not even realized he possessed? Did she fill him with vitality also, and make him believe in himself, see in a wild glance all that he could be or become? What sleepless nights had he spent, struggling between duty and desire? How had he compared the thought of a life devoted to the court—the daily, endless formalities, the distance which must inevitably surround a king, the loneliness of being without the woman he loved—and the temptation of a life in exile with the constant companionship of such an extraordinary lover? They would grow old together, separated from family and country, and yet never alone. Except for the guilt. Did he feel guilt for having chosen the path of his longing, not his duty?
And the woman. What choices had she faced? Or was it for her simply a battle, win or lose? Was Zorah right, had Gisela wanted desperately to be queen—and lost? Or had she only loved the man and been prepared to be painted the villainess by her country as long as she could love him and be with him? Was she now a woman whose life was ended by grief? Or was it a circumstance brought about by her own hand, either as the only alternative to being left, the very public end of the great royal romance, not in the grand tragedy of death but in the pathetic anticlimax of being deserted?
“So you will take my case?” Zorah said after several minutes.
“Perhaps,” he said cautiously, although he could feel an excitement of challenge wakening inside him, a breath of danger which he had to admit was exhilarating. “You have convinced me she may have had a reason, not yet that she did.” He steadied his voice. He must appear cool. “What evidence have you that Friedrich indeed intended to return, even given Queen Ulrike’s stipulation that he leave Gisela to do it?”
She bit her lip. Anger flickered across her face, then laughter.
“None,” she admitted. “But Rolf Lansdorff was there that month, at the Wellboroughs’ house, and he spoke frequently with Friedrich. It is reasonable to suppose he put it to him. We can never know what Friedrich would have said had he lived. He is dead—is that not enough for you?”
“To suspect, yes.” He too leaned forward. “But it is not proof. Who else was there? What happened? Give me details, evidence, not emotion.”
She looked at him long and levelly.
“Who was there?” She raised her eyebrows slightly. “It was late spring. It was a country house party at the home of Lord and Lady Wellborough.” Her mouth twisted in a wry, amused smile. “Not a suspect. Lord Wellborough manufactures and deals in guns. A war, any war, except in England, will suit him very well.”
Rathbone winced.
“You asked for realism,” she pointed out. “Or does that fall into the category of emotion? You seem to feel some emotion, Sir Oliver.” Now there was mocking amusement plain in her eyes.
He was not prepared to tell her the repugnance he felt. Wellborough was an Englishman. Rathbone was profoundly ashamed that any Englishman should be happy to profit from the killing of people, so long as it did not touch him. There were all manner of sophisticated arguments about necessity, inevitability, choice and liberty. He still found the profit in it repellent. But he could not tell this extraordinary woman this.
“I was playing the part of the jury,” he said smoothly. “Now I am counsel again. Continue with your list of guests, if you please.”
She relaxed. “Of course. There was Rolf Lansdorff, as I have said before. He is the Queen’s brother, and extremely powerful. He has considerable disdain for Prince Waldo. He considers him weak, and would prefer Friedrich to return—without Gisela, naturally. Although I am not sure if that is for reasons of his own or because Ulrike would not tolerate it, and she wears the crown, not he.”
“Or the King?”
Now her smile was genuinely amused, close to laughter.
“I think it is a long time, Sir Oliver, since the King went against the Queen’s wishes. She is cleverer than he, but he is clever enough to know it. And at present he is too ill to fight for or against anything. But what I meant was that Rolf is not royalty. And close as he is, there is all the difference in the world between a crowned head and an uncrowned one. When the will is there and the fight is real, Ulrike will win, and Rolf has too much pride to begin a battle he must lose.”
“She hates Gisela so much?” He found it hard to imagine. Something very deep must lie between the two women that one would hate the other sufficiently to refuse her return, even if it meant the possible victory of those who favored independence.
“Yes, she does,” Zorah replied. “But I think you misunderstand, at least in part. She does not believe that Gisela would add to the cause. She is not a fool, nor a woman to put personal feelings, no matter what they are, before duty. I thought I explained that. Did you doubt me?”
He shifted position slightly.
“I believe everything only provisionally, ma’am. This seemed to be a contradiction. Nevertheless, proceed. Who else was there, apart from Prince Friedrich and Princess Gisela, Count Lansdorff, and, of course, yourself?”
“Count Klaus von Seidlitz was there with his wife, Evelyn,” she resumed.
“His political position?”
“He was against Friedrich’s return. I think he is undecided about unification, but he does not believe that Friedrich would resume the succession without causing great upheaval—and possibly civil division, which could only be to our enemies’ advantage.”
“Is he correct? Might it produce civil war?”
“More guns for Lord Wellborough?” she said quickly. “I don’t know. I think internal disunity and indecision might be more likely.”
“And his wife? Has she loyalties?”
“Only to the good life.”
It was a harsh judgment, but he saw no softening of it in her face.
“I see. Who else?”
