“I do not like her, Count.”
“I do not think that I do,” replied the Count reflectively, “but I want to speak to her, Highness.”
The Duchess looked at him sharply.
“What do you know about her?” she asked quickly.
“Nothing at all,” smiled Count Piper. “It is you, Madame, who should know what there is to know about this lady.”
The Duchess seemed vexed.
“Her father is a great man in Gottorp—I found she had a right to come to court”
“And to come with you here, Highness, to Stockholm?” asked the Count, with a shade of regret in his voice.
“How could I help it?” demanded the Duchess on the defensive. “They were ruined—like ourselves—had lost everything. I could do nothing but offer this shelter to one who had been sacrificed in our cause.”
Count Piper fingered the brown curls of the wig that hung on to the heart of his somber coat and looked reflectively at the floor; the Duchess eyed him, and her fair face was hard in the shadow of her hood and her blue eyes had darkened with emotion.