The spectacular glory of Princess Anna Elisabeth Victoria’s coiffure would escape no one’s notice that night. Irene had employed every skill her years in the theater had taught her, but even so had doubted—more than once—that she could succeed. Yet she had. The smooth mass of braids and curls, woven with flowers and more than a few diamonds, shimmered.
“No crown could be more beautiful, madame,” Irene said, her voice, now with a heavy French accent, altered beyond recognition. “My own mistress would—how you say?—desire to change places with you. Is there someone whose attention you seek tonight? He will not be able to resist you. C’est impossible.”
“Alas, no, Adèle,” the princess said. “My husband is rarely impressed with my appearance. I do not think he sees me at all.”
“A lady of your station need not limit her options, non? Balls are made for dancing, and I have no doubt your card will be full.”
The princess sighed. “Perhaps, but I shall never enjoy dancing as I used to. There is no romance in it for me anymore.”
“Then, madame, you must take your memories of romance with you this evening, and think of them while you are on the dance floor. Sometimes recollection is more satisfying than reality. Do whatever you must to bring your feelings back to the fore tonight.”
“You are very wise, Adèle,” the princess said.
The maid took a step back and examined her work. “Your hair is perfection, madame. If I may, the slightest hint of color . . .” She pulled a small container from her bag, opened it, touched her fingers inside, and daubed the princess’s cheeks. “Oui. You are ready, and it is still early. What is your favorite place to sit in this house? I shall bring you a glass of champagne there. It is what the countess always has before a ball. She says it fills her with starlight.”
When Irene returned to her a quarter of an hour later, in an ornately furnished sitting room, the princess had in her lap a pile of letters wrapped in red ribbon. One she held in her hand; tears glistened in her eyes as she read it.
“I am confident, madame, you will have a most excellent evening,” Irene said, handing her the champagne. “Drink up. Your carriage waits.”
“I am indebted to you, Adèle, for your services. You may leave me now, but please do thank your mistress for sending you to me. You are a true gem.”
Irene gave a little bow and retreated from the room, into the narrow servants’ corridor behind a hidden door in the wall. She stood quietly, listening, until she heard a man calling for his wife, and the princess, after a certain amount of shuffling about, leaving the room. After a pause, Irene cracked open the servants’ door, and confirming the chamber to be empty, she slipped inside. A quick, well-organized search soon revealed her quarry: the princess had hidden the letters in a small compartment behind a drawer in her writing desk. She started momentarily when the door to the room flung open, but without the slightest hesitation spun around to face the newcomer.
“Mon dieu,” she said to the butler. “I had hoped you were your mistress, returning for her forgotten cloak.” Adèle held up the satin garment. “I do hope she has not already departed. Will you bring it to her?”
“I must say, Irene, much as I adored the countess—who would not?—and charming though I found Adèle, I prefer you to them both.” Wilhelm had called on her before breakfast, as she had instructed. “Dare I hope your mission proved a success?”
“Shame on you if you thought otherwise,” she said. “I will not tolerate you doubting me.” She handed the stack of letters to him.
“I cannot begin to express my gratitude,” he said. “You have saved me from my father’s ire.”
“There is nothing I would not do for you, Sigi. You have become quite dear to me.”
“We must celebrate your triumph.”
“It is not yet a triumph,” Irene said. “We must wait for her to inform you the letters are missing. She will come to you, feeling guilty at having kept them from you and will warn you that they have fallen into unknown hands. She loved your father and will not want to see him hurt.”
A few hours later, in front of his hotel, Wilhelm met the princess, pale with fright, her hair a mess.
“My dear man,” she cried. “I am wronged—my letters are gone, and your father’s reputation, as well as my own, is now at risk. I have made a most grievous error in judgment and can only beg your forgiveness.”
“Have you any idea who might have taken them?” he asked, frowning as Irene had directed him.
“The Countess Xenia Troitskaya sent her maid to me yesterday and I fear now it was a ruse to steal my letters.”
“Countess Xenia Troitskaya?” the prince asked. “I am well acquainted with all the Russian aristocrats in Warsaw and had never heard the name before yesterday.”