His expression blanked. “A little. You mentioned sport. You took up fencing?”
Guys with blades—paging Dr. Freud! “A lot. With the trophies to show for it.” I threw in my trophies to get away from any possible imputations of Freudian symbolism, but now I sounded like a blowhard. So I blathered on, “I wanted to be Geena Davis in Cutthroat Island when I was a kid.” He gave me the expected laugh, then I changed the subject. “Do you like swashbuckler movies?”
We went from movies to music, and the awkward moment passed.
Meanwhile the fog had retreated, replaced by a menacing army of thunderheads stealth-marching overhead. When the sky was covered, they loosed their arsenal in a spectacular bombardment of lightning, thunder, and hail.
The waiters hastily closed up the terrace against the rising wind. We climbed back into the green Daimler and, shutting the noise of the storm out, began the return drive.
Daimler. Why did he have to drive such a cool car? Why couldn’t he dress in plaid pants held up with a cowboy belt and wear his hair in an honest-to-eighties mullet?
We were silent as he maneuvered through the few cars and hurrying pedestrians on the narrow, rain-streaming streets. After he turned onto the smooth and uncrowded main road I watched the swish-swish of the wipers in their hypnotic sweep as I struggled not to stare at his hands.
Geez, why wasn’t he shorter than Napoleon, round as a beachball, balding, a cheery avuncular guy? Except a short, beachball-shaped, balding, cheerfully avuncular guy in a mullet and cowboy belt who spoke with that voice—warm melted chocolate when he was smiling, the whisper of silver when his mood had shifted beyond that invisible wall of good manners, hiding whatever he was feeling, the smooth edge of steel when he was angry—would be exactly as compelling.
Lightning-bright rain scattered across the windshield in diamonds; the thunder was merely a distant muffled rumble in this car. Tension seemed to ride between us, slow lightning on the sensory plane, as I tried not to remember his laugh from the night before, slightly husky, sparking gold with delight—I’d heard many guys laugh, but not once had anyone with a single sound managed to whack me behind the knees.
I thumped my arms across my chest and dug my nails into my palms. Concentrate, Murray! Okay. So I had trouble believing Gran had been, like, a princess, for heaven’s sake. But when on impulse I half turned, meaning to ease the atmosphere with a joke about California and kings, my gaze zipped straight to the tight grip of Alec’s hands on the wheel, and then to the tightness of his shoulders.
Then the problem wasn’t me, surging with enough pheromones to fuel an entire high school cheerleading squad. Something was wrong, I sensed it, but didn’t even know how to ask. Or if I had a right to ask.
And so I shut my eyes and forced myself to think through what I’d been told so I could repeat it coherently to my mother. But what might be her questions? Would I be able to get Alec’s e-mail address, or was this the last I’d see of him, and this connection with Gran’s past, tenuous as it seemed, would vanish like it had never happened?
My trip was to find missing family, and here was the possibility Gran had had a twin, leading to a real family somewhere in this part of the world. There could be nothing wrong with family questions. Right?
I said, “Back to the Wicked Count. You did say he married Rose, so your Aurelia, Ruli, is their granddaughter.”
“Yes.”
“I’m glad—if Lily was Gran—she got over him, and found Grandfather Atelier.”
Swish-swish. Lightning flickered. Thunder rumbled.
I said, “I know Gran loved him a lot. That picture I mentioned. I wish more than ever my copy wasn’t lost, so I could show you. Anyway, she’s kept it on her bedside table all these years, and she used to smile at it, both Mom and I grew up seeing that. But anyway, the sinister duke, or count, or whatever he was, I’m glad he was forgotten.”
Lightning again. The rain was so heavy it was nearly impossible to see beyond it, though the airtight car kept most of the noise out. I felt a curious sensation, as if the car was a ship and we were shooting through water (or maybe through space) with no land or civilization within light-years. Alec’s silence as he drove magnified the quietness of our little space in the eye of the storm.
I’d run out of words, my mind running a private YouTube of dancing princesses, evil counts, duels, desperate cross-country races against the backdrop of war. But this wasn’t movie clips, it was real—it had happened—and my quiet, piano-playing grandmother had been at the center of wrenching changes as a desperate, loving sixteen-year-old girl.
Alec spoke. “I don’t know if this is a bad idea or a good one. But I wonder if you’d consider a plan I’ve in mind.”
“A plan?” I repeated, thinking of Gran, mustachioed dukes, and Paris.
“Yes.” He glanced quickly at me, his face impossible to read. “It would require a week or so of your time, but I’d pay for it.”
“A week—where?”
“A couple of days in Zagreb. A beautiful city. Maybe a day or two in Split, then to Dubrovnik, known for its ancient fortress and polished marble streets. Ruli likes the night life. From there you could go on to Greece, or Italy.”
“What? Wait!” It was then that I thought of Rudolph Rassendyll, and shook free of the shroud of emotions, of questions I could not ask. Shades of Prisoner of Zenda! I said recklessly, “You want me to impersonate your Aurelia? How cool is that?”
“Yes,” he replied in a neutral voice. “What could be cooler?”
ELEVEN
MY RECKLESS MOOD lasted about ten seconds. After all, I was no Rupert of Hentzau.
So who was?
My mind bloomed with questions. I reached for the most immediate one. “At least it’s not a coronation. Maybe I should be asking why you can’t let Aur—er, Ruli go her own way, treaty or no treaty.”
“It’s not so simple,” he said, scanning the road.
“You keep saying that. The way I see it, she apparently doesn’t want to marry you, so you let her go. I’ll bet there are plenty of other titled ladies who’d be happy to take her place, if you have to have titles.”
“First I find her,” he said. “Then she tells me what she wants to do—ah,” he exclaimed with satisfaction. “There it is.”
“What? We’re not going back to the inn?”
“No, I thought we’d take a short detour. Take in the view of Verezc from the Cheneska ruin.”
“The ruin?” I tried to hide my complete lack of enthusiasm. That place gave me the creeps, though maybe it was only fog and tiredness making me see things. “In a thunderstorm?”
“It should lift any time. Look. Behind us there’s blue sky.” He glanced at me in mild question. “You have an objection to the ruin?”
I was not about to say I’d been weirded out by fog tricking my eyes. “No, I’m fine with it.”
He drove smoothly and without apparent effort up a narrow road of hairpin turns; I wondered if narrow roads and hairpin turns were as normal in Dobrenica as traffic is in LA. The storm pounded us in unabated strength, occasional blasts of wind rocking the car and splashing torrents of rain over the windows. As he drove he gave me a short history of the ruined castle. I only half-listened; I wanted to get back to his switcheroo idea. But he avoided discussing it, and I began to wonder as the green car at last nosed smoothly into a wide, clear space ringed by a low stone wall, if it had been a kingly joke.
Or maybe he remembered the story of The Prisoner of Zenda and realized his part would have to be one of the villains. Ha ha.
Alec drove up to the wall. “. . . and so it was abandoned as an outpost in 1848 and left to stand. The family could not afford to rebuild it and live in it. The succeeding governments have claimed it since.”
“Interesting.” I peered into the purple gray rain-shrouded hilltop parking lot. “And affords an awesome view of twenty-five feet.”
“Look over here.”
He pointed southward, through his s
ide window. Sure enough, the long, pale gray mass retreated, leaving patches of sky of that peculiar light aquamarine color I’ve always thought of as swimming-pool sky. Appropriate enough, considering I’ve only seen it before or after thunderstorms. To the north the slate- and green-tinged clouds roiled toward the horizon.
All right. I was here. Let there be mysterious walls and towers if it dared.
I opened the car door and was met by a rush of heavy, wet grass- scented air. The last splatting drops of rain stung my face and hands, tickled my scalp. Then a fresh, pure breeze seemed to end the rain, like a magic hand waving benignly. The clouds broke up and straight ahead a rainbow arched ethereally bright and clear across the valley. To my left shafts of golden sunlight touched the mossy, gray crumbling walls of the castle, stippling the contours with warm color. I stooped and rubbed my fingers over the solid wet stone.
“Reality check?”
“Not many castles in LA.”
“Dobrenica is even more beautiful after a summer storm.”
“Does Cooks book bus-tours there?”
He smiled.
Light shafts widened and blended into general brightness as the sky cleared. I sighed finally and said, “An impersonation sounds swashbuckling as all get-out, at least in stories. What would be the purpose in reality?”
“To sting her into reappearing on her own, if she’s hiding from her mother, or even from the idea of marriage. Far more likely her brother’s mixed up in this somehow, though he says he talks to her as little as possible and never asks where she’s traveling. Except when he wants to avoid being in the same city. If you were to show up and be seen by people who know both brother and sister, we might be able to call his bluff.”
“The brother again.”
“The brother again,” he agreed. “Do you want to walk around the ruin?” He held out his arm.
“Better not.” I lifted my foot to the low parapet and pulled up the trouser cuff. “I thought so—it’s swelling up again. I shouldn’t have been so bullheaded about hiking around looking for that stupid suitcase. Anyway, it’s pretty enough right here.” I turned around and sat down on the damp stone. “Though,” I gloated up at him, “you will have to dry clean these pants.”
“A small price to pay to give you pleasure,” he returned promptly, with a bow and a suave hand gesture.
I snorted. “So what exactly would I be doing?”
“You’d be enjoying the sights, the casinos and clubs, and you’d be spending money on clothes.”
“What would this brother have to say to me should we meet?”
“There will be no meeting,” he replied. “Tony seems to be incommunicado. His family says he’s yachting in the North Sea, except one of their townhouse staff told Emilio that he’s on a wine tour in France. He’s notorious for losing cell phones, so he could be anywhere, even holed up in his castle. But he’s not here.”
“He has a castle?”
“Nearly a thousand years old.”
“Is it sinister?” I asked hopefully.
He laughed. “It’s quite large. And it does sit on a peak called Devil’s Mountain. Anyway, by the time he would hear about your appearance—as Ruli—you will have embarked—as yourself—safely on your trip. I’ll send you back to your starting point, I hardly need to add—by plane, or a cruise to Greece and up to Italy, where you can catch a train to Vienna, or wherever you choose. If Tony does turn up in the vicinity, I’ll send you immediately on your way.”
“The rest of her family? Any close friends?”
“They will be dealt with individually. You won’t meet them.”
“So it’s not only the brother you want to fool?”
“Tony and his people, yes.”
“Minions again!” I couldn’t help laughing, and he smiled, but it was a quick, preoccupied smile.
“We’ll be on watch. You won’t have to speak to them, should we see any. And once you’re gone, since they don’t know of your existence, they can’t come after you.”
“I’m not scared,” I scoffed. “I’m trying to figure if this disguise, which does sound fun, would be doing my namesake—who may be a distant cousin of mine—any good.”
He stood a few feet away, staring over the valley.
When he didn’t speak, I added, “I also don’t care to figure as an ignorant pawn in a political skirmish, especially if I’m not to hear the other side.”
He turned that reflective gaze on me as he asked mildly, “Then why are you considering my plan?”
It was my turn to look away. I gazed out over the valley, rubbing absently at my aching ankle. “You’re not going to tell me all the nasty political ramifications, are you?”
“Do you want to hear the nasty political ramifications?”
I hesitated. This stuff is real to him. His country and its problems are real to him. I said, “Look, I want to be reassured, if possible, that nothing I do is going to jeopardize Aurelia, er, Ruli. Much easier to think of her as Ruli, otherwise this is way too weird.”
“Meaning I would be willing to jeopardize her?” he asked, brows lifted. Then he smiled, a quick, rueful smile. “I beg your pardon. I know you mean well, and I honor your scruples. But rather than talk up my high principles, let me remind you that she has been missing for some time. From before we ever saw you. Or we never would’ve seen you in the first place. If they do have her, I hope to force them to let her go.”
I nodded. “Good enough. When do we start?”
“As soon as we get you some gear.” He tossed his keys lightly on his palm. “Shall we return to the inn?”
As we sat down at a small table in the Gasthaus dining room, Alec told me that we’d leave for Zagreb in the morning.
Those two men I thought of as Graybeard and Mr. Big had made appearances throughout the day, but they did not join us.
“Those two men of your father’s,” I said.
“They’ve worked for the family for many years. Kilber was with my father during the war.”
“Yes, that’s what I wanted to ask. They must have been super young. Like teenagers. And it was Kilber who slipped you the roofie-juice the other day?”
“I must say, he rather surprised me,” Alec admitted, and he blushed, which made me feel slightly less annoyed about the incident. I was beginning to believe that he didn’t go around drugging people. I’d been the unlucky first.
For him.
“In the war years they all started young. He told me that that sort of trick was a leftover habit from years of dodging Russians.”
My resentment had shifted to Alec’s henchman. “Somehow, with that face, it doesn’t surprise me.”
“Kilber only speaks a few words of English, or he’d join us, and Emilio departed on an errand earlier this afternoon. I suspect you’ll like Lavzhenko Emilio. He too is a Wodehouse fan, but he prefers the Mulliner stories to Bertie and Jeeves.”
“And I suppose that Kilber character reads E. F. Benson while disposing of bodies—drugged or otherwise? What is that, his last name or first? The ‘kil’ part seems most apt.”
“His first name is Klaus, but at home professionals go by last names. First names are only used by family. Kilber saved my father’s life several times during the early Russian years, and he does not like the idea of killing people. Which is why he would use that sleeping pill ruse to knock ’em out.”
Wartime. A totally different paradigm. “All right. Got it. One of the good guys, in spite of his pills.”
A smiling waiter delivered plates of spiced Serbo-Croatian food, and for a time I was too busy to talk. But I did think.
When the coffee was served I said, “You know, I can’t help wondering about Ruli . . .” Then I stopped in case he was worried about eaves-droppers. I cast a look about me. We were alone except for an elderly couple giving their food their undivided attention.
Alec sat back inquiringly, the sapphire on his ring glinting cool blue.
“I was wondering how much I truly look
like her, or if you don’t know her.”
“Both,” he replied. “Physically you’re much alike. In personality, you’re not at all alike. Yet, if I’d known her as well as I thought I did, I should’ve suspected the truth long before I was forcibly convinced.”
“Did she grow up in England, too?”
“Only through childhood. In her early teens she was shifted to boarding school in Switzerland, then in Paris, where she spent all her holidays with her mother. When she finished school, they spent their time traveling around Europe to visit friends and relations. Winters in the south, the rest of the year between Vienna, Paris, Berlin, and London. Occasionally even back home. Though I understand she’d begun a nightlife on her own a year or two back. That’s when she decided we were to call her Ruli, as Aurelia was hopelessly old-fashioned.”
“And I take it she teased you because your French is school trained?”
“She was annoying about it for four or five years when we were all in our teens. Then her attitude changed. Tony told me that someone had taken her aside, pointed out that a true sophisticate wouldn’t mention the accent but let it, ah, speak for itself. He took revenge by loudly complimenting her in public on how good her accent was.”
“So you spent time with her family?”
“The holidays when I was not with my father, until I was about eighteen. Not long after that my aunt moved to the Paris flat on a more or less permanent basis.”
“So you haven’t seen Ruli much in recent years?”
“Not much,” he agreed. “Don’t worry. Always have a cigarette in your hand. Look bored, never smile outright. As I said before, no one would ever imagine that a double exists. They’ll supply all the belief necessary. You have the force of recent memory to convince you of that, right?”
I choked on my coffee. “What a story to tell at home! How’s her German and her Slavic languages?”
“No Slavic languages. Her German is school trained—much like yours.”
“How does German fit into your background, anyway?”