An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6)(39)

She turned away, obviously offended. I hastened to make amends. “I did not intend any insult,” I assured her. “I merely wondered if she did a good job of things, if she ruled well.”

The baroness said nothing for a long moment, continuing to straighten and tidy, her chin high in her wounded dignity. I ought to have remembered, with countries—like men—the more diminutive the stature, the more overweening the pride.

Finally, she unbent a little. “She was only a consort,” she told me. “It was not her destiny to rule, but she was popular. She was a pious woman and conducted herself with dignity at all times. There was a grandeur to her that was deeply respected by her people.”

Dignity and piety, I thought ruefully. If those were the qualities respected most by the Alpenwalders, it was a devilishly good thing I was only pretending at being their princess. I gave her a winsome smile. “And is her granddaughter much like her, the Princess Gisela, I mean?”

To my surprise, the baroness did not parry. She threw up her hands in exasperation. “I wish she were! To run away like this, so indiscreet, so irresponsible!”

She collapsed onto the recamier, head in her hands. I rose and went to her, putting a hand to her shoulder. “You are obviously very fond of your princess. Have you been her lady-in-waiting long?”

“Since her accession,” she said with obvious pride as she dropped her hands. “But I was her governess before that. I came to her when she was fourteen after I finished my duties as governess to her cousin, Duke Maximilian. I have always served the Alpenwalder royal family. And now—” She broke off, clearly overcome.

“Do not worry so, Baroness. I am sure it will all be quite all right in the end.”

She lifted her head, moisture gathering in the corners of her eyes. “You are an optimist, Fraulein. You are very young.”

I shrugged. “It has been my experience that things generally work out for the best.”

“For the best!” She gave a hollow laugh. “How can that be? If she does not return—”

I tightened my grip on her shoulder in what I hoped was a reassuring gesture. “She will. We can have no doubt.”

She smiled in spite of herself. “‘We,’ Fraulein? Already you speak like a royal.”

“I have a very good tutor, Baroness,” I told her seriously. “Now, come and teach me how to wave.”

She surged up, horror blanching her cheeks. “One does not wave at the theatre,” she said sternly. With that she launched into a lengthy explanation of the correct way to acknowledge the public in a theatre—“a slow inclination of the head from the neck beginning with the most august personages—”

When she finished, she led me to the bed, where the gown lay waiting. The fabric shimmered, the heavy silk woven with some starry silver bits that punctuated the extraordinary blue of the background.

“It is such a glorious color.” I breathed at last, putting out a fingertip to touch the folds of the skirt. I trailed down to a silver sequin. A rope of these had been stitched around the base of the skirt, edging the train as well as the neckline.

“It is Alpenwalder blue,” she told me. “The color reserved for our royalty as it most closely mimics that of the heavens above our country.”

Her face shone with pride as she helped me into the gown, drawing it carefully over my undergarments and lacing it tightly into place.

As she finished knotting the ribbons, she paused, peering intently at my upper arm. “What is this?” she demanded.

She put a fingertip to my flesh, pointing out the small gathering of fresh scars scattered over my arm like a constellation.

“Battle scars, I am afraid,” I told her. “I was shot.”

She reared back in astonishment. “Shot? With a firearm? By whom?”

“My uncle,” I replied truthfully.

The baroness stifled a gasp of horror. “Tell me no more. But this is a noticeable flaw, Fraulein, and it will mark you as different to the princess to anyone with sharp eyes. We must have a remedy . . .” She trailed off as she went to the dressing table, rummaging through the drawers until she emerged, triumphant. She held a wide ribbon of silver satin, which she tied firmly about my upper arm, securing the ends in a bow.

She stepped back to survey the effort, frowning. “What do you think?”

“Rather dashing,” I assured her. “And who knows? If anyone does remark upon it, I may find myself in the fashion papers as an innovator.”

She did not return my smile. She merely gave a grunt and stooped to help me into my shoes, court shoes of velvet in the same shade as the gown, and presented a long velvet mantle furred with a curious silver pelt.

“The Geistenfuch,” she explained. “The ghost fox—a small silver fox that lives in the mountains. Very rare and very beautiful.”

I wondered how many of the poor little beasts had been sacrificed for the robe, but it would be the rankest hypocrisy not to acknowledge that I was glad of the warmth. She draped and pinned a wide riband of white watered taffeta across my chest, securing it with a remarkably ugly brooch of considerable age. It was set with heavy, old-fashioned stones depicting a jeweled otter rampant.

“The order of St. Otthild,” she informed me. “The otter is her badge, and this order is one of great antiquity. The lesser degrees feature the flower of St. Otthild’s wort, but of course the princess is a member of the first degree,” she said proudly.