An Unexpected Peril

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  Mr. Lovell went on, waving an airy hand as we walked. “Our most illustrious guests stay in a completely private wing.” The carpets were even thicker here, muffling our footsteps. The walls were hung with green silk brocade, gaslights flickering shadows onto the pattern. There was something watchful about the place, a sense of breath being held, waiting. I was not much given to fancies, but I felt a trifle uneasy as we made our way down the corridor.

  He bore us to the end of the hall, where yet another set of double doors stood closed. A small brass plaque proclaimed it to be the Queen Victoria suite. “Our most elegant suite, always assigned to visiting royalty,” the manager informed us. He made a tiny tap against the door, the merest scratch, and instantly it opened. A maid, dressed in deepest black bombazine with a stiffly starched apron, stepped sharply aside, scuttling into the shadows, not even daring to glance up from under the edge of her enormous ruffled muslin cap. Mr. Lovell left us then and the maid hurried after him, leaving us standing just inside the doorway.

  The Baroness von Wallenberg came forward, making a gesture of welcome. She was dressed in a fine day gown of mulberry velvet, her monocle attached to a black velvet ribbon at her collar. An enameled watch was pinned to her lapel, and a wide belt held a chatelaine of finely wrought silver at her waist. It jingled with various implements—a tiny metal purse, a thimble, miniature scissors, and assorted other tools as well as a ring of keys. The baroness was clearly attired for whatever task might fall to her as a lady-in-waiting. “Miss Speedwell. Mr. Templeton-Vane. This way.”

  She led us into the sitting room, a luxurious chamber furnished in various shades of mossy green velvets and petal pink silks. A fire leapt merrily on the hearth, but there was no friendliness in the welcome. A gentleman stood stiffly at attention, his posture distinctly Teutonic, his uniform covered in medals from various honors. Like the guard captain’s, his moustaches were lavish and curled elaborately, but his head was bald as a new egg, shiny as the decorations on his chest. A second look told me that one of those decorations was a summit badge of the Alpenwalder Kletterverein Gipfelabzeichen, and I repressed a sigh of mild irritation. If every man from the Alpenwald sported moustaches and a summit badge, we should be overwhelmed by possible villains.

  If I had to choose a likelier of the two men to prove the murderer, I should have selected this fellow without hesitation. A pair of long, narrow scars puckered his left cheek, and I was instantly reminded of my old friend the Baron von Stauffenbach, who sported identical marks as the relics of Bavarian duels fought in his youth. They lent dash and a certain devil-may-care air to a man, I always thought. But there was nothing of the baron’s warmth in this Alpenwalder, only a wary watchfulness as he clicked his heels and bowed from the neck. He fixed us with an icy blue stare, the hungry stare of a bird of prey assessing a small movement in the grass.

  “Miss Speedwell. Mr. Templeton-Vane.”

  Mindful of my manners, I raised my veil, then went forward, hand extended. “Chancellor von Rechstein, I presume?”

  He regarded my hand with an expression akin to distaste, then took it, shaking only the fingertips. “Forgive me,” he said, inclining his head once more. “The shaking of hands is not a custom of our country.”

  He overcame his disinclination to shake Stoker’s hand and waved us to a sofa that had been neatly placed in the center of the room, taking a chair opposite. The arrangement felt artificial until I realized it had been done quite deliberately to keep his face slightly shadowed while the light fell full upon ours. If I considered such a thought to be far-fetched, I had only to wait for his next remark to know it was not. He flicked a glance at Stoker but riveted his attention upon me, studying my features at some length before Stoker finally coughed, recalling the chancellor’s attention.

  “Again, I must beg your forgiveness,” he said. He turned to the baroness. “You were quite right, Baroness. The resemblance is remarkable.” His expression was thoughtful. “But she would have to be intelligent for it to work. Uncommonly intelligent. The risks are too great otherwise.”

  “I can vouch for Miss Speedwell’s gifts,” the lady murmured. “I have made inquiries.”

  “Inquiries?” I asked. “What does this have to do with Alice Baker-Greene’s death?”

  The chancellor’s pale blue eyes turned again to me. “Nothing whatsoever.”

  “But isn’t that why you have asked us to come?” Stoker asked.

  The chancellor pursed his lips. “The baroness related to me your observations about the rope, Mr. Templeton-Vane. It is my opinion that the rope was frayed on the climb and that Miss Baker-Greene’s death was an accident—a tragic and deplorable accident as was the verdict of our official inquest.” The note of finality in his voice made it clear he would brook no further discussion on the subject.

  But I would not be discouraged by a little Teutonic forcefulness. I sat forward on the sofa. “Surely, Chancellor, you will agree—”

  The baron turned to the baroness. “She is stubborn. Do you think it will present a problem?”

  The baroness tipped her head, studying me like a zoological specimen. “I do not believe so.”

  I exchanged glances with Stoker. “Do you know what they are talking about?” I murmured.

  He shook his head. “Not in the slightest, but I have a very bad feeling I shan’t like it.”

  I smiled at the pair of Alpenwalders. “Chancellor. Baroness. Perhaps we should begin again. If you did not summon us to discuss the death of Miss Baker-Greene, then why are we here?”

  The chancellor said nothing but made a low, guttural noise of dismissal. He circled the sofa, surveying me slowly from all angles, as if inspecting a purchase. “She is shorter than Her Serene Highness,” he pronounced. “I noticed it at once when she entered.”

  “High-heeled shoes will remedy that,” the baroness assured him. “And a high coiffure like the one the princess wears. The difference will not be detectable once I have finished with her.”

  “Finished with what?” I demanded.

  The chancellor scowled at the baroness. “You did not tell them?”

  She dropped her eyes. “I thought it best coming from you, Excellency. I merely sent along your summons.”

  He threw his hands heavenwards and muttered something in the Alpenwalder dialect. The baroness flushed a little, not unbecomingly, and I wondered how many decades they had been having these sorts of misunderstandings. He heaved a final sigh at the baroness and turned to address us. “Miss Speedwell. Mr. Templeton-Vane. My countrywoman has not done her duty by you,” he said with a faint note of reproof. The baroness flushed again but said nothing. He went on. “I have asked you here today on a matter completely unrelated to the death of Miss Baker-Greene. Two days ago, you made the acquaintance of Her Serene Highness, the Hereditary Princess. Today, I am distressed to relate to you that the princess cannot be found.”

  I blinked at him. “I beg your pardon, Excellency?”

  He looked at the baroness. “Is my English that poor? I thought I was perfectly clear.”

  “You were,” she soothed. “The princess,” she repeated slowly, enunciating each syllable with care, “cannot be found.”

  Stoker and I continued to stare blankly at the Alpenwalders. “Perhaps if we said it louder,” the baroness suggested.

  The chancellor grunted in agreement. “THE PRINCESS,” he thundered, “CANNOT BE FOUND.”

  My ears ringing, I held up a hand. “We heard you, Excellency. I am afraid we do not comprehend you. Do you mean your princess is missing?”

  “Not missing,” the baroness said unhappily. “Just not here.”

  “Do you know where she is?” Stoker asked.

  “No,” was the reluctant answer.

  “Then she is missing,” he replied flatly.

  “And you want us to find her,” I finished, the familiar thrill of a quest thrumming
in my veins.

  “Not quite,” the chancellor corrected.

  “You see,” the baroness interjected smoothly, “this is not the first time we have misplaced Her Serene Highness.”

  “You mean she runs away?” Stoker suggested.

  “The princess cannot run away,” the chancellor bellowed. “Wherever she is, that is where she is supposed to be. The sun does not run away.”

  I resisted the urge to roll my eyes at his overwrought language. He was clearly distressed, and I was eager to get to the bottom of the matter.

  “Very well. You have simply misplaced your princess,” I said in a consoling tone. “If she has done this before, I presume she must always have returned in due course.”

  “Always,” the baroness said promptly. “Only we never know quite when to expect her.” Her face puckered a little. She was a court lady, schooled in concealing her emotions, but I noted that her hands twisted around her handkerchief, pleating and unpleating the scrap of embroidered lawn.

  “I can see how that must be difficult—” I began.

  “Difficult! It is impossible,” interjected the chancellor. “Today of all days.”

  “Why, particularly, today?” Stoker asked.

  “Tonight the princess has an engagement. There is an entertainment in her honor at the Royal Opera, a gala performance featuring Mademoiselle Sophie Fribourg.”

  “The soprano? I heard her sing once in Paris,” Stoker offered.

  I raised a brow at him, but he merely shrugged. “I am not entirely unsophisticated, you know,” he murmured.

  “‘Mademoiselle’ Fribourg?” I asked.

  The baroness hastened to explain. “Society in the Alpenwald is rather more stratified than in your country. Artists and performers, like tradesmen, are always referred to by French titles, whilst the nobility is addressed in German.”

  Stoker twitched at that, no doubt longing to make a comment that would have done Robespierre proud. I laid a quelling hand upon his sleeve and smiled at the baroness. “You were saying, Baroness? The opera?”

  “Mademoiselle Fribourg is singing the title role in a new work tonight—Atalanta by Edouard Berton,” the baroness confirmed, the furrow in her brow easing. “To have an opera written by an Alpenwalder composer sung at such a venue, and by an Alpenwalder soprano . . .” She trailed off.

  “It is the pinnacle of Alpenwalder cultural achievement,” the chancellor finished.

  “It will secure the place of our music in the pantheon of achievement,” the baroness added. “And it will be the making of Mademoiselle Fribourg’s career. Already she has booked a concert tour of America on the strength of this one performance.”

  “I am sure it will be a very great evening for all of you,” I said.

  “Not if the princess fails to appear!” the chancellor cried, striking his open palm with his fist.

  “You see,” the baroness explained, “if the princess is not in the royal box to put her imprimatur on the performance, as it were, it will all be for naught. There would be a presumption that somehow she disapproved of the opera or Mademoiselle Fribourg. The young lady’s career would be ruined, but far more importantly, it would be said that Alpenwalder culture is inferior,” she finished on a horrified whisper.

  I moved to question her priorities in the matter, but Stoker spoke up first. “But surely you can simply issue a statement saying the princess is indisposed.”

  The Alpenwalders exchanged meaningful glances. “Unfortunately, that is not possible.”

  “But why not?” he persisted.

  The chancellor looked at the baroness and gave a sharp shake of his head, sending his moustaches trembling. The baroness’s expression was grave. “We are devoted to our princess. Unfortunately, not everyone in the Alpenwald shares our regard. She has, upon occasion, failed to fulfill her duties in a manner that will satisfy all of her subjects.”

  “Failed how?” Stoker pressed.

  The chancellor pursed his lips. “She has not made appearances that were scheduled and announced in the Court Circular. She has permitted some of the royal patronages to lapse.”

  “She has put off her wedding,” added the baroness, her mouth thinning a little in obvious disapproval. I glanced to her hand and saw a heavy set of rings on her left hand, the gold wedding band and ruby engagement ring held in place by an extravagant ring of black enamel. A widow then, I realized. But she had clearly prized her status as a married woman and wanted the same for her princess.

  “Is she betrothed?” I asked.

  “Net yet,” the chancellor replied mildly. “There is a suitable match, the most suitable, but she va—va—” He tipped his head, clearly searching for the proper word.

  “Vacillates?” Stoker suggested.

  “Just so, vacillates,” the chancellor said in obvious satisfaction. “She will not make up her mind to a formal announcement of the engagement.”

  “If she would only permit the betrothal contracts to be signed and a date to be set,” the baroness lamented. “She would be happy then, I think. But she is frightened of marriage and so she resists, every day putting off the inevitable and causing the gossips.” The baroness sighed. “She can be very whimsical,” she added.

  This view of the princess did not conform to the serious, imperious young woman I had met. But it was little surprise she did not wish to commit herself quite yet to the rigid formality of marriage and court life.

  “The princess is young,” I began.

  “She is your age,” the baroness said.

  I gave her an oblique look. “You have indeed made inquiries.”

  Her smile was faint and apologetic. “You must forgive the impertinence, Miss Speedwell. But I had to be certain.”

  “Certain of what?”

  “That you would be an acceptable candidate,” the chancellor answered.

  “You still haven’t told us—a candidate for what?” Stoker asked.

  “To impersonate the princess, of course,” the chancellor replied, his moustaches looking very satisfied indeed.

  CHAPTER

  8

  I ought to have stared in astonishment or protested or demanded further explanation. Instead, I sat forward, gripping my hands together in excitement. “I will do it.”

  Beside me, Stoker gave a start. “You must be joking.”

  “Indeed, I am not,” I said.

  The chancellor’s austere features relaxed in obvious satisfaction, and the baroness nodded gravely. “You are courageous, Miss Speedwell.”

  “Courageous?” I asked.

  She looked to the chancellor, but he merely waved a dismissive hand. “A head of state will always receive threats most unsavory. We shall not discuss them.”

  “I think we bloody well shall,” Stoker stated, his innate courtesy deserting him for once.

  “You dare to swear in my presence?” The chancellor’s moustaches were quivering in indignation.

  “I will do a damned sight more than swear if you think you can simply dismiss dangers to Miss Speedwell with a flap of the hand,” Stoker told him in a tone of ringing finality.

  “Now, see here,” the chancellor began.

  I held up a hand. “Gentlemen, please. No brangling. Stoker, you have been decidedly rude to the chancellor but your concern is understandable. Excellency, what sort of dangers do you anticipate?”

  “One cannot anticipate every danger,” Stoker said icily. “That is why they are dangerous.”

  “I am aware,” I told him, maintaining my composure. “But forewarned is forearmed, is it not, Excellency? Now, what form have these threats taken?”

  The chancellor was clearly not pleased to have his feet held to this particular fire. He turned to the baroness and she hastened to reassure me. “A few letters, nothing more. The usual sort of thing one encounters when traveling. And e
ven at home. A ruler is never universally popular.”

  “What sort of letters?” Stoker asked.

  She shrugged. “The odd complaint about a matter of policy. The occasional anarchist.”

  Stoker and I exchanged glances. Our previous encounters with anarchists had been decidedly less than pleasurable. The baroness went on. “Those who wish to see the Alpenwald annexed to France. Those who wish to see her annexed to Germany. Those who want the princess to marry, those who want her to remain unwed. The sentiments are predictable.”

  “But you suggested there were real dangers,” Stoker reminded her.

  “I spoke out of turn,” she replied with a submissive look at the chancellor.

  I turned to Stoker. “You see? Nothing to be concerned about. Just the usual madmen and fanatics.”

  “Nothing to be concerned about. Veronica, have you entirely taken leave of your senses? Have all of you?” he demanded, looking from each of us to the others. “Your princess is missing. Have you not considered the possibility that one of these threats has at last materialized? Have you not considered the possibility that she may have been abducted?”

  The chancellor shifted in his chair. “Her Serene Highness left a note.”

  “A note! I should like to see it,” I told him.

  His gaze slid from mine. “It was destroyed. We cannot risk the story being made public that the princess is not at hand.”

  “What did it say?” Stoker demanded.

  The baroness sat forward, perhaps eager to make amends for raising the specter of violence in the first place. “That she was leaving on a personal matter and did not wish us to worry.”

  “What does that indicate to you?” I inquired.

  “That she meant to return before tonight when her presence is required,” she said promptly.

  “Then why worry now? She may yet turn up,” Stoker pointed out.

  “And if she does not?” the chancellor countered gruffly. I did not think it was possible for his posture to be any more erect, but he stiffened noticeably. “My dear fellow, my position in the Alpenwald is the pinnacle of all possible appointments. I did not achieve this by failing to anticipate every difficulty. We cannot risk the princess failing to appear tonight.” He turned to me, his tone gentle. In another man, I might have called it coaxing. “If the princess does not show herself in the royal box, she will gravely offend her hosts as well as the other dignitaries. Do you think the English will forgive such a slap in the eye? No, they will not! Help us, Fraulein.”