An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6)(43)
“Are you not concerned about her whereabouts?” Stoker asked bluntly. “Surely that is of greater importance than helping Miss Speedwell sustain this ludicrous masquerade.”
The duke gave a thoughtful nod. “You make an excellent point, sir. But this ‘ludicrous masquerade’ is more important than you perhaps understand. I have no doubt that Gisela is perfectly fine. She is always slipping away to avoid engagements she would rather not attend. She will turn up in a day or so, looking quite pleased with herself, I promise you. Besides,” he added smoothly, fluffing the plume on his shako, “if it were made public that I had arrived in London and was not permitted to escort my intended wife to the opera, what a scandal this would make!”
The baroness gave a little cry of distress. “You would speak to the newspapers—Max, no!”
The duke shuddered. “You wound me, Baroness. I, highest-ranking duke of the Alpenwald, lower myself to speak to a journalist? You insult me,” he said, shaking his head with a mournful downward pull of the lips. “But naturally as I am in London and it is Sophie Fribourg making her debut in the role of Atalanta, it is my duty to attend and to witness her triumph. I would not let it be said that I am slow to uphold the glory of my country,” he finished with a little bow.
The baroness made no further objections, giving her former charge another of her exasperated smiles. It was left to the chancellor to agree. “Of course, Your Grace,” he said quietly.
The duke, having got his way, rubbed his hands together and beamed a smile around the room. He put out his arm and I laid my hand on top of it. He leaned close enough so that I could smell his toilet water—something with sandalwood and herbs. “What fun we shall have together, my pretty,” he murmured.
Behind me, Stoker growled again.
“There is another person you ought to meet,” the chancellor said. He signaled to the baroness, who opened the outer door and beckoned to the guard outside. Captain Durand stood at attention, snapping his heels together as he reached the chancellor and giving a sharp bow.
No doubt for my benefit and Stoker’s, the chancellor spoke English. “Captain, you have been informed of the circumstances and what is at stake. This is Miss Speedwell, who is assuming the role of the princess for the evening. Miss Speedwell, the commander of the princess’s guard, Captain Durand.”
The etiquette of the little court in the Alpenwald was clearly one of formality, but there seemed no obvious protocol for greeting an ersatz princess. I nodded to him and he clicked his heels together, giving me not the deep bow that royalty would have demanded, but a cursory nod in return.
“The captain will naturally escort us this evening, but arrangements for the princess’s security have been made by the Special Branch of the Metropolitan Police,” the chancellor informed us. I resisted the urge to exchange glances with Stoker. There was an excellent chance that someone of our acquaintance would be amongst the policemen assigned to the princess, but I was not worried that my own masquerade would be revealed. I had long ago learnt in my field experiences as a lepidopterist that invariably one sees what one expects to see. Many species of butterfly are gifted with protective coloration lending them the appearance of a predator’s eye or a dried leaf in order to discourage those who would feed upon them. Would-be marauders give such species a wide berth because they do not see them as they are, but as what they present themselves to be. With my formal gown and jewels and royal entourage, I would appear a princess to all who looked, so long as I made no obvious missteps. Stoker, however, was another matter altogether. He was entirely too remarkable. He had pocketed his gold earrings, but the eye patch and uncommonly intelligent expression were impossible to disguise. I could only hope that with most eyes upon me, those likeliest to expose him would pass by him, oblivious to the cuckoo in the nest.
The chancellor looked at the hideous mantel clock and clucked his tongue. “Come now, it is time,” he urged, taking up his own befeathered hat and swirling cloak. We assembled, and as we made our way downstairs, the captain took the opportunity to speak with me.
“The resemblance is most remarkable, Fraulein,” he said at last, his English heavily accented.
“Thank you, Captain. I presume you have met Mr. Templeton-Vane?” I gestured towards Stoker and the captain’s mouth pursed beneath his moustaches.
“I have. That is my uniform,” he said with a lowering look. “It has been altered because you are a very small man.”
Stoker, whose inches just topped a perfectly respectable six feet, raised a brow. “Not where it matters,” he said just loudly enough for me to hear.
“What is that you say?” the captain demanded.
“Nothing at all, Captain,” Stoker said, smiling broadly at him. “Nothing at all.”
* * *
? ? ?
I received the first of many surprises that evening when we emerged from the hotel to the sight of crowds assembled on the pavement. Several constables were holding them back as they surged forward, eager for a glimpse of a princess. I cut my eyes to the baroness—the tiara was far too heavy to permit quick movement—and she gave an almost imperceptible nod.
“Wave,” she murmured as she bent near to fuss with my mantle. “Just hold your hand up in the air—not like that! You are not a bank clerk hailing a hackney.” I tried again, simply lifting my gloved hand in a small salute. The crowd responded with a muted roar and pushed forward. The constables linked arms to push them further back, but by the time they had managed it, the baroness had bundled me into a waiting carriage. It was a handsome affair, lavishly polished and marked with the hotel’s crest.