. “I’m not the one dreaming of tiaras. It’s a silly idea Mother’s got into her head, that’s all. I mean, as you say, the notion’s ridiculous, isn’t it? Me marrying your brother and you-”
Surely three ghastly silences in one morning was setting some kind of record.
“Look,” said Bibbie, very sober now. “Mel. If it’ll help, I’ll have a word with Monk. I’ll do more than have a word. I’ll hex him to the eyebrows until he-”
“No!” she said, and banged her fist against the filing cabinet. “Emmerabiblia Markham, you’ll keep your nose out of whatever it is that’s between me and Monk. I know you mean well, and I appreciate it, truly, but you really must mind your own business.”
“All right,” said Bibbie, after a moment. “Only whatever you’re going to do about it, I wish you’d hurry up. The fun is fast going out of watching you two treading all over each other’s toes in this dance.”
“Really?” Melissande said crossly. “Then I suggest you close your eyes, and tell me where you’ve got to with Doctor Jellicoe’s bunion plasters.”
Chilled, Gerald watched the desperate message from Abel Bestwick for a third time. He could feel Sir Alec’s tightly controlled impatience like a blast of hot air from a furnace. And of course, his enigmatic superior was right. Even if he watched the recording a hundred more times he’d glean no further information from it. The blood wouldn’t suddenly become any less red and Abel Bestwick’s pain and fear wouldn’t magically diminish.
“The wedding tour leaves Grande Splotze in three days,” said Sir Alec, very cool, as though the sight of his janitor bleeding like a stuck pig was neither here nor there. And who knew? Perhaps it wasn’t, to him. He’d been in the business a long time. “And it will wend its way around the capital’s home districts before returning to the capital to celebrate the nuptials. King Rupert has agreed to suffer an incapacitating stomach complaint, thus opening the door for Miss Cadwallader to represent New Ottosland at the festivities.”
Impressive. Sir Alec’s reach had no limit, apparently. “And I’ll be going with her?”
“As Her Royal Highness’s personal secretary,” said Sir Alec, his chilly grey eyes ever so faintly amused. “And general dogsbody.” The amusement faded. “Miss Cadwallader will also be accompanied by Miss Markham, who will act as her lady’s maid.”
Gerald blinked. Blimey. When Monk hears about this he’s going to go spare. He could easily go a bit spare himself. Bibbie, playing at janitor? His Bibbie? Well, all right, so she wasn’t precisely his. Most likely would never actually be his. But he cared about her. More than cared about her, if he could bear to let himself admit the truth.
His heart sat in his chest like a lump of ice. “Ah… sir… is that wise?”
“Wise?” Lips tightening, Sir Alec snapped his fingers over the small crystal ball, relegating Abel Bestwick’s fear and pain to memory. “Of course it’s not wise, Mister Dunwoody. It’s the most reckless thing I’ve done all year. And given what I’ve done recently
…”
Shackled together by secrets, they stared at each other across the severely neat desk.
“I understand why you’d want to handle it this way, sir,” Gerald said at last, still unhappy. “What with Melissande’s convenient connections. It’s not like we have a lot of time up our sleeve. And doing it this way keeps things all in the family, so to speak. Less complicated. Fewer explanations and cover ups if I have to… get clever.”
Sir Alec gave him a look. “Indeed.”
But he still didn’t like it. “I don’t suppose…” He shifted in his chair. “Look, is there any chance Bestwick’s… I don’t know. Misread the situation?”
“And then what?” Sir Alec said tartly. “In a fit of embarrassed remorse stabbed himself to make his story more plausible?”
No, probably not. “Sir, you must admit his claim is nebulous. Has there been any independent confirmation of trouble?”
“None,” said Sir Alec. “I’ve had Mister Dalby running down every last source he can think of, but so far no new information has come to light. As best as we can ascertain, both Splotze and Borovnik are in transports of delight at the prospect of this wedding.”
He thought about that. “Maybe,” he said eventually. “But Splotze and Borovnik have neighbours. Graff, for example. Not a month goes by that they aren’t kicking up some kind of dust with Borovnik. Up till now, Splotze has never bothered itself over those problems. The wedding might change that. New family loyalties, and so forth. Borovnik might assume that from now on Splotze will weigh in on their side of any future disputes. Graff won’t like that. And then there’s Blonkken, and its special relationship with Splotze. Whenever Splotze gets control of the Canal, Blonkken’s shipping tariffs go down. What if Borovnik sweet-talks Splotze into keeping the tariffs high? That’s hardly going to put a smile on Blonkken’s face. And while they might all be signatories to the UMN accords, that’s not to say they can’t, or won’t, get creative with their thaumaturgics if tempers really start to fray. Or worse, go all sly and secretive with them. Midnight assassinations, that kind of thing. And what about us? Ottosland can’t afford-”
Halting him with a raised hand, Sir Alec favoured him with a look that might almost be called approving. “At least you’re familiar with the current geopolitical landscape. That will save a certain amount of time. Now, touching upon the details of this assignment. There’s nothing you can tell Miss Cadwallader about the protocols and particulars of travelling as a royal. I expect you to be guided by her in that regard. Obviously you’ll conduct yourself with all due restraint. Under no circumstances can you betray the fact that you are acquainted with Miss Cadwallader and Miss Markham in any personal sense.”
“No, sir, of course not.” And then a thought occurred. “Sir, it’s highly unlikely anyone in the wedding party will know me. They probably won’t even look at me. That sort never notice dogsbodies. But Bibbie? Miss Markham, I mean? Leaving aside her-ah-” He cleared his throat. “Well, to be blunt, sir, her beauty… with the number of international personages who’ve been entertained at the Markham mansion over the years-”
“Miss Markham will need to be suitably obfuscated,” said Sir Alec, betraying irritation. “Although not by Mister Scrimplesham. The fewer people who know of this, the better. I’m sure that you and Miss Markham can arrange matters so that even her parents wouldn’t recognise her.”
Yes, that should work provided Bibbie went along with it. And he rather thought she would. Remarkably, there wasn’t a vain bone in her body. And he had the sinking feeling she’d do a lot worse than give herself a few warts if it meant the chance of playing at janitors.
Oh, lord. This is such a bad idea.
“Ah-speaking of her parents, sir. They’re content that you’re involving her in this?”
The question came out far more accusing than he’d intended. But really, what Sir Alec proposed was madness. For all her precocious brilliance, Bibbie was an innocent. She hadn’t been forged in the kinds of fires he’d faced, and Monk had faced, and Melissande too. The thought of Bibbie being scorched by such flames hurt him.
An odd look crept into Sir Alec’s eyes. “Miss Markham has already obtained her parents’ permission for the trip to Splotze. And I have no doubt she’ll play her part satisfactorily.”