An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6)(45)
“The anthem,” she muttered. I realized then that the tune they were lustily singing was their national song, “Verlorene Seelen,” a rather macabre invocation to the spirits of dead comrades-in-arms. The melody concluded with a martial crash of cymbals and I inclined my head to the conductor to acknowledge the compliment.
The duke leant forward, his moustaches tickling my neck. “Do you like our national anthem, Princess?” he inquired. I did not have to look round to know he was smiling.
“My German is imperfect, but from what I could translate, it is a trifle bloodthirsty,” I whispered back.
He gave a short laugh, his breath ruffling my hair. “We made the mistake of trying to stop Napoléon on his way to Russia. Every Alpenwalder who fought was slain—except one.”
“Lucky fellow,” I replied.
“He was my great-grandfather,” the duke told me. “And the luck did not end with him.”
I wondered what he meant by that, but the orchestra was beginning the overture and I settled back to listen. It was a very modern opera, with a good deal of strident posturing and aggressive passages for the brasses, but all of this was nothing compared to the verve of the leading lady. Mademoiselle Fribourg threw herself into the role with tremendous passion. The first act saw the intrepid Atalanta besting every suitor at the sporting games hosted by her father, a lively scene full of color and movement with Mademoiselle Fribourg’s legs shown to excellent advantage in a short tunic. But immediately after the athleticism of the competition, the mournful heroine stepped behind a convenient bush to lament her loneliness, pouring out her pain in a piercing aria of such sweetness, such pain, I was forced to blink back tears as the curtain came down upon the first act.
“Well, what do you think of our Atalanta?” the duke asked, moving his chair nearer to mine and edging the baroness aside a little.
“I think she is immensely talented,” I told him.
“You do not find her figure a trifle generous for a loose-limbed athlete?” he teased. There was something I did not quite like in the challenge of his gaze. It was as if he knew a secret joke at my expense, and I wondered at the nature of his relationship with the princess.
“On the contrary. It would require a robust physique to excel at such activities,” I told him firmly. “She puts me in mind of the Rubens painting of the same lady.”
He leaned closer then, his medals clinking together. I glanced at them. “You seem to have distinguished yourself in the service of your country, Your Grace.”
He gave a shrug that seemed to convey both modesty and pride in his accomplishments.
“I trained at Woolwich, at your Royal Military Academy,” he told me. “And then I spent some time with your queen’s army in Afghanistan as an attaché to your general Sir Samuel Browne. They like to give out medals for such things.”
He spoke casually, but any man who had served under the commander of the British Army during the Second Anglo-Afghan War had seen some sharpish things. He gestured towards one of the medals, a medallion struck with Queen Victoria’s image hanging from a bar of crimson and green ribbon. I peered closely at the medal, noting the inscription circling the queen’s face.
“Victoria Regina et Imperatrix,” I read aloud. I sat back, scrutinizing him. “You were content to risk your life in the service of another country?”
His smile was enigmatic. “One does foolish things in one’s youth and in the service of love.”
I started to ask him what he meant, but my gaze fell upon the decoration hanging just below the Afghanistan Medal.
“The climbing badge of the Teufelstreppe!” I exclaimed.
“Not just a climbing badge,” he corrected proudly. “A summit badge.” He indicated the edge of tiny diamonds set in blue enamel. “This indicates the bearer has successfully climbed the mountain.”
Excitement surged through me, like that of a lioness catching the scent of a gazelle. “I remember reading that you climbed,” I began.
His laugh was quick, displaying excellent white teeth. “My dear, everyone in the Alpenwald climbs. There are even special leading reins of leather to attach to small children to help them with their first ascents on the lower slopes. That mountain is our birthright.” He canted his head, his eyes bright with amusement. “You have been reading about me? What sorts of things?”
I paused a moment, letting a smile ripen between us. “About your relationship with Alice Baker-Greene,” I said softly. I watched carefully for his reaction, and there it was—a quick bob of the Adam’s apple, a brief hesitation before he spoke.
“She was a gifted climber,” he said casually. “And the alpinist community is a small one. Everyone meets everyone else sooner or later.”
“So you were just friends?” I asked, widening my eyes at him.
“What a minx you are!” he exclaimed. “You think to bewitch me into indiscretions with those beautiful violet eyes, do you not? Shall I be your devoted slave?”
His tone was arch, but there was a distinct lack of humor in his eyes.
I ignored his question and decided to thrust once more, as I seemed to have knocked him a little off his balance.
“What do you remember about the day she died? I hear you were an eyewitness.”
“You seem to have heard quite a lot,” he said, his gaze sharply watchful.