The Princess Plan. Julia London

argument was never heard, for they suddenly heard Beck bellow for Caroline in a voice that clearly conveyed displeasure. “Caro! I will have an explanation for how you came to spend so much for one dress!”

      “Oh dear,” Caroline said. “My brother has discovered how extraordinarily generous he is.”

      Caroline had long been famous for spending Beck’s money. He generally huffed and he puffed, but really, he could never truly say no to her.

       “CAROLINE!”

      “Well, then,” she said, quickly gaining her feet. “I think it best if we retire at once to my rooms.” She began to walk so quickly that her dressing gown billowed out behind her as she fled the scene. Hollis and Eliza scurried after her.

      As the three of them dressed, Hollis couldn’t contain her curiosity about the murder. She ran through several scenarios that would have led to the poor secretary’s death. As she babbled on, Eliza wondered how the prince with the green eyes had taken the news.

      OVER THE NEXT few days, the whole of London was abuzz about the sensational news of a murder at Kensington Palace. Hollis was a frequent visitor to the house in Bedford Square, updating her family on the most recent theories as to who or what had befallen the gentleman, whose name, she’d discovered, was Mr. Matous Reyno. At first it was suspected the culprit was English, perhaps someone opposed to the trade agreement, for who would have access to that part of Kensington but an Englishman? And yet all the servants at the palace had been questioned and no clue had emerged.

      The queen herself had offered a reward for anyone with information who came forward.

      When no one came forward, suspicion shifted to the Alucians—there was turmoil in their part of the world, everyone said, and surely it had to do with that. But the whereabouts of the Alucians, including their serving staff, were accounted for on the evening of the ball.

      “One could conclude that poor Mr. Reyno cut his own throat,” Hollis said drily. She reported that the Alucian princes were made distraught by the crime, and understandably so. “But the crown prince has conducted himself admirably in the course of the meetings in spite of his tragic loss,” she said confidently. “He continues to push for the trade agreement.”

      Eliza thought of the green eyes behind the mask and tried to imagine them distraught.

      “And now I’ve nothing for the gazette.” Hollis sighed. “It seems rather gauche to speak of fashion in light of the tragedy, does it not?”

      “Of course,” Eliza agreed.

      “Oh, well,” Hollis said. “Mrs. Pendergrast gave me a lovely pattern for sewing a baby’s christening gown.”

      The lack of tantalizing content for Hollis’s gazette did not remain a problem for long, however. It changed one morning when Mr. French, who normally delivered the post, did not appear at the house in Bedford Square. In his place came a stout little fellow who was scarcely taller than a child, wearing a greasy cap and dirty coat. Eliza had seen him around a time or two lurking near the Covent Garden Market.

      He handed the post to Eliza.

      “Where is Mr. French?” she asked curiously as she gingerly took the post from hands that were gray with dirt.

      “Dunno, miss.” He seemed anxious to be on his way, and indeed, once she had taken the mail, he hurried down the steps and across the square as quickly as he could.

      In that stack of mail was a handwritten note that would change the course of Eliza’s life.