An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6)(69)

He considered this a moment. “More to the point, how did she happen to find him when the chancellor and the baroness did not even realize he was in London?”

“Read the last paragraph,” I instructed.

He skimmed it, his brows rising heavenwards as he did so. “Christ and his sleeping saints, do you realize what this means?”

“It means,” I said grimly, “that J. J. Butterworth has a very great deal to answer for.”





CHAPTER





20


We made our way to Julien’s workrooms, appearing just as he was mournfully studying a bowl of curdled custard in the hands of a tearful assistant.

“Archie, this is not a custard. This is a crime,” he said gently. “You must always handle a custard as you would a woman. Have you ever been with a woman?”

The youth shook his head, his face flaming.

Julien clapped a hand to his shoulder. “Let me tell you about my first love, Angelique. What a beauty she was! Martiniquais, like me, and a sheen to her skin as if it were polished by the hand of God. She was plump like a ripe piece of fruit, and when she undressed, her thigh, just above her stocking, it moved. What is the English word? Wibble?”

“Wobble?” the young man guessed.

“Wobble, yes. Her thigh would wobble. You must find such a woman, Archie. And when she undresses for you, watch her thigh. Worship it,” he instructed. “And when you return, you will know how a custard should move. It should look like the round and silken thigh of a woman.” He flapped a hand at the bowl. “Now, take this away and feed it to a sad cat in the alleyway. It pains me to see it.”

The boy fled, custard bowl in hand, and Julien sighed. “My work, it is very taxing.”

“Clearly,” Stoker said with a grin. “How is Angelique?”

Julien’s expression turned mournful. “Married. With nine children. And skinny now like the handle of a rake. It is enough to break the heart. What do you want, my friends?”

We told him and he dispatched an errand boy to find J. J. I expected her to prove elusive, but she strode in, her chin lifted defiantly.

Julien made some tactful French noises and withdrew, no doubt sensing the interview would be an unpleasant one. He gestured towards a tray of guimauves as he went, and Stoker collected a handful as J. J. seated herself with ill grace.

“What? I have work to do, you know.”

I held up the newspaper and she went pink to the tips of her ears. “I do not apologize for writing for the Portent.”

“It is a rag,” I told her.

“It pays,” she said flatly. “And that is my first byline on a front page. One more story—the right story—and it will be enough to persuade the Harbinger to take me back.”

“What kind of story?” Stoker asked. She twitched a little but said nothing.

“Very well,” I put in pleasantly. “We have asked you nicely. Now we will be rather less than nice. It is entirely apparent from this article that you must have written it before the explosive was thrown last night. Didn’t you?”

She shifted in her chair and set her mouth in a mulish line before bursting out, “Oh, very well. Yes! I knew. I interviewed Maximilian early yesterday. Before he went up to the suite.”

“How did you know he was here in London?” Stoker asked. “The other Alpenwalders were surprised by his appearance.”

“I saw him the night before. He used the service stairs to slip up to the royal suite. I was curious as to what was afoot and he had eluded the hotel’s security. I thought if an intruder was up to no good and I could foil some sort of attack, the princess might be grateful enough to grant me an interview—a nice exclusive I could sell to one of the larger newspapers. I crept up the stairs behind him, ready to catch him red-handed, as it were. Only he did not have to break into the suite.”

“Someone let him in?” I guessed.

“Durand,” she said. “He opened the door and called him by name, that is how I deduced his identity. I hid in one of the alcoves on the stairs and after a very few minutes he returned, only this time he was not alone. He was with someone in a cloak.”

She paused for effect, but Stoker merely shook his head. “I do not see the significance.”

“A cloak,” she repeated. “A maid’s cloak. It was a plain, rather ugly thing that belonged to Yelena.”

“Why shouldn’t Yelena go out? Presumably she has the occasional night off.”

“Because it was not Yelena in the cloak,” she said, her voice dropping to a thrilled whisper. “It was the princess.”

“How do you know?” I put in.

“Because it was miles too short,” she replied. “The princess has half a foot on her maid, and I could clearly see the hem of her frock hanging below the hem of the cloak. It was a dark blue velvet gown I had taken away to be sponged only that morning. It was edged with Mechlin lace. I was not likely to forget it.”

Stoker did not bother to glance at me, but he heaved a sigh. “Veronica, I can feel the emanations from your person just now. ‘Smug’ does not begin to describe them.”

J. J. looked from one of us to the other and back again. “What is all that about?”

“Never mind,” Stoker and I chorused. He picked up the thread of the interrogation.