“Not at all,” said Arianna. “I’m merely suggesting that, like the gentleman in question, we set aside our personal concerns for the moment and concentrate on sleuthing.”
She paused as they came to one of the tented stations serving champagne and plucked two glasses from the attendant’s tray. “Slàinte.”
Once they had moved on to a quieter stretch of the graveled pathway, Arianna added, “As for sleuthing, there’s something specific for us to learn . . .” She explained about Major Prescott’s paternal uncle being an administrator in the Foreign Office, and what ramifications it might have.
“So I think we need to know more about the Russian side of Prescott’s family,” she finished. “One presumes his mother was a member of the aristocracy, as the spa at Baden-Baden doesn’t cater to the great unwashed.”
“Which means,” mused Sophia, “that she might have connections to the Orlov family.”
Arianna quirked a pragmatic smile. “Well, you have to admit that no matter the country, titled families tend to be a trifle incestuous. Like marries like.”
The challenge of a mission seemed to dispel the lingering moodiness from Sophia. Her brow creased in thought. “I suppose we could simply ask Major Prescott—”
“”I think it best that he doesn’t know of our interest in his family background.”
“Hmm . . . then any idea who we should seek out first?” A pause. “Aside from Constantina, of course.”
“Constantina is definitely first on our list. Her knowledge of family connections—not to speak of skeletons in the closet—is unrivaled.” Arianna quickened her steps for the main refreshment pavilion. “And just as important, she knows who are the biggest tattlemongers in Town.”
The dowager—whohad a fondness for fine French champagne—was easy to locate. And a few whispered words quickly convinced Constantina to leave her friend Gerard Dampierre to the company of his fellow French diplomats.
Like all of us, thought Arianna,she finds intrigue impossible to resist.
“Major Prescott’s family? Hmm, let me think . . .” Constantina paused and pursed her lips as soon as they found a secluded spot. “His late father was the youngest son of the late Earl of Cruft, and the oldest son is now the current earl—though to be truthful, he’s a rather unremarkable, unimaginative fellow.”
“So, the fact that Prescott’s father was a mere ‘mister’ rather than a lord could very well have sparked resentment in his ambitious son, and a feeling that life has been unfair to him,” observed Sophia.
“It’s a fact to keep in mind, but we must be careful not to jump to conclusions,” cautioned Arianna. To Constantina, she added. “Clearly, Prescott’s father was more adventurous than his older brother, as he joined the diplomatic service, and chose to marry a foreigner.”
“If I recall correctly, his Russian wife—who, by the by, is also deceased—did possess a title.” Constantina tapped a gloved finger to her chin. “A princess, perhaps?” She made a face. “In Russia, princely families seem to be thick as fleas on a dog.”
“Speaking of princes, before we continue, I had better explain the reason for our question,” said Arianna. “It ties into a possible threat to the stability of Europe, and has unsettling ties to our recent mission to Paris.”
Constantina listened in rapt silence as Arianna told her about the Orlov family, Tsar Alexander’s missing talisman, and the murder of Madame Gruzinsky.
“The Tsar wants you to travel to St. Petersburg?” intoned the dowager, once she had finished. “In order to pull his cods out of the fire?”
“He didn’t phrase it precisely like that, but yes—you’ve summed up the gist of it.”
A martial glint flashed in Constantina’s eyes. “Well, tell him to go to the Devil.”
“Alexander doesn’t know whom else to trust, and Grentham doesn’t blame him,” replied Arianna. “The Imperial Court is apparently seething with fanged snakes, ready to strike at the first sign of weakness—”
“The Tsar must wear the medallion at a certain traditional feast day celebration in December, or legend has it that he will be cursed and the throne will quickly pass to another,” interjected Sophia.
“Maybe that’s for the best,” murmured the dowager. “If rumors are correct, Alexander is growing increasingly unstable.”
“The alternative may be the current Prince Orlov, who will represent the interests of a very dangerous Russian faction,” pointed out Arianna. “Even worse, Grentham suspects that the conspiracy within our own government isn’t rooted out yet, and that they are in league with the rogue Russians.”
Constantina paled. “S-Surely Grentham has someone else he can send.”
“He’s sent my brother,” said Arianna.
Her great-aunt exhaled a sigh, along with a very unladylike oath. “Is Sandro in favor of traveling to St. Petersburg?”
“We’ve come to no final decision,” she answered. Anxious to avoid any further personal probing—she had already seen the look of concern pooling in the dowager’s eyes—Arianna quickly added, “So, which of your friends would know the most about the late Mrs. Prescott?”
“That would be Major Prescott’s aunt, Lady Dixwell,” replied Constantina. “She’s an inveterate gossip, so we’ll have no trouble winkling information out of her.”
