An Unexpected Peril

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “Veronica,” he said, tightening his grip, “we have perhaps thirty seconds before we reach the dining room where two dozen dignitaries and officials are waiting to eat dinner with you and then sign a peace treaty binding two countries in perpetual friendship—a treaty upon which I have labored for the better part of a year and for which I am to receive advancement. Please tell me that you are not intending to bring me to ruination by somehow contriving to destroy this.”

  “Certainly not,” I assured him.

  “Then would you please explain why else you are here if not to jettison my career?”

  “I did not even know you were involved!” I protested. “Stoker never told me you had a post in the Foreign Office.”

  “I do not, as it happens. My role is a more personal one in Her Majesty’s household,” he explained. “I am a sort of liaison. It is my task to bring together those who would not ordinarily work in tandem to accomplish goals set by the queen and her closest advisers.”

  “Against the will of the government?” I asked.

  “Of course not.” He sounded appalled at the very idea. “But sometimes what the government wants is for matters to be handled discreetly. In this case, it would be far too complicated to broker this treaty publicly and offend the German Empire, and it would no doubt make the empress’s position even more difficult than it already is.”

  “I will not fail you,” I promised. “Your treaty will be signed.”

  “It will hardly be legal if it is signed by Veronica Speedwell, spinster, of the Marylebone parish,” he muttered.

  “It is not like you to be rude,” I told him in a soothing tone. “I fear you are hungry and it is making you dyspeptic.”

  “I am not hungry. I am having an apoplexy,” he said, taking out a handkerchief and dabbing at his brow. I peered at his face.

  “You do look rather florid. Would you like to take a moment?” I asked kindly.

  He stopped before a tall pair of double doors. “There is no time,” he told me, fixing a thoroughly unconvincing smile upon his lips. “We are here.”

  CHAPTER

  24

  Much of the evening passed as if in a dream. I was seated between Sir Rupert and the French delegate, who bowed deeply and kissed both of my hands when he was presented.

  “General de Letellier,” Rupert murmured. “The general is the French signatory to the treaty.”

  The general swept me a bow, clasping my outstretched hand.

  “Your Serene Highness,” he murmured against my gloves, and it felt as much like a seduction as a greeting. He was at least thirty years my senior, with a tightly girdled waist and hair pomaded thickly against his head, but what he lacked in personal charms he more than compensated for in gallantry. “The English are very casual,” he remarked. “We ought to have been introduced in the anteroom, but I must not care about etiquette when it means I have the company of such a lady all to myself.”

  He stepped sharply in front of the castle footman to push in my chair with his own hands, taking the opportunity to glance swiftly down my décolletage.

  “Merveilleux,” he murmured.

  “I beg your pardon,” I said, widening my eyes at him. I reflected then that my ordinary instincts in such situations could not be reliably called upon. I had often been complimented, inveigled, caressed, and otherwise importuned in my travels, and it was my experience that a few sharp minuten—tiny pins meant to fix a butterfly to a card—when judiciously applied to an offender’s person invariably rendered him apologetic. But that would hardly do in this case. To begin with, I risked causing grave insult to the other signatory of the treaty. Beyond that, there was every possibility that he would object strenuously to being stabbed. Men, as it happens, were often not enthused about such a development, I had observed.

  “I was marveling at the generosity of the good God,” he told me as he took his seat. “To make a woman royal is a gift from the Almighty. To make her beautiful as well, that is an abundance of favor.”

  “Is there a Madame de Letellier?” I asked pointedly.

  He nodded towards a lushly curvaceous brunette dressed in rose pink taffeta and leaning very close to Stoker, her mouth curved into a smile.

  “That is Honorine,” he said. “I will not introduce you, for you will not like her. Other women never do. But the men . . .” He raised his eyes heavenwards and made an ecstatic sound in the back of his throat. Madame de Letellier was a few decades younger than her husband, and I could well imagine how she had come to his notice.

  I said nothing but inclined my head a fraction, just enough to set the jewels on my tiara trembling as I reached for my menu card. Inscribed in elegant French, it detailed the courses we were about to receive. I conversed politely with de Letellier for the first course, a clear consommé.

  “Is this your first trip to England, madame?” the general inquired as we sipped.

  I took a spoonful of soup to delay answering. The longer it took me to reply to his queries, the fewer of them he could pose, I reasoned. And that meant not quite as many opportunities for me to stumble in my masquerade.

  I sidestepped the question and posed one of my own. “England is a charming place, I think,” I said slowly. “What do you make of it?”

  The general launched into a lengthy speech about his host country whilst I applied myself to my soup, occasionally offering a wide-eyed nod of agreement to encourage his monologue. Most men loved nothing better than holding forth on their opinions, and the general was no exception. He detailed his thoughts on the weather (appalling), the landscape (passably pretty), the politics (incomprehensible to outsiders), and the handsomeness of the women (lacking).

  I nearly bristled at the last until I realized I was not, for the purposes of the evening, supposed to be an Englishwoman.

  “But,” he added as I spooned up the last of my consommé, “there is an idealism about the English which I find irresistible. We French are pragmatic. We see things as they are, but John Bull, the typical Englishman? He sees things as he wishes them to be. Like children, they play at being empire builders, wanting all the world to drink tea and keep the stiff upper lip. But it can never succeed.”

  I looked at him in surprise. The general was rather more perceptive than I had realized. “You do not believe in empires?”

  His smile was rueful and deeply attractive. “My dear madame, one cannot build an empire without paying for it, and the cost is always too high, as France learned to her sorrow. Ask them all—Alexander, Caesar, Napoléon—they were authors of empires and what did it profit them? They died as all men must. And their empires crumbled to dust.” He waved his hands. “No, madame. The game of empires is one that cannot be won. That is why I am here tonight.”

  “We have that in common,” I told him. “I believe in self-determination, that all peoples have a right to be left to govern themselves as they see fit.”

  He raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Surely only if they have the education to do so under democratic principles,” he stated.

  “You would see the gospel of Montesquieu preached throughout the world,” I teased.

  “All men must be schooled to take their destiny in their hands,” he said gravely. I glanced across the table and saw Stoker laughing at some witticism of Madame de Letellier.

  “And what of the women?” I challenged her husband. “Should they have no role in shaping the future of their countries?”

  The general took a long sip of his wine. “Ladies do not always have the capacity for understanding matters of governance. Excepting yourself, of course,” he added with a gallant little bow.

  “All the more reason to educate them as well,” I told him. I pointed to the centerpiece then, a lavish silver epergne stuffed with hothouse roses and lilies and St. Otthild’s wort, a floral compliment to the nations represented around the table. Atop the flowers, in a display of
symbolism that entirely escaped me, perched a pair of stuffed birds with bright plumage. “Eclectus roratus cornelia,” I told the general. “The Sumba Island eclectus parrot. You see how one is pale green and the other a brilliant scarlet?”

  He nodded. “Of course, the male is so dominant and attractive.”

  “That is not the male,” I corrected. “The male eclectus is green, the color of his surroundings, meant to blend in and go unnoticed. It is the female which boasts the glorious scarlet plumage. You, my dear general, have made the very common mistake of believing, as so many others do, that the male of the species is the default. I would like to refer you to Antoinette Brown Blackwell, whose very excellent work, The Sexes Throughout Nature, corrects this error on the part of Mr. Darwin—” I broke off at the expression of bemusement on his face. Too late, I realized that Gisela might converse knowledgeably about stamps or cheese, perhaps even politics, but she most assuredly would not lecture on the subject of natural history.

  Luckily for me, the general was more attentive to my face than my topic of conversation.

  “How stern you look!” he said. “That I have caused such a lovely face to look so forbidding, I will never forgive myself.”

  A sharp retort rose to my lips, but I felt a quick pinch from my other side. Rupert was still talking in a desultory fashion with an elderly Frenchwoman—something about porcelain—but his hand had slipped under the table to nip me hard upon the leg.

  “Madame, you are quite well? Only you look pained,” the general said, his expression one of grave concern.

  “I am quite well,” I assured him. “Just a passing discomfort.”

  He leaned near, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “It is the English food. My liver has complained since I crossed the Channel. Nothing but beefsteaks and potatoes, so many potatoes,” he mourned. “I recommend a strong tisane of peppermint. It always soothes the stomach.”

  I thanked him politely and just then the consommé bowls were taken away and the next course laid. I turned to find Rupert staring daggers at me. “Is it absolutely necessary to spout Radical philosophy at the general?” he demanded in a whisper.

  “It is hardly Radical to propose that women have a say in government,” I told him.

  “It is to anyone sitting at this table. And evolutionary theory? I hardly think the Princess of the Alpenwald has even heard of Mr. Darwin much less is conversant with his detractors.”

  “Antoinette Brown Blackwell is not precisely a detractor—” I broke off as Rupert began to glower at me.

  “You are doing it again,” he said tightly.

  “I think my conversation amuses the general,” I said, lifting my fork.

  “Do not worry about amusing him,” Rupert said as he stabbed his woodcock. “Your only concern is getting through this horror of an evening without anyone becoming the wiser as to who you are.”

  I gave him a demure look that I hoped would signal my agreeableness, but he ignored me, eating his way stolidly through the course until the plates were changed. “You will give yourself indigestion if you carry on this way,” I advised Rupert as I turned back to the general.

  The Frenchman was staring at his new plate mournfully. Slices of rosy beef were arranged artfully with piped pureed potatoes. “You see? Beefsteaks and potatoes,” he lamented.

  I pointed to the menu. “Rosbif et pommes dauphines.”

  He shrugged. “You may call it by a pretty name, but it is still the food of the British peasant.” He poked at the meat with his knife. “This steak is overcooked. It grieves upon my plate.”

  The slices of beef were pink and succulent-looking, but every Frenchman I had ever known preferred his beef very nearly still on the hoof. I signaled to the footman behind me, who sprang to attention.

  “Your Serene Highness?”

  “I am afraid the general cannot eat his steak. Kindly bring him one that is much less thoroughly cooked. And a salad, lightly dressed with oil and vinegar.”

  The footman whisked the offending plate away and the general gave a little crow of delight. He leaned towards me, his voice a caressing whisper. “You know, I say to myself, Achille, how can this lovely creature, so natural, so unspoilt, be a princess? I begin to doubt that you are the princess,” he said, smiling broadly. “Perhaps you are the faery changeling!”

  A frisson of terror surged down my spine, icy as a chilblained finger. “Oh?” I said faintly.

  “But then to see you command this fellow so expertly, I know you are a woman accustomed to giving the orders.” He regarded me with a practiced gleam in his eye. “Now I must mourn that you are a princess, so far out of reach,” he murmured. His gaze dropped lazily to my décolletage again and then rose, unwillingly it seemed, back to my face. “I think I will write poetry to you.”

  “I beg you will not trouble yourself,” I told him.

  “What is trouble when there is such beauty in the world?” he demanded. He launched into a lengthy poem in French, only half of which I understood, larded as it was with vernacular terms and metaphors that I suspected were slightly indecent. As the footman refilled his glass, I realized he had taken a great deal of the wine and had as yet consumed very little of the food.

  He raised his glass to the light, studying the color. “Do you know, madame, there are those who say you should only taste wine from a goblet made of black glass so that the eye may not be fooled by the color, that only the senses of the nose and the tongue are to be trusted. But what a loss! See this beautiful color, like the velvet of my first mistress’s favorite gown. And the bouquet!” He inserted his nose deeply into the glass, sniffing hard. “Such heavy fruits! Cherries and the red currant, so subtle and ripe. This is a very good wine, a wine so good one may dine upon it.”

  That seemed what he was inclined to do. He finished two more glasses before his food arrived, and when it did, he stared at his fork as if slightly confused by it. I exchanged my plate with his and cut his meat swiftly into little pieces before handing it back.

  “Eat,” I ordered.

  “I am yours to command,” he said with limpid eyes. He had eaten half the steak by the time the plates were cleared and there was a brief struggle as the footman removed his. The general clung to it, grumbling as he snatched another piece of steak.

  The next course after the roasts was a lovely entremets of artichoke with a parsleyed white wine sauce. The general ignored his entirely in favor of picking desultorily at a jellied orange until the pudding course was served. He brightened at the fanciful display of pouding Sax-Weimar, a chocolate pudding lavishly embellished with cream and butter biscuits. He took a spoonful, rolling his eyes ecstatically in pleasure and making rather unseemly noises of appreciation. The footmen had attempted to take his glass of Bordeaux and pour the dessert wine, but the general would not hear of it, holding it up protectively out of reach and snapping his teeth at the hapless servants.

  “What the devil is happening over there?” Rupert demanded.

  “The general is most appreciative of the vintage served with the meat,” I told him.

  Rupert edged back in his chair and peered around me discreetly. “He is drunk as a lord,” he pronounced in obvious disgust.

  “All the better,” I whispered. “It means he is less likely to notice any imposture on my part.”

  The tablecloth moved as the general’s hand crept near, landing on my thigh. Rupert glanced down, reddening. “This cannot stand,” he began, half rising. “It is bad enough the man insisted on red wine being served during a course with artichokes, but this is quite too far.”

  I clamped my hand over Rupert’s to stay him, careful to keep a smile on my lips in case we were observed. “I have the matter in hand, I assure you, Rupert. I have dealt with far more importunate men upon my travels. Leave it to me and eat your pudding.”

  He subsided in his chair and applied himself to the swe
et. The general’s hand crept higher, caressing the heavy satin draped over my thigh. Casually, I reached for my saltcellar, heaping the tiny spoon full.

  “General,” I said suddenly, nodding towards the wall to his right, “is that painting French? I think it must be a Delacroix.” The painting in question was a long canvas, some four yards at least, featuring the allegorical figure of Time being crowned by Glory and Honor.

  He turned his head, giving me just enough time to drop the salt into his wine. “A Delacroix here? It would be unthinkable,” he pronounced, turning back to me in some befuddlement. “Delacroix is the greatest painter France has ever produced. It is impossible that such a vast canvas should not hang in the Louvre.”

  “Silly me. I am not a scholar of art,” I told him with a modest air. “Now, we have a custom in the Alpenwald, that the last of the wine must be drunk very quickly,” I said, raising my own glass of muscat. “It is a sort of tradition. To ensure good health,” I added quickly. I quaffed the last swallow of wine in one go, then raised my glass to him.

  “À votre santé!” He downed the rest of the wine, shuddering. “It was badly served. There was sediment,” he told me seriously, smacking his lips. He paused a moment, then his expression turned to one of puzzlement, then outright concern.

  “Madame,” he murmured. “You must excuse me.”

  He thrust back his chair, knocking squarely into the footman. I applied myself calmly to my pudding. Rupert pretended to brush a crumb off of his lapel, turning his face towards me. “Did you just poison the French delegate to the Treaty of Windsor?” he demanded.

  “Not in the slightest,” I replied. “Salt is an emetic, not a poison.”

  He groaned as he turned back to his dinner partner. I continued on with my pouding Sax-Weimar. After several minutes, the general returned looking a little green about the face and dabbing perspiration from his temples.

  “Feeling better, General?” I asked brightly.

  He nodded, resuming his place. The footman presented a fresh dish of the pudding but the general waved him off hastily. “A cup of tea please,” he pleaded. “Very weak. Nothing more.”