The Crown Jewels Read Online Free PDF Page B

She tapped his arm. “Do you see our High Seas Scout friend over yonder?”
    Maijstral gazed once again at Lieutenant Navarre, who was still intently listening to Amalia Jensen. “Certainly.”
    “Would you do me the favor of asking him to sup with me this evening? I’d do it myself, but the globes are sure to notice, and they’ll never leave off harassing the poor man.”
    Nichole, Maijstral reflected, would never have asked a man on this kind of errand four years ago. This was the sort of thing she had an entourage for. He reflected again on his earlier resolution and was thankful it appeared to complement hers.
    “Of course,” he said, “What time?”
    “Thirty or so.” Nichole smiled. “I’d invite you, but I’m sure you’ll be off on business,”
    He answered her smile. “I’m afraid it would be inappropriate for me to comment further.”
    “As I thought.” Knowingly. She patted his forearm.
    “I’d love to see you tomorrow, though. Luncheon again?”
    “Delighted.”
    She glanced up and saw more media globes moving in. Her face did not exactly fall, but grew more controlled, less spontaneous. Less delighted. “Please fetch me some champagne, Drake, will you?” she asked. Her voice was silky. Maijstral sniffed her ears— this was a High Custom event, after all— then bowed and withdrew.
    “Not much pelvis,” said a high, wonderfully resonant voice. “Troxans cannot Elvis do well.”
    Maijstral bowed in Count Quik’s direction as he strolled by the tiny round-headed alien. Amalia Jensen’s laughter hung in the air. She was finding Lieutenant Navarre amusing. Maijstral glided toward them and touched the copper-skinned lieutenant on the arm. “With Miss Jensen’s permission, a word, sir.”
    Miss Jensen gave her consent. Maijstral murmured Nichole’s message. Navarre looked confused.
    “Oh. I’m flattered. And delighted. But I’m afraid”— he looked toward Amalia, who smiled, more at Maijstral than at Navarre— “I’m committed for this evening. With Miss Jensen. Please give Nichole my sincerest regrets.”
    Maijstral glanced up at a clattering noise and saw Pietro, standing about ten feet behind Navarre, trying to extricate himself from the rubble of a spilled drink tray while a purse-lipped hostess looked at him with annoyance.
    “I’ll convey your apologies,” Maijstral said. “I’m sure Nichole will understand.”
    He walked to the bar and asked for champagne. Receiving his glass, he turned to stare into the intent eyes of the Countess Anastasia. Looming over her was the bulk of Baron Sinn. Maijstral’s blood turned cold— that old reflex again— but he smiled and exchanged sniffs.
    “Champagne, Countess?”
    “I have sworn not to drink champagne within the boundaries of the Constellation,” she said, “till the Empire be restored.”
    “I fear you will have a long wait,” Maijstral said.
    “Your father—” she began. Anger surged in Maijstral’s heart.
    “Remains dead,” Maijstral said. He sniffed her and excused himself.
    The woman had always got to him, damn it. He had to wait some moments before Nichole was sufficiently clear of media globes to convey Navarre’s regrets, and he used that time to calm himself. Nichole, when she heard the message, was astonished.
    “He turned me down, Maijstral! What am I to do with myself this evening? It’s one of the few free moments allowed in my schedule.”
    “I would offer to keep you company, but . . .” Maijstral’s heavy-lidded eyes gave the impression of slyness. “I really do have other plans, my lady.”
    “I don’t suppose I could watch.”
    Maijstral kissed her hand. “I’m afraid your presence would attract unwelcome attention.”
    Nichole sighed. “I hope you’ll send me the vid, at least.”
    “Perhaps I’ll be able to send you something interesting before you leave. My general run of jobs aren’t very enthralling, though.”
    She pointed at the white stone on his finger. “I can always