An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6)(27)

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.