Masked Ball at Broxley Manor

I awoke to the sun streaming in through long windows, and came downstairs to find guests at breakfast, still in their costumes. I didn’t feel like joining them and being jolly all over again. I found Lady Merriman and asked if I could be driven to the station.

“Are you not feeling well, my dear?” she asked. “You are looking pale. Too much champagne last night, maybe. Tell me, did you sleep alone?”

I blushed. “Of course.”

“I thought as much. Otto was in a bad mood. I gather you turned him down.”

I nodded. “I can’t agree to marry someone I’ve never met before.”

“I quite agree. And you’re far too young.” She patted my hand. “Travel the world. See life and then marry. That’s what I did and I am blissfully happy with my dear Podge.”

I tried to phrase the question in my head. “Tell me, Lady Merriman, was there another guest wearing a devil’s outfit last night?”

“Were you seeing double? All that champagne, honey. No, you two were the only devilish pair.”

And so I left, not knowing, believing I should never know the truth. When I arrived home that afternoon Harrison met me in the front hall and helped me off with my coat.

“Did you have a delightful time, my lady?” he asked.

“It was very grand,” I said. “All a little overwhelming.”

“I understand, my lady. Always better to be among one’s own kind, I think.”

I nodded.

“Their graces have gone out, so you have the house to yourself,” he went on. “Should I have some tea sent to the drawing room for you?”

“Thank you, that would be lovely.”

“And a note came for you, my lady. Delivered by hand earlier today.” He held out the salver to me and I took the letter, addressed in strong black script. To a fallen angel.

I rushed into the drawing room, sat by the fire and opened it.

My dear fallen angel,

I am sorry that I had to run off like that last night and we never had a chance to say good-bye. Maybe it’s better that way. Did you accept Prince Otto’s proposal? He told me he intended to propose.

I told you I was a gate-crasher and it was true. I was not on the guest list. I came only to do my friend Otto a favor. You see, there is a certain married woman of whom he is rather fond. She finds it hard to give her husband the slip, so I was brought in to be the decoy while they were dallying upstairs. I hope this doesn’t shock you too much. It’s the way of the world, I am afraid. Although I am sure that you will never dally. When you have made your choice, you will be faithful forever.

I wanted to say that I didn’t intend last night to be any more than harmless fun. I didn’t intend to have feelings for you. And since I am not in a position to offer you a palace or a crown, then it is better that we part this way. Still I hope our paths might cross some time in the future. You never know.

Your devil companion,

And under this was written three letters that looked like DOM.

* * *

And in the next day’s Times there was a small paragraph on page two:

Attack on German Prince Foiled.

An attack on visiting Prince Otto of Prussia by a bomb-wielding terrorist was thwarted by the gallant efforts of a young guest attending a ball at Broxley Manor. The young man in question wrestled the bomb away from the man, believed to be a communist agitator, and hurled it away from the building, where it exploded harmlessly. He then helped subdue the man but declined to give his name and disappeared when the man was taken off to the police station. It was hinted that he was actually working for British secret service and was assigned to guard the prince, although Whitehall has denied this allegation. Prince Otto was unhurt and returns home to Germany tomorrow.

* * *

And so I put the incident from my mind. I was never invited to Broxley Manor again and understood that Prince Otto finally married a cabaret singer from Berlin, much to the disapproval of his family. It never occurred to me that I would ever be involved with danger and acts of terrorism again, or that some day in the future it would be my own detecting skills that thwarted a similar plot against our own king and queen. And it was only several years later that I rediscovered that letter in bold black script and realized that the initials on it stood for Darcy O’Mara.

Keep reading for a special excerpt from Rhys Bowen’s next Royal Spyness Mystery . . .

THE TWELVE CLUES OF CHRISTMAS

Available in hardcover November 2012 from Berkley Prime Crime!

Castle Rannoch

Perthshire, Scotland

December 14, 1933

Weather: cold, dreary, bleak.

Atmosphere here: cold, dreary, bleak.

Outlook: cold, dreary, bleak. Not in a good mood today. I wonder why. Could it have something to do with the fact that Christmas is coming and it will be utterly bloody?

Ah, Christmas: chestnuts roasting; Yule logs crackling merrily; tables groaning under roast goose, turkey, mince pies and flaming plum puddings; carols and mistletoe, goodwill to all men. I’m sure there were some houses in Britain where this was going to be the case, in spite of the depression—just not at Castle Rannoch, on the bleak Scottish moors, where I was currently trapped for the winter. No, I was not snowed in or being held prisoner. I was there of my own volition. I happen to be Lady Georgiana Rannoch, sister to the current duke, and that bleak castle is my family home.

There is actually no way to make Castle Rannoch festive even if one wanted to. Firstly it would be impossible to heat those cavernous great rooms no matter how many Yule logs you piled on the fire, and secondly my sister- in-law, Hilda, Duchess of Rannoch, commonly known as Fig, was in full austerity mode. Times were hard, she said. The country was in the grip of a great depression. It was up to us to set an example and live simply. We even had to endure baked beans on toast as our savory at the end of dinner, which shows how dire our situation had become.

It is true that times are hard for the Rannochs, even though we’re related to the royal family and my brother inherited Rannoch Castle and a London house in Belgravia. You see, our father lost the last of his fortune in the great crash of ’29, then went up on the moors and shot himself, thus saddling poor Binky with horrendous death duties. I had my allowance cut off on my twenty-first birthday and have been struggling to keep my head above water ever since. Not that our situation is as dire as those poor wretches in the soup lines. I was supposed to marry well, to one of those chinless, spineless and half-imbecile European princes, or, failing that, become lady-in- waiting to an elderly royal aunt.

So far I had chosen neither of the above, but as Christmas approached and the wind whistled down the hallways of Castle Rannoch, either option began to seem more desirable than my present situation. You might wonder why I stayed in such dreary surroundings. It had started through the famous Rannoch sense of duty that had been rammed down our throats since birth. We’d been raised with stories about ancestors like Robert Bruce Rannoch, who had kept fighting when his arm was hacked off in battle, merely changing his sword from his right hand to his left. I don’t think my sense of duty was that strong, but it was definitely there.

You see, that summer, in London, my sister-in-law Fig had given birth to a second little Rannoch. Although she looked as if she had the constitution of a cart horse, she had been rather ill. She had gone home to Scotland to recuperate and had actually begged me to come to keep her company (which shows how jolly sick she was!). I, being a kindhearted soul, had agreed.

Summer had turned to autumn and there were the royal relatives at Balmoral to visit, house parties, grouse shoots—all of which we hoped might bring Fig out of her blue funk. But she had remained languid and depressed,