An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6)(32)

“It is the most spectacular thing I have ever seen,” I told Julien.

A lesser genius would have preened a little, but Julien merely accepted it as his due. “Of course it is because it is the best thing I have ever done.”

“What is it for?” Stoker asked, putting out a tentative finger.

Julien slapped his hand away. “Do not touch it! Have another choux, have twenty, but do not even breathe upon my darling.”

He stood protectively between his pastry sculpture and Stoker, who happily picked up the tray of choux buns and set to work. Mollified, Julien explained.

“It is to be displayed in the grand foyer of the hotel and then taken to the Curiosity Club for the opening of the exhibition. It was commissioned by the princess herself,” he said proudly. I did not begrudge him his pleasure in his accomplishment. Julien had been born in the Caribbean to enslaved parents. His journey to France and to culinary excellence had required talent and sacrifice as well as an ironclad belief in his own abilities. His friendship with Stoker had been born in an instant when they recognized in one another the same character of bone-deep determination to do what they believed right, no matter the cost. My own relationship with Julien was grounded in flirtation and a keen appreciation for the talent behind his work as well as the sheer pleasure in looking at a handsome face.

“Wait here.”

He disappeared into another room and returned bearing a tray which he presented to me with a flourish. “Pate de guimauve,” he said. “In honor of the cat of the princess which is called by that name.” The tray was laden with tiny delicacies molded in the shape of dainty cats.

“How charming! What are they?” I asked as I selected one.

“Rosewater meringues. They will melt upon the tongue. Try one,” he urged. I did as he bade me. The confections had been tinted the palest shade of pink, the outside glossy and ever so slightly crisp. It dissolved almost instantly to a mouthful of rose-scented sweetness, not soapy, as one might expect, but tasting of sunshine and summer and a garden bursting into bloom.

“Exquisite,” I told him.

He preened. “You say such delightful things to me, ma chère Veronique.”

I fluttered my lashes a little and he puffed out his chest before plying me with dark chocolate bonbons topped with sugar-dusted violets. I ate two, emitting a tiny moan of pleasure as I did so.

Julien beamed at me in satisfaction. “For you it is a pleasure to create. You have the Gallic appreciation of the senses.”

Stoker snorted at him, but Julien waved him away. “All Englishmen are philistines,” he pronounced sternly before turning back to me. “You would do better with a Frenchman who would appreciate your subtleties.”

He waggled his eyebrows at me in a sort of invitation, and I plucked another guimauve from the tray, licking the marshmallow from my fingers when I finished.

“You are very good to me, Julien,” I said. “And perhaps you would be better still and tell us if the manager of the Sudbury, Mr. Lovell, has recently taken on a new chambermaid. Tall, slender, clever eyes?”

Stoker darted me a look, and I mouthed a name at him. He suppressed a groan and stuffed another choux bun into his mouth.

“Ah! What Frenchman could resist those eyes?” Julien asked, rolling his own heavenwards. “So knowing, so full of promise.”

“I thought you were attached to another maid, Birdie or Billie or some such,” Stoker pointed out.

Julien’s expression was pained. “Attached? ‘Attached’ is not a word that I like. It means to be tied, restricted, imprisoned. No, my friend. I prefer to think of my dalliances as larks, as light and dainty as the pastry in your mouth.”

Stoker snorted and I sighed. “Julien, I do hope you are not seducing chambermaids and then leaving them unprotected in the world.”

“I am shocked that you would suggest such a thing,” he told me in an aggrieved tone. “Julien d’Orlande is a gentleman. Besides, I take always the precautions.”

I held up my hands. “I have no wish to hear more. Now, what name did the chambermaid give you?”

“Jane,” he said promptly. “I call her Jeanne, the French is nicer, no?”

“Did she give you a surname? Did she give you any hint as to her purpose in coming here?”

His brows drew together. “Surnames are so impersonal! Why would I wish to know such a thing when I could be discussing the shape of her lips instead? And her purpose in coming to the hotel is to work. I presume she is in need of wages.”

“Has she given you any indication that she has another purpose?” Stoker inquired, taking up the thread of interrogation. “Asked any indiscreet questions? Particularly about the princess?”

“Now that you mention it,” Julien said slowly, “she does ask quite a lot about the princess’s tastes and habits, but this is because she wishes to do her job well. She must serve the princess, and perhaps she will receive a gratuity if she is quick and capable.”

“Or because she wishes to write about her,” I told him.

His mouth rounded in astonishment. “To write? She is a journalist, this Jane?”

“She is. Her name is J. J. Butterworth,” Stoker supplied. “She writes for a filthy little rag called the Daily Harbinger.”

“I know this newspaper,” Julien said, his mouth curving in disgust. “It is an abomination. Always with the ugly pictures and the sensational headlines. But they do have a very nice little column on the basic cooking,” he added. “I did save a receipt for a perfectly adequate roast of the pork. It calls for a sauce made of apples which might be easily improved with a little freshly ground cardamom—”