An Unexpected Peril
Page 13
“There was a friendship established between our two nations,” the baroness admitted. “But this was a good thing. Your kings named George brought German values to England. We understand that.”
“And did the princess bring English values to the Alpenwald?” I asked.
She primmed her mouth. “It is not, you will forgive me, the place of the English to teach the Alpenwalders anything. We were good to your princess.”
She turned away, obviously offended. I hastened to make amends. “I did not intend any insult,” I assured her. “I merely wondered if she did a good job of things, if she ruled well.”
The baroness said nothing for a long moment, continuing to straighten and tidy, her chin high in her wounded dignity. I ought to have remembered, with countries—like men—the more diminutive the stature, the more overweening the pride.
Finally, she unbent a little. “She was only a consort,” she told me. “It was not her destiny to rule, but she was popular. She was a pious woman and conducted herself with dignity at all times. There was a grandeur to her that was deeply respected by her people.”
Dignity and piety, I thought ruefully. If those were the qualities respected most by the Alpenwalders, it was a devilishly good thing I was only pretending at being their princess. I gave her a winsome smile. “And is her granddaughter much like her, the Princess Gisela, I mean?”
To my surprise, the baroness did not parry. She threw up her hands in exasperation. “I wish she were! To run away like this, so indiscreet, so irresponsible!”
She collapsed onto the recamier, head in her hands. I rose and went to her, putting a hand to her shoulder. “You are obviously very fond of your princess. Have you been her lady-in-waiting long?”
“Since her accession,” she said with obvious pride as she dropped her hands. “But I was her governess before that. I came to her when she was fourteen after I finished my duties as governess to her cousin, Duke Maximilian. I have always served the Alpenwalder royal family. And now—” She broke off, clearly overcome.
“Do not worry so, Baroness. I am sure it will all be quite all right in the end.”
She lifted her head, moisture gathering in the corners of her eyes. “You are an optimist, Fraulein. You are very young.”
I shrugged. “It has been my experience that things generally work out for the best.”
“For the best!” She gave a hollow laugh. “How can that be? If she does not return—”
I tightened my grip on her shoulder in what I hoped was a reassuring gesture. “She will. We can have no doubt.”
She smiled in spite of herself. “‘We,’ Fraulein? Already you speak like a royal.”
“I have a very good tutor, Baroness,” I told her seriously. “Now, come and teach me how to wave.”
She surged up, horror blanching her cheeks. “One does not wave at the theatre,” she said sternly. With that she launched into a lengthy explanation of the correct way to acknowledge the public in a theatre—“a slow inclination of the head from the neck beginning with the most august personages—”
When she finished, she led me to the bed, where the gown lay waiting. The fabric shimmered, the heavy silk woven with some starry silver bits that punctuated the extraordinary blue of the background.
“It is such a glorious color.” I breathed at last, putting out a fingertip to touch the folds of the skirt. I trailed down to a silver sequin. A rope of these had been stitched around the base of the skirt, edging the train as well as the neckline.
“It is Alpenwalder blue,” she told me. “The color reserved for our royalty as it most closely mimics that of the heavens above our country.”
Her face shone with pride as she helped me into the gown, drawing it carefully over my undergarments and lacing it tightly into place.
As she finished knotting the ribbons, she paused, peering intently at my upper arm. “What is this?” she demanded.
She put a fingertip to my flesh, pointing out the small gathering of fresh scars scattered over my arm like a constellation.
“Battle scars, I am afraid,” I told her. “I was shot.”
She reared back in astonishment. “Shot? With a firearm? By whom?”
“My uncle,” I replied truthfully.
The baroness stifled a gasp of horror. “Tell me no more. But this is a noticeable flaw, Fraulein, and it will mark you as different to the princess to anyone with sharp eyes. We must have a remedy . . .” She trailed off as she went to the dressing table, rummaging through the drawers until she emerged, triumphant. She held a wide ribbon of silver satin, which she tied firmly about my upper arm, securing the ends in a bow.
She stepped back to survey the effort, frowning. “What do you think?”
“Rather dashing,” I assured her. “And who knows? If anyone does remark upon it, I may find myself in the fashion papers as an innovator.”
She did not return my smile. She merely gave a grunt and stooped to help me into my shoes, court shoes of velvet in the same shade as the gown, and presented a long velvet mantle furred with a curious silver pelt.
“The Geistenfuch,” she explained. “The ghost fox—a small silver fox that lives in the mountains. Very rare and very beautiful.”
I wondered how many of the poor little beasts had been sacrificed for the robe, but it would be the rankest hypocrisy not to acknowledge that I was glad of the warmth. She draped and pinned a wide riband of white watered taffeta across my chest, securing it with a remarkably ugly brooch of considerable age. It was set with heavy, old-fashioned stones depicting a jeweled otter rampant.
“The order of St. Otthild,” she informed me. “The otter is her badge, and this order is one of great antiquity. The lesser degrees feature the flower of St. Otthild’s wort, but of course the princess is a member of the first degree,” she said proudly.
Then she pulled on my kid gloves, thin and tight as a second-skin, buttoning them past my elbows. She clasped the bracelets of the parure over them, then positioned the mantle atop everything, handing me a matching muff of silver fox before stepping back to view her efforts.
“Will I pass muster?” I asked lightly. But I was conscious even as I uttered the words of a rather desperate desire for her approval. It suddenly seemed quite important to me that I do this well, for reasons I dared not even contemplate.
She regarded me a long time, sweeping her gaze from the tips of my evening slippers—embroidered with sequins and silver thread—to the tiara atop my crown of false hair. After an agonizing wait, she gave a slow nod. “You will do.”
And I knew that faint praise held a wealth of emotion for her. She swallowed hard as she looked at me, no doubt missing her vanished princess. It was clear the baroness had great affection for her mistress, no matter how wayward she could be. Before I could offer some comfort, she turned away, briskly.
“I must go and make my own toilette,” she told me. “You must not crease.”
“I should not dream of it,” I promised her. “I will sit here until you return.”
“Sit!” The word was nearly a shriek. “You cannot sit! You must stand. Right there. Do not move. Pretend you are a waxwork from that Madame Tussaud until I return,” she instructed.
She left me then, earrings quivering in indignation that I might be foolish enough to do anything as abjectly stupid as sit. I shifted my weight from foot to foot, suddenly acutely conscious of how very awkward it was to simply stand. I listened to the mantel clock—mercifully not an Alpenwalder goat clock—tick over the minutes, and just as the quarter hour chimed, the door from the sitting room eased open.
Stoker darted in, closing the door softly behind him. I gasped and instantly regretted it; the corset permitted no deep breaths, and I whooped with laughter as I attempted to catch my breath.
“You needn’t be rude about it,” Stoker reproached me in an injured tone.
Stoker had been scrubbed and polished to within an inch of his life, his chin freshly barbered, his nails cleaner than I had ever seen them, every trace of ink and glue removed. His hair had been clubbed back into an old-fashioned queue, and perched atop his head was a shako of dark blue trimmed with silver braid. They had found him a spare uniform, dark blue and silver, each button struck with an image of the Alpenwalder otter of St. Otthild, but it was his face that had undergone the greatest transformation. Between his nose and his lip burgeoned the most extravagant set of moustaches I had ever seen. Like those of the chancellor and Captain Durand, his had been waxed into the shape of a ram’s horns, extending out from the edge of the mouth and then curling back in a grand flourish as black as his hair, thick and dense as a shrubbery. I went to him and poked with an experimental finger.
“It looks like a hedgerow. Have you got wildlife in there? I think I spy a badger,” I said.
He grimaced, or at least I think he did. It was rather difficult to tell with the concealing layer of facial hair. “How on earth did they happen to come by such a monstrosity?” I asked him.
“Apparently they travel with contingencies,” he explained. “The moustaches are part of the uniform and in case any of the officers meet with an accident, there is always a spare to hand.”
“But why are you even in uniform?” I demanded. “Surely plain clothes would have been more discreet.”
“That is what I thought,” he told me in an aggrieved tone. “But then the chancellor happened to mention that a certain Inspector Mornaday has been tasked with the role of liaison with Special Branch.”
“Hell and damnation,” I muttered.
“I said a good deal worse when I discovered it,” he told me. Mornaday was a complication we could ill afford. Our sometime ally and occasional champion, Mornaday was unpredictable as quicksilver. He longed for promotion within the confines of Special Branch—something he had recently achieved. But there was no telling how long his goodwill might last. The fact that he harbored a tendresse for J. J. Butterworth complicated the situation. He had, once or twice to my knowledge, fed her titbits that would give her an exclusive story for the Daily Harbinger. As keen for her advancement as his own, he made certain to paint his involvement in a good light. In payment for his indiscretion, she always mentioned him in laudatory tones. It was a symbiotic relationship, that of parasite and host, I thought bitterly. It was Mornaday’s deficiencies of imagination that led him to think he was the host. I knew perfectly well he was often steered towards a story by the impetuous and deeply ambitious Miss Butterworth.
“What of Sir Hugo?” I asked suddenly. “If Mornaday is there, his superior cannot be far behind.”
“Sir Hugo is abed,” he told me. “With gout.”
“Poor fellow,” I said with real sympathy. “We must send him a nice calf’s-foot jelly.”
“Or perhaps just a calf’s foot,” Stoker suggested, a gleam in his eye. He and Sir Hugo enjoyed a state of armed neutrality at the best of times.
I sighed as best as I could in my confining garb. “I suppose we will simply have to make the best of it. Keep your moustaches primped and your shako pulled low.”
Stoker gave me an appraising glance, from extravagant jewels to exuberant décolletage. “I do not think I will be the one they are looking at.” He nodded to the impossible slimness of my waist. “How can you eat in that?”
“I cannot eat,” I told him coldly. “I cannot bend. I cannot breathe. In short, I cannot do anything for which the human body is fashioned. I am an automaton for the evening, a doll, dressed and polished for your amusement.”
I might have carried on in the same vein, but his attention was drawn to the large gilded box on the dressing table. I sighed. “Rose and violet creams. Help yourself.”
He required no further urging. With a soft moan of pleasure, he reached into the box and took one of each, mingling the heavy floral creams in a single mouthful. His eyes rolled backwards. “Heaven,” he managed through the chocolate and cream. He reached in to take another, but suddenly his gaze sharpened and he plucked out a piece of card.
“What is this?”
I shrugged—a mistake, I realized at once, for it sent my earrings swinging painfully against my neck. “A note from the sender, I presume.”
He shook his head. “I doubt it. It was hid beneath the top layer of chocolates. And it is not precisely friendly.” He handed over the bit of card, a little grubby thanks to its proximity to the chocolates and printed simply. It smelt of sugar, but the message was none too sweet. PREPARE FOR YOUR END.
“A threat to the princess,” I breathed. I inspected the note for clues, but it had been hastily scrawled in an obvious attempt to disguise the handwriting, each letter printed in a harsh block capital on a torn bit of paper. I turned horrified eyes to Stoker. “Poison,” I said succinctly.
He heaved a sigh and went into the washroom. I do not know exactly what precautions he took to rid himself of the chocolates, but there was the distinct sound of retching and then the running of water. When he returned, his moustaches were a fraction less exuberant than they had been before, but he appeared well enough. I gripped his face and peered into his eyes.
“Your pupils seem normal. Stick out your tongue,” I ordered.
He pushed my hands aside, but gently, as he stuck out his tongue. His breath smelt of peppermint drops. “I am perfectly fine,” he insisted.
“You may have been poisoned,” I pointed out.
“Hardly likely,” he said. “The chocolates smelt and tasted fine.”
“Some tasteless substance,” I began.
“Much more common in fiction than in reality,” he assured me. “And I have rid myself of anything possibly noxious, which was a dreadful waste of good chocolate.”
I gave him a narrow look. “You will tell me if you feel at all unwell?”
“Well, I am hungry now,” he told me, stroking his chin thoughtfully. He rummaged in his pockets, unearthing a slab of shortbread wrapped in paper.
“You have the digestive capabilities of a gannet,” I told him. I turned my attention to the box. “When was this delivered?”
He examined it closely, shrugging. “There is nothing to indicate when it arrived or from whom.”
“Do you think she saw it?”
He considered a moment. “I should think not. If she saw it, she would have surely shown it to Durand or the chancellor.”
“She mightn’t have liked to,” I pointed out. “It is rather unpleasant.”
“All the more reason to pass it to the men responsible for her security,” Stoker countered. “And if she chose not to do so, why replace it in the box?”
“Out of sight, out of mind?” I suggested. “A stalwart soul might have faced the thing directly, but we have heard from those nearest to her that she has been known to be elusive. Perhaps this is the sort of thing she runs away from.”
His gaze sharpened. “You think she saw this and left of her own accord rather than being abducted?”
“I think we cannot rule anything out at present.”
I thrust the note back into the box, carefully concealing it with the remaining bonbons. “There is no time to deal with this at present, but it is evidence of something. I only wish I knew what.”
Stoker reached for my arm. “Veronica, I do not like this—” he began.
Before he could finish, the air was rent with a shriek. “Unhand her, sir! You will mark the velvet!”
The baroness entered, as stately as a ship in full sail. She had dressed her own hair in a more modest approximation of my own coiffure, piled high and embellished with plaits and jeweled pins. A tiara of garnets and enormous pearls sat atop, the tremblant pearls quivering in outrage. Her gown was the same hue
as her gemstones, dark velvety red and edged in sables, the colors warming her pale cheeks almost as effectively as her rouge. A sash of the Order of St. Otthild crossed her bodice, pinned neatly with a jeweled otter badge. She wore no other decorations, but it was enough. She looked every inch the regal court lady.
She flicked a closed fan at Stoker, rapping him sharply upon the knuckles. “Know your place, sir.”
He gave her a deferential bow and tried to catch my eye, but I let my gaze slide just to the side, never quite meeting his. It would have been an excellent joke to share if I had permitted it. But I felt unlike myself in the princess’s clothes, armored almost, in satin and diamonds, aloof and untouchable. And when the baroness beckoned for me to walk ahead of her, I stepped forward on feet that scarcely seemed to touch the ground.
Just then, the sound of raised voices came from the sitting room. The chancellor made an exclamation—of some strong emotion, although whether it was pleasure or rage, I could not say. The baroness raised an imperious hand to me and to Stoker.
“Wait here,” she instructed. She slipped through the door, and after a moment her voice was added to the muffled conversation. I could hear a man’s laugh—distinctly not the chancellor’s—and then the voices carried on for a few minutes, low tones occasionally punctuated by a quick question or exclamation from the visitor. At length the baroness flung open the door, her color high.
“Fraulein, you will come,” she said. Stoker followed in my wake and I could feel the warmth of him standing just behind me when I stopped. The chancellor had been joined by a gentleman slightly taller than average height. He wore the customary Alpenwalder moustaches, but his were of a rich chestnut hue, only a little darker than the burnished waves of his hair. His eyes were very dark and bright with interest as he regarded me. He was wearing a uniform similar to the chancellor’s, but with a dozen more medals and a riband of the princely order. Everything about him was just a shade more—where the chancellor and the baroness were limned in watercolors, this fellow was cast in brilliant oils.