“And you think he will obey?”
“I surely do. I cannot imagine a Dalberg dishonoring the Book of Laws.”
“I fear you do not know Ferdinand of Lotzen,” said Armand seriously. “He intends to dispute the Succession. I have never told you how, long ago, he warned me what to expect if I undertook to ‘filch the Crown,’ as he put it. It was the afternoon he insulted me at headquarters—the Vierle Masque was in the evening.”
The Princess nodded eagerly. “Yes,” said she, “yes—I know—the time he wanted you to toss up a coin for me. What did he say?”
The Archduke reflected a moment. “I can give you his exact words: ‘Do you think,’ he said, ‘that I, who have been the Heir Presumptive since the instant of my birth, almost, will calmly step aside and permit you to take my place? Do you fancy for an instant that the people of Valeria would have a foreigner for King? And even if old Frederick were to become so infatuated with you that he would restore you to Hugo’s place in the line of Succession, do you imagine that the House of Nobles would hesitate to annul it the instant he died?’”
When he had finished, Dehra’s fingers were beating a tattoo on the chair’s arm, and her eyes were snapping—as once or twice he had seen Frederick’s snap.
“And I suppose you never told the King?” she exclaimed.
“Naturally not.”
“Of course, of course,” with a toss of the handsome head. “That’s a man’s way—his silly, senseless way—never tell tales about a rival. And as a result, see what a mess you have made. Had you informed the King, he instantly would have proclaimed you as his heir, and then disgraced Lotzen publicly and sent him into exile. And you would now be his successor, without a shadow of opposition.”
Armand subdued a smile. “You don’t understand, Dehra——” he began.