Malbert’s eyes fell to Ophelia’s large, worn boots, just visible below the hem of her bombazine gown. “Hacking off your feet would indeed be an undertaking.”
Ophelia flicked her eyes around the room. Malbert stood in the path to the door—the only door—but there were the tall windows overlooking the street. She could make a side step and take her chances with the windows.
Only—she glanced back to Malbert—only he had her theatrical case. Her trusty theatrical case that she’d carted around with her from circus to variety hall and all the way over here to Europe. True, the greasepaints, wigs, and false muttonchops in there had gotten her into a fair amount of trouble. But they’d also gotten her out of trouble.
Malbert edged closer.
It was now or never.
Ophelia folded the prince’s envelope in half and stuffed it into her bodice, sideways between two buttons. She lunged towards Malbert.
He swung the meat cleaver high.
She snatched the theatrical case from his weak grip and darted to the side. She fancied she felt the breeze of the whizzing meat cleaver behind her. She ran to the windows and swept aside the draperies. There. The latch. She fumbled with it but her fingers were for some reason like clumsy sausages.
“I will not allow you to go!” Malbert said behind her. Thumping footsteps coming closer, and she’d bet the farm that he was still brandishing that cleaver.
Ophelia hefted the theatrical case and bashed the window. Glass shards showered down. She climbed onto the low sill, hugged her theatrical case to her chest, and jumped. Her skirts poofed like a parachute. She landed on two feet on the sidewalk, hip pads bouncing.
Penrose was halfway out of the carriage. Shock slackened his face as he watched her galloping towards him, but he said nothing. He bundled her and then himself into the carriage and slammed the door. They jostled forward.
Ophelia couldn’t breathe or speak. Her heart raced. She looked out the carriage window just in time to glimpse Malbert staring out the shattered window. She pulled the folded envelope from her bodice and waved it. “I’ve got Prince Rupprecht’s address,” she said, panting.
25
By the time they reached Prince Rupprecht’s house, Ophelia had straightened her wig and, since she had her theatrical case right there on her lap, she had done some repairs to her face. Professor Penrose had watched the proceedings with interest and, Ophelia fancied, slight alarm.
Prince Rupprecht resided in a stately, white stone mansion behind spiked iron gates. The drapes were all drawn.
“You need not come in, Miss Flax,” Penrose said. “Perhaps you should rest after your ordeal with the—”
Ophelia was already halfway out the carriage door.
“At least allow me to ask the questions of Prince Rupprecht,” Penrose said. “He strikes me as the sort who only feels regard for gentlemen’s conversation.”
“You’re right about that.”
The front gates were ajar, and a dignified manservant answered their knock on the door.
Penrose said something about the prince in French and passed his card. He had to be running low on those cards by now. He passed them out like show bills.
The servant led them into a foyer and disappeared.
“Looks like we’ve come just in the nick of time,” Ophelia whispered. She pointed to the pile of traveling trunks at the base of a lavish marble staircase. “He must be setting off for his chateau.”
“I am, I am!” a voice boomed above them. Prince Rupprecht trotted down the stairs. “Lord Harrington! What a charming surprise.” He reached the foot of the stairs, and surveyed Ophelia in her matronly disguise. “Good afternoon, madame,” he said in a bored voice.
Penrose once again introduced Ophelia as his aunt. “I would very much like to have a word with you, Prince Rupprecht, if you have the time.”