LITMIR.BIZ

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He embraced me as closely as his pot-belly permitted. ‘We shall meet again before Vienna. A bientôt!’

      He toddled off rejoicing to the salon, and I finished my cigar, watching the dark woods and fields flow past at thirty miles an hour. Then I made my leisurely way back through the salon, where Blowitz and the boys were plainly intent on making a night of it; from the laughter and jollity I guessed they’d be singing ere long. In our sleeping coach the attendants were making up the berths, one above t’other as on shipboard; whether Blowitz or Nagelmacker had warned them to look the other way, I don’t know, but none of ’em gave me so much as a glance as I passed through the communicating door to the ladies’ coach, closed it behind me, and found myself in the long empty corridor which ran past the doors of the untenanted compartments to the front baggage car.

      It was quieter here, with only the rumble of wheels and the faint creak of coachwork. The number on the nearest door suggested that Madame’s cabin was at the far end, and I paused beneath the dim night-light over the attendant’s empty stool to consider my tactics. It was a novel situation, you see, even for as practised a ram as yours truly: how d’you set about a proud beauty who’s probably ready to ride in return for information, but whom you’ve never met? Question of etiquette, really, and I couldn’t recall a similar case. I might approach her à la cavalier, all courtly grace and Flash gallantry, giving her the chance to pretend (?) willing surrender, thus respecting the conventions and prolonging the fun; or I could stride in with ‘Evening, ma’am, fine weather, what? Strip away!’ which had answered splendidly with little Duchess Irma … not that she was a total stranger; we’d met at our wedding. But recalling the haughty mien and fine proportions of Princess Kralta, I suspected that jollying her into action might be a bore, while on t’other hand she was too big to wrestle into submission in the confines of a sleeping berth … Quite a dilemma, and I was getting monstrous randy just thinking about it, so I decided to play the bowling as it came, strode down the swaying corridor, and knuckled the walnut.

      ‘Wer ist es?’ says a female voice, and not knowing the German for Roger the Lodger I said it was Flashman, ein Englander und ein Edelman, and a pal of Blowitz’s. At this there was a bustle within, murmured question and brisk reply, a sudden almighty clattering of crockery, a blistering rebuke in Mittel European, and finally out popped a pert little giggler of a lady’s maid bearing a tray of dinner dishes. As she emerged, a slim be-ringed hand reached from behind the door, deftly removing a bottle from the tray, the door closed, the maid shot me a smirk and scurried into the next cabin, and I was just interpreting these as excellent omens when the rebuking voice started to call ‘Herein!’ but changed it to ‘Enter!’. I tooled in, and there she stood, Her Extremely Royal Highness the Princess Kralta as ever was, clad in regal dignity and a magnificent coat of sables which covered her to the floor.

      I might have thought it an odd rig at that time of night if I’d had eyes for anything except the long pale equine face framed by unbound blonde hair flowing to her shoulders, the cold blue eyes looking disdainfully down her noble nose, the full haughty mouth, the white hand clasping the coat beneath her rather pointed chin while she extended the other imperiously, slim fingers drooping to be kissed – it was as though some highly superior Norse goddess was condescending to notice an unusually dirty worm of a mortal. I nuzzled dutifully, deciding that while she couldn’t compare for beauty to Montez or Elspeth or Yehonala or a dozen others, Blowitz had been right: she had ‘magnétisme’ by the bucket, enough to inspire worship in him and his like – why, for a moment I felt awed myself … and that was enough to put me on guard, thinking ’ware this one, lad, she’s too good to be true, and likely false as a two-bob diamond for all her grand air and queenly poise; watch her like a hawk … but rejoice in the droop of the plump nether lip and the wanton way she lets you make a meal of her fingers – sure signs that with proper management she’ll romp like a demented stoat. (I can always spot ’em; it’s a gift.)

      ‘Enchanted, highness,’ says I, retaining her hand, and for a moment we weighed each other before she withdrew it to indicate the lower berth, which was made up as a bed. ‘You come unannounced, sir. I was about to retire. I had not expected you tonight.’ She spoke perfect English with that soft Danube accent that is so attractive in men and women both.

      ‘Your highness is gracious to expect me at all,’ says Galahad Flashy. ‘If I am inopportune, my excuse is that having seen your picture I could not wait to view the reality.’

      She arched an eyebrow. ‘Indeed? But as we left Paris more than two hours ago, I take it you have restrained your eagerness long enough to dine?’ Smiling ever so cool, the smart bitch. Very good, my lass, brace yourself.

      ‘Sparingly, your highness,’ says I, ‘and with mounting impatience. Had I known how far your beauty outshines the image of the photographer, I’d have gone without dessert, possibly even without the poulet aux truffes. From the evidence of your dinner tray I gather you enjoyed them both, so you may judge the depth of my sincerity.’ I moved a step closer, sighed deeply, and regarded her solemnly. ‘But what am I saying? The truth is that for one glance from those glorious eyes, one gleam of the golden cascade of your hair, I’d have made do with a cheese sandwich and a pint of stout.’

      It took her flat aback, small wonder, and for an instant she stiffened and I received the freezing Queen Bess stare, and then to my astonishment her lips trembled into a smile, and then a chuckle, and suddenly she was laughing outright, bless her – I’d been right, she was human beneath the ice, and I warmed to her in that moment, and not only out of lust, although I wondered if a swift Flashman cross-buttock (tit in one hand, arse in t’other) mightn’t be in order, but decided to observe the niceties a little longer. Make ’em laugh and you’re half way to bed anyway. She was regarding me now with an odd look, quarter amused, three parts wary.

      ‘The poulet was passable; the crêpe chantilly …’ She shrugged. ‘And I begin to see that M. Blowitz spoke no more than the truth when he said that Sir Harry Flashman was a quite unusual man. Très amusant, très beau, he told me … and très galant.’ Now the cool smile on the fine horse face was haughty-coquettish as she looked me up and down. ‘Quite overpoweringly galant.’

      ‘It’s these tiny compartments; chaps my size tend to loom, rather,’ says I, happy to continue bantering now that I was sure of her, and curious to see how she’d play the game – after all, she was the one who wanted something. ‘Perhaps if your highness would deign to be seated …’ I indicated the only chair, and she gave me a sidelong look and disposed herself gracefully, an elbow on the chair arm, a finger along her cheek, but still keeping the fur carefully about her.

      ‘Yes … certainly unusual,’ says she. ‘That is very well. I am unconventional myself. I think that we shall understand each other.’ She smiled again, which strangely enough didn’t improve her looks, for while her teeth were like pearls, they protruded slightly – breeding, no doubt. ‘In spite of your tendency to talk charming nonsense. Golden cascades and sandwiches of cheese! Is that how you approach all your ladies?’

      ‘Only if I’m sure it’ll be appreciated. But don’t misunderstand me, highness – it may be nonsense, but I meant every word of it.’ I took a step forward and hunkered down in front of her, eyeing her with ardour. ‘You’re what we call an absolute stunner, you know. Aye … the most desirable woman I’ve seen since –’

      ‘– since we left the Gare de l’Est?’ says she coolly. ‘Even that is not true. My maid is prettier by far than I … as I am sure you noticed.’

      ‘Pretty’s ten a penny, I said desirable. Anyway, she’s only a maid, not a princess … and she don’t want anything from me.’

      She sat farther back in her chair, considering me as she toyed with her hair. ‘And I do,’ says she. ‘In fact, Sir Harry, each of us wants something from the other, do we not?’ She glanced at the bottle she’d taken from the tray, standing above the basin. ‘Shall we begin our … negotiation with a glass of wine?’

      I rose to fill a couple of glasses, and when we’d sipped she set hers on the little stand by the window, crossed her legs beneath the coat, tossed back her golden

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