An Unexpected Peril

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “Will you be happy with such a choice?”

  She regarded me in obvious surprise. “Happy? I am a princess. It is not my place to be happy. It is my place to govern. And I will do so as Alice and I discussed. I will bring my country into the new century with new ideas. There will be resistance to our progress, and I am prepared for that,” she added, her gaze steely. “My own personal happiness matters nothing when weighed against the well-being of my people.”

  “Then I wish you every success, Your Serene Highness,” I told her.

  I moved to curtsy, but she put out her hand to shake mine instead. “Thank you, Veronica Speedwell.”

  CHAPTER

  30

  At the princess’s invitation, Stoker and I traveled to the Alpenwald as guests of the royal family and were accorded far more prominence than we might have expected. I amused myself en route by reading the Daily Harbinger, which devoted several issues to the upcoming nuptials complete with sketches of the princess’s trousseau. There were no articles written by J. J. Butterworth, a notable omission, and one that told me she had not yet succeeded in breaking the story she had followed into Windsor Castle. Whatever game was afoot, I had no doubt she would, in the end, prove an able hunter. I was pleased to find a small article near the back of the newspaper that made mention of an expedition embarking upon the Canadian Rockies—an expedition that included Douglas Norton. He had, it was noted, left London in some haste in January and had decided to set out at once for the wilds of Alberta.

  Stoker was occupied with his book—a saucy French novel that had been banned in seventeen countries—and with a hamper packed to the brim with various delights from the kitchen of Julien d’Orlande, the journey passed pleasurably for both. The night before the wedding, we were summoned to the princess’s audience chamber. We had been lodged in Hochstadt’s best hostelry, a timber-framed inn that looked like something conjured by the Brothers Grimm. Every part of the small city had been bedecked with flower garlands in honor of the nuptials, and the air was heavy with the scent of the blossoms of St. Otthild’s wort. We arrived promptly, just as the clock tower in the town hall chimed the hour, sending forth an enormous mountain goat to bleat the time.

  The princess received us in her throne room, sitting upon a carved and gilded chair hung with azure blue silk. She rose as we approached, smiling broadly. She beckoned to the chancellor, who came forward carrying a small cushion. Atop it rested two medals, each struck with an otter blazoned in tiny sapphires.

  “The Order of St. Otthild, First Class,” she told us as she gestured to the floor. Two blue velvet cushions had been laid for us, and we knelt as she presented us with our honors. It was the first of such dignities that either of us had been accorded, and I was conscious of a rush of pride that we had been of use in the princess’s time of need. And as I noted the emerald-eyed stare of the lofty Guimauve, tucked behind his mistress’s skirts, I was grateful that this time at least, we had neither of us acquired a new pet as a souvenir of our investigations. A flurry of journalists attempted to question us as we left the palace, for we were a story in our own right, and I laughed much later to find our photograph, blurry and indistinct, featured in a column in the Daily Harbinger with J. J. Butterworth’s byline, explaining that we had received our honors for “undisclosed services to the Alpenwalder Crown.”

  True to his word, the chancellor presented us with a clock, enormous and brightly painted and featuring a sinister-looking goat which bleated the hour and which I insisted Stoker keep to adorn his folly.

  The next day we stood proudly in the cathedral as the princess walked down the aisle to take Duke Maximilian as her husband. We watched them exchange solemn vows, pledging themselves to one another for eternity, and I fancied I detected a new seriousness about the duke. I could only hope that purpose and responsibility would settle him. For her part, the princess seemed happy enough, satisfied that she had done her duty by her country. And as she passed us, I saw a glint from within her bouquet of flowers, roses and St. Otthild’s wort and cascades of ivy. It was only a moment, but I recognized the glimmer of an Alpenwalder summit medal, and I guessed whose badge the princess had chosen to carry with her on her wedding day. Alice Baker-Greene would never be far from her thoughts, I knew.

  When they had signed the register and the procession had made its way out of the cathedral, we emerged into the sunlight to find the square thronged with Alpenwalders, flinging petals of St. Otthild’s wort into the air in celebration. The bells rang out and trumpets sounded and beer ran from the fountains. Stoker turned to me, the sunshine brilliant as it gleamed upon his hair. In spite of the crowds, he wrapped one strong arm about my waist and kissed me, a thorough and expert effort that left me breathless.

  “You are grown sentimental,” I said lightly. “It must be the romantic in you. Next minute you will be quoting Keats at me.”

  His mouth, warm and supple and infinitely skilled, curved into a smile. “‘You are always new; The last of your kisses was ever the sweetest.’”

  The prick of sudden tears stung my eyes and I brushed aside a petal of St. Otthild’s wort. I put out my hands, taking his lapels in my grip. “I am sorry, Stoker.”

  “For what?” His gaze searched my face.

  “That I cannot give you this—what Gisela and Maximilian have done today. If you need this, this proper and legal thing in the eyes of the world, I understand. I will release you,” I told him even as I clutched him fiercely.

  He covered my hands with his own. “Will you change your mind about marriage?”

  “Never,” I told him. I paused, wondering if I would have to give voice to my feelings, if I could give voice to them. But it seemed he understood much of what was in my heart.

  “Neither will I,” he replied. “And even if I did, I would not do that to you. Veronica, I have no need to pin those wings of yours to a card and put a label to you—Mrs. Revelstoke Templeton-Vane. You are, and always will be, Veronica Speedwell. And I could never wish you different than you are. Now, let us go back to London where we belong.”

  I thought of the letter nestling in my pocket which beckoned us on to a new adventure. “With perhaps just a little detour on our journey,” I said, linking my arm with his.

  “What detour?” he asked, narrowing his eyes.

  “That,” I told him, “is for me to know and you to discover.”

  His eyes lit with amusement. “Very well. But I may also know a thing or two that you do not.”

  “Oh, really? Tell me,” I urged.

  “Better yet. I will show you.” He leant near to my ear, his lips brushing my lobe. “‘I will imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a heathen,’” he murmured.

  “God bless John Keats,” I replied fervently.

  He escorted me back to our lodgings and proceeded to demonstrate for me the wisdom that Pompeia Baker-Greene had imparted during their private conversation. The next morning, utterly sated and rather tired after a vigorously sleepless night, I rose early and dressed, careful to ease out of the room quietly so as not to waken Stoker, who was, poor fellow, utterly demolished with fatigue.

  Making my way to the cheesemonger, I selected the largest, most delectably fragrant cheese I could find and ordered it sent to England to Pompeia Baker-Greene.

  “Would you care to include a message, Fraulein?” the cheese maker inquired.

  “Not at all,” I told him with a smile. “She will know what it is for.”

  I stepped out of the shop and into the cobbled street just as the sun topped the flank of the devil’s staircase, warming the side of the mountain with its golden light. The sky was a brilliant blue, and the hillsides of the lower slopes, bright green with spring grass, were dotted lushly with the first buds of St. Otthild’s wort. A passing breeze caught the top of the Teufelstreppe, blowing snow off the peak in a long, lazy trail of powdery white, like the la
st feather from an angel’s wing as it ascended to the heavens.

  I drew in a deep breath of cool mountain air and turned my face to the rising sun for just a moment. I thought of the discoveries we had made in the course of this adventure, the secrets left unspoken. And a whisper of a chill breeze brushed across my face, like the passing of a shadow over the moon.

  Just then, a familiar voice called my name from above, and I looked up to see Stoker, sleep tousled and smiling down at me from the open casement.

  I pushed aside all thoughts of peril and secrets and raised my face once more to the sun. Whatever lay in our future, whatever our destiny, we would face it together, stalwart and devoted, I vowed. Excelsior!

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  The Alpenwald, with its customs, language, folklore, inhabitants, flora, fauna, and history, is entirely fictitious, as is its capital of Hochstadt and the Teufelstreppe. While many British princesses married into German principalities and duchies, George III’s only sister to do so was Princess Augusta, the Hereditary Princess of Brunswick-Wolfenbuttel. Although Empress Frederick (Queen Victoria’s eldest daughter, the Princess Royal) was in England during January 1889, she did not broker a secret peace treaty in opposition to her son the kaiser.

  Alice Baker-Greene and her family are also fictitious, although many female mountaineers were making audacious climbs during the nineteenth century, and two in particular—Annie Smith Peck and Fanny Bullock Workman—did indeed hold up suffragist banners in their photographs. The climbing rivalry between these two mountaineers was legendary and both have provided inspiration for the character of Alice Baker-Greene.

  Many operas have been written with Atalanta as their subject, most notably by Handel, but the particular work referenced in this book does not exist.

  St. Otthild is also a figment of the author’s imagination, as are her otters rampant.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As ever, tremendous gratitude to the team at Berkley/Penguin, Veronica’s champions and my collaborators. Particular thanks to Craig Burke, Loren Jaggers, Claire Zion, Jeanne-Marie Hudson, Jin Yu, Jessica Mangicaro, Jenn Snyder, Ivan Held, and Tara O’Connor. The marketing, sales, publicity, and editorial departments are full of dedicated and talented people who give their all to Veronica and I am hugely grateful for their generosity. The art department has created exquisite covers for every novel, but this one goes above and beyond.

  For more than twenty years I’ve had the privilege and joy of working with my agent, Pam Hopkins, and this is my sixth adventure with my editor, Danielle Perez. They are gifted, kind, and insightful women who have given me advice as well as friendship, and I am a better writer for knowing them.

  Many thanks to Ellen Edwards, the acquiring editor who gave Veronica a home, and Eileen Chetti, my copyeditor who keeps Veronica tidy with eagle-eyed precision.

  Much love to those who offer practical support, sympathetic ears, kindly advice, and safe spaces: Jomie Wilding, the Writerspace team, Blake Leyers, Ali Trotta, Delilah Dawson, Ariel Lawhon, Joshilyn Jackson, Lauren Willig, Susan Elia MacNeal, Robin Carr, Alan Bradley, David Bell, Rhys Bowen, and the Blanket Fort.

  For Mom, Dad, and Caitlin—you are my everything.

  For Phil. Forever. For always.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Deanna Raybourn is the author of the award-winning, New York Times bestselling Lady Julia Grey series as well as the USA Today bestselling and Edgar Award-nominated Veronica Speedwell Mysteries and several stand-alone works.

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