An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6)(29)

“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.”

“Of course, Excellency.” I turned to Stoker. “You see what is at stake here. It must be done.”

“I do not like it,” he replied.

“I am rather afraid you have no choice,” the chancellor said, his moustaches almost concealing a triumphant smile. “Fraulein Speedwell has consented.”

“But I have not,” Stoker returned, baring his teeth. “And I have only to alert the authorities or the newspapers to the fact that the princess is being impersonated to bring the entire house of cards down around your ears.”

The chancellor’s hands curled into fists at his sides. “You would not dare!”

“Wouldn’t I?” Stoker crossed one leg lazily over the other and regarded the chancellor with the icy hauteur of four hundred years’ worth of English noble blood.

The chancellor drew a handkerchief out of his pocket and dropped it to the floor. “Then I challenge you to a duel as you are a man of honor!”

I looked at the baroness. “Is there any way to stop this nonsense?”

She gave me a helpless shrug. “The chancellor likes to duel. It is a very common sport in our country. Almost as popular as mountain climbing. It gives the people something to do when the peaks are too dangerous to climb.”

“What about the women?” I asked.

“Oh, the women duel as well,” she assured me. “We use wooden swords, but it is very exciting all the same.”

Stoker had picked up the handkerchief and risen to his feet, a slow smile of acceptance spreading over his features. Recognizing the look, I plucked the handkerchief from his grasp and returned it to the chancellor. “Mr. Templeton-Vane will not duel you.”

“I rather like the idea,” Stoker protested.

“I know you do, and you really ought to examine that, but now is not the time,” I said. “Excellency, you and Mr. Templeton-Vane will not duel because if you do, I will not impersonate your princess.”

“That sounds like a win on both counts for me,” Stoker began.

I held up a hand. “I will take on the role of the princess on the condition that you be permitted to accompany me,” I told Stoker. He rocked back on his heels, thinking.

“Why would I agree to that when I can put an end to the whole bloody mess?”

“We both know you will not do that. You are too fine a gentleman to ruin a young woman’s career because of trifling matters. Mademoiselle Fribourg is depending upon this performance, and I daresay the composer is as well. Your concern is for my safety. Very well. You will come along and see to it personally. This meets with your approval, I take it, Excellency?” The chancellor gave a grudging nod as he returned his handkerchief to his pocket.

“But do not forget, the challenge has been issued and may be accepted at any time,” he told Stoker darkly.

“I will remember that,” Stoker promised.

“We are in agreement,” the baroness said in obvious relief.

“Excellent,” the chancellor said, rubbing his hands together. “There is much preparation to be done. I suggest you return here no later than teatime—”

“I think,” Stoker broke in, “that Miss Speedwell and I may be permitted a few moments to discuss the matter. In private.”

The chancellor looked as though he would like to protest, but the baroness gave him a long look and he nodded. “We will withdraw and you may have until the mantel clock chimes,” he told us. He pointed to the clock, a hideous affair of folksy wooden carving that could only have been crafted from some Bavarian nightmare. It was a sort of cottage or chalet, lavishly embellished with fruits and animals and great flowers picked out in garish paints. The door of the cottage was a particularly lurid shade of scarlet.

“How very unusual,” I said, attempting a polite smile.

“It is an example of our native Alpenwalder work,” the chancellor said with unmistakable pride. “I shall make you a present of one. But only if you are successful in this endeavor,” he added firmly.

He nodded brusquely to the baroness as he withdrew, and she darted us an apologetic glance. “Take whatever time you need,” she urged. “We will not trouble you until you call.”

She closed the door softly behind them and I turned to face Stoker.

“I will not point out the peril of this undertaking,” he said slowly. “I know you too well to believe that is any sort of deterrent to you.”

“You raised the subject with the chancellor,” I reminded him.

“Because I rather hoped he had more sense.” The words might have stung but for the gentle mournfulness of the tone. My insistence upon this rash scheme had obviously struck a stretched nerve.