“Did Egbert really leave no other descendants?” Randolph asked.
“The family was almost wiped out in two wars,” Sigmund explained. “In the end there was only Jack Hebden left, plus his sister, who never married. Jack had one child, Frank, who fathered the lady with whom we are concerned. Ms. Dorothea Hebden is next in line to the throne of Elluria.”
“Do we know anything else?” Durmand inquired nervously. “Has she encumbered herself with a husband and a brood of children?”
“Fortunately no,” Sigmund said, too deep in papers to notice that Randolph had stiffened. “Exhaustive inquiries have failed to turn up a marriage certificate. She is only twenty-three, but has already risen to the position of manageress of an establishment called The Grand Hotel.”
“This looks encouraging,” Durmand said. “This young woman must be talented, hardworking and educated with an orderly mind.”
“That doesn't mean she'll want to come to Elluria,” Randolph pointed out.
“To have risen so high, so young she must also be ambitious,” Durmand said hastily. “She will welcome the chance to broaden her horizons.”
“My dear Prime Minister, you're creating a fantasy figure to suit yourself,” Randolph said sharply. “You have only to add that a hotel manageress's training is the ideal basis to become queen of Elluria.”
“In so far as it requires elegance and authority, that may be true,” Durmand defended himself.
Randolph sighed. “Perhaps I can't blame you. We're all hoping for the best. Let us hope that she is the paragon of your imagination.”
“There's only one way to find out,” Durmand said. “She must be sought out and brought here without delay.”
When he left the room Randolph headed for the elegant apartment that was reserved for Countess Sophie Bekendorf when she was visiting the palace. She'd been there often recently, preparing for the wedding that would make her Randolph's princess, and eventually his queen. Her life too had been overturned, he reminded himself. She was five years his junior, and their marriage had been planned in her cradle. He admired her and knew how perfectly she would have adorned a throne.
She smiled and rose when he entered, crossing the floor quickly, looking into his face. Her tall slim figure had been tautened by hours of riding. Her face was beautiful, though marred by a slight hardness in her eyes. Her manners were elegant and commanding. She knew who was worthy of her smiles, and who not.
She was all anxiety, taking Randolph's hand. “Was it very bad, my poor dear?” she asked gently.
“Worse than I can say. The heir turns out to be a hotel manageress in England. Her name is Dorothea Hebden.”
“It's impossible!” she said violently. “A servant.”
“Not quite. She seems to have achieved some authority-”
“Tradesman's authority. A servant.”
“I suppose we mustn't judge without seeing her. We might be able to make something of her.”
“You don't mean you're considering this monstrous idea for one moment?”
He led her back to the window and looked out over the great park. This way it was easier to voice his thoughts.
“It's not a matter of what I will agree to. My authority ended the moment we discovered that I was illegitimate. Now I'm not even royal. Dorothea Hebden is the rightful heir to the throne of Elluria.”
“Have you thought she might be married?”
“Sigmund seems sure that she isn't.”
“I see,” Sophie said quietly.
Something in her tone made him put his arms around her. “I left soon after that because I could see the way Durmand's mind was working, and I didn't like it. My dear, how can I forget that when I offered to release you from our engagement, you refused, and stood by me so steadfastly?”
“You thought I'd turn my back on you because you had no crown to offer?”
“If I did, I was wrong,” he said tenderly. “No man could ask for more courage and loyalty that you've shown me-”
“But you may have to marry this other woman,” she interrupted him. “Perhaps it will be you who breaks our engagement, for duty. I understand, and you are free. But if it doesn't come to that-” she broke off, her voice husky.
Randolph was confused and embarrassed. From the country's point of view the ideal solution was for him to marry Princess Dorothea, “this interloper” as he thought of her. Then, under the guise of being her consort, he would rule Elluria as he had been raised to do, and nobody would care about his feelings for Sophie, or hers for him.
He'd never pretended to be in love with her, but they were friends, and he was furious at being required to behave badly toward her. It offended his sense of himself, and there was much haughty pride in it. But there was also much generosity. The situation was very bitter to him, and not merely on his own account.
He wasn't a conceited man, but now it seemed to him that Sophie had more true feeling for him than he'd suspected, and that touched his conscience. Perhaps she knew this, and was pleased. She was a very clever woman.
Sophie's brother Dagbert sauntered in. He was in his early twenties, strikingly like his sister, except that too much self-indulgence was already beginning to show in his face.
“So what are you going to do?” he demanded when Randolph had outlined the situation. “Pity it's not a century ago. We could have had her assassinated.”
“That wouldn't make me legitimate,” Randolph pointed out. “I intend to bring her here, and see how we can make the best of it.”
“You mean you'll marry her and carry on as before,” Dagbert said sharply.
“He means that we shall all do our duty,” Sophie said. “Whatever it may be.”
Randolph pressed her hand in gratitude, and made his escape. He found Dagbert's callow vulgarity oppressive.
When brother and sister were alone the young man regarded her through narrowed eyes. “What deep game are you playing, Soph?”
“I don't know what you mean.”
“Yes you do. Why cling to the engagement? You ought to be hunting bigger game.”
“What makes you think I'm not?”
Dagbert gave a crack of laughter. “I see. Keep him on the string just in case.”
“What have I got to lose? This English servant won't come to anything. Randolph is still the biggest 'game' in Europe.”
“Except for Harold.”
“Harold's marrying that woman with the millionaire father.”
“That's been put on hold,” Dagbert murmured. “Harold thinks his prospects are improving every day. But you're right. Keep your options open-just in case.”
Randolph's trip to England was made incognito. His secretary made a reservation at The Grand Hotel in the name of Edmond Holsson, and a special passport in that name was hurriedly produced by the Ellurian Ministry of the Interior. Thus armed, Randolph flew to London, and took a taxi straight to the hotel.
He had often visited friends in England, but they lived in the great country houses that were like palaces, or in Mayfair, the most expensive part of London. He'd never ventured to the shabbier parts of the city, and didn't even know where they were. So the hotel's address, in an area of London called Wenford, set off no alarm bells in his head. But as the cab took him farther away from the city center and his surroundings grew poorer and more dreary the alarm bells began ringing with a vengeance. When the driver sang out, “Here it is!” he stepped out and regarded the place with horror.
The Grand Hotel was a narrow, three-floor building of peeling paintwork and red brick that needed repair. It was evening and the pink neon sign was on. Some of the letters were missing, so that the sign actually read The Gran Hot.
Inside was a poorly lit hall and a reception desk, but no receptionist. Randolph rang the bell and an elderly man in shirtsleeves emerged from some inner region.
