An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6)(42)

Just then, the sound of raised voices came from the sitting room. The chancellor made an exclamation—of some strong emotion, although whether it was pleasure or rage, I could not say. The baroness raised an imperious hand to me and to Stoker.

“Wait here,” she instructed. She slipped through the door, and after a moment her voice was added to the muffled conversation. I could hear a man’s laugh—distinctly not the chancellor’s—and then the voices carried on for a few minutes, low tones occasionally punctuated by a quick question or exclamation from the visitor. At length the baroness flung open the door, her color high.

“Fraulein, you will come,” she said. Stoker followed in my wake and I could feel the warmth of him standing just behind me when I stopped. The chancellor had been joined by a gentleman slightly taller than average height. He wore the customary Alpenwalder moustaches, but his were of a rich chestnut hue, only a little darker than the burnished waves of his hair. His eyes were very dark and bright with interest as he regarded me. He was wearing a uniform similar to the chancellor’s, but with a dozen more medals and a riband of the princely order. Everything about him was just a shade more—where the chancellor and the baroness were limned in watercolors, this fellow was cast in brilliant oils.

His mouth, pink and plump lipped, curved into a smile as I approached. He surveyed me up and down, quickly at first, then a second time more slowly and not as respectfully as he would have done his princess, I was certain. He did not scrutinize; he ravished.

“Enchanting,” he said in a low, melodious voice. He swept into a sudden low bow, his half cape touching the carpet. “I am Your Serene Highness’s most humble servant,” he said.

I froze. Was I meant to play the part of the princess already? I had not been prepared for this meeting.

Before I could respond, he looked up at me through his lashes, grasping my hand. “Your most humble servant,” he repeated, brushing his whiskers over my fingers. But his thumb was doing something decidedly uncourtly to my palm and I withdrew my hand as he laughed, showing a good deal of his straight white teeth.

He turned to the chancellor. “She is the very image of Gisela. Well done.”

“You have the advantage of me, sir,” I told him, but I already knew. I had known the moment I laid eyes upon him, although the photographs had not done him half justice.

He grinned. “Permit me to introduce myself, mademoiselle. I am His Grace, Maximilian, Duke of Lokendorf and the Alpenwald and your fiancé.”





CHAPTER





12


From behind me, Stoker gave a muffled growl, which I stifled by stepping carefully backwards onto his foot. I turned to the baroness for an explanation.

“We did not expect His Grace until tomorrow,” she said tightly. “This is an unexpected honor.”

“What are the pleasures of Monte Carlo against the incomparable joy of spending time with my betrothed?” he asked, his mouth twitching.

“Are you not in the least concerned that she is missing?” Stoker put in.

The duke gave him a dismissive glance. “Who is this man? He is not one of us.”

“No,” the chancellor hastened to explain. “He is a friend of the Fraulein’s and insisted upon accompanying her for her own safety. I am to duel him later. Perhaps,” he added swiftly as the baroness shot him a look of displeasure.

The duke smiled again. “How very interesting. Perhaps we will duel as well,” he said, touching two fingers to his brow and saluting Stoker in a manner that was clearly calculated to annoy.

But Stoker refused to rise to the bait. “I have no objection,” he said mildly.

The duke turned back to me. “They have made a good job of you, mademoiselle. But you stand a much better chance of passing as Gisela with my help.”

“What sort of help?”

He raised his brows in mock reproof. “How forbidding you look! Not easy with such a lovely face. I mean, mademoiselle, that I shall accompany you to the opera tonight.”

“Out of the question,” the baroness stated in her best governess voice.

The teasing expression turned serious. “I think,” the duke said in a dangerously soft voice, “that you do not mean to be impertinent, Baroness.”

She flushed a little. “I meant no disrespect, Your Grace.”

The duke gave her a hearty kiss upon the cheek, smacking his lips loudly. “I am jesting with you, Margareta! You know your little Max better than that.”

Her smile was indulgent. “I spoilt you as a child, I fear.”

“Impossible!” he cried. “For I am perfect, just as I am.” The baroness’s distress had fled and I wondered how strange it must be to rule the nursery—no doubt with an iron fist—only to have one’s charge grow into manhood, poised to take the reins of power.

The duke turned his smiles to me, but there was something a little aloof in his manner, and I realized he was forcing himself to cordiality. “The baroness worries when she should not. Her princess is in very good hands with me, and so should you be,” he assured me.

“You are not betrothed to our princess yet,” the chancellor said, lifting his chin.

The duke’s eyes rested on him a moment too long for comfort. Then he nodded. “It is truth, what you say, Chancellor. I have asked and she has not yet accepted me. But I think we know that she will. In time.”