An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6)(71)

“That is diabolical,” I said. “How on earth can she possibly marry such a man?”

J. J. waved a dismissive hand. “He is no worse than most and better than many. The duke is treading water just now, you know. He owes a great deal of money and he is frightened. I think we all know how stupid frightened people can be.”

We all fell silent for a moment, and then Stoker spoke. “When Maximilian and Gisela stopped on the way to the station, where did they go?” I asked.

J. J. studied her nails. “I do not think I should say.”

“What?” I asked, resisting the urge to shake her.

J. J. shook her head and smiled. “I have told you quite enough and got nothing in return. Now, if you want anything else, you will have to make it worth my while.”

“Stoker, your notecase,” I said quickly. “How much have you got?”

“I do not want money!” she protested, clearly offended. “I want something far more valuable than that.” She sat back with an air of triumph.

“What on earth could we have that is more valuable than banknotes?” Stoker asked.

Her smile was rapacious. “It is very simple and will cost you absolutely nothing. I simply want to go to the dinner at Windsor Castle. As the attendant of Her Serene Highness, the Princess Gisela of the Alpenwald.”

A long moment of horrified silence followed her pronouncement.

Stoker spoke first. “Out of the question.”

“How do you even know about the dinner?” I asked.

“It is all the Alpenwalders talk about,” she said. “They are very excited. Apparently, it is one of the grandest things to happen to them since the Holy Roman Emperor came to tea in 1225.”

“No one in Europe was drinking tea in 1225,” I informed her acidly.

She gave a shrug. “Details. Now, may I come?”

“Absolutely not,” I told her, relishing the moment.

She sat back and folded her arms over her chest. “Make it happen or I will publish a story in tomorrow’s newspaper about my time in the Sudbury Hotel working as a chambermaid where I uncovered the fact that an Englishwoman of dubious reputation has been masquerading as a missing princess,” she said coolly.

“You would not dare,” Stoker began, but his tone was doubtful. She absolutely would dare.

“My reputation is not dubious,” I protested.

“It is not exactly lily white,” she countered. “And, of course, I will make certain to mention your innamorato, the black sheep of a distinguished aristocratic family. And naturally, if his name is mentioned, it will revive all those nasty stories about his divorce,” she added.

“You absolute—” The word I used was not relevant to this narrative, but it was entirely appropriate, causing Stoker to blush furiously.

“Sticks and stones,” J. J. said calmly. “Do we have a bargain? I will tell you everything I know about the princess’s departure, and I will promise not to write about your origins for publication if you take me with you to Windsor.”

“Why?” I asked. “I find it highly suspicious that you would willingly relinquish as explosive a story as that simply for the chance to see Windsor Castle. It is open to the public, you know. You could visit some Sunday with a nice group of tourists. Take a hamper for a picnic luncheon.”

She bared her teeth in what a foolish person might have thought was a smile. “I have bigger fish to fry, my dear. The scandalous peccadilloes of minor royalty are nothing compared to the story I want to write—something that will establish once and for all that I ought to be taken seriously by the editors.”

“Something political,” Stoker guessed.

“Full marks to Templeton-Vane,” she said.

“You are a demon in a petticoat,” I told her. “How can we be certain you will keep your bargain?”

She had the nerve to look offended. “I have never broken my word to you and I do not intend to begin now. I thought we were friends, Veronica. Or if not friends, at least that we understood one another.”

In spite of myself, I felt my rage ebbing. The trouble was, I did understand her. The challenges of being an intelligent woman working in a world limited by the whims of narrow-minded and unimaginative men were legion. J. J. had struggled for years to secure respect for herself as an investigative journalist, one who wrote important stories about the people shaping events. She longed to influence discourse, to raise topics worthy of discussion, of international importance. Her ambitions were limitless, but her scope was small. She was, very, very occasionally, permitted to write a piece that touched upon something of real merit. But far more often, she was relegated to writing knitting patterns or describing teething remedies for children. It was an endless trial for her, and while I deplored her methods, I understood her motivation.

“Very well,” I said.

Stoker spluttered, but I stood my ground. “She has us over the proverbial barrel,” I reminded him. “The Daily Harbinger is no friend to you. I will not have the business of your divorce raked up again. The mud has only just dried.”

He curled a lip in disgust, and J. J. had the grace to look a little embarrassed. But she did not back down and I put out my hand. “Very well. If the chancellor does not object, you may come as my maid, but you will conduct yourself at all times like a proper servant,” I warned her. “It is absolutely essential that you make no trouble. I will not bother to explain the consequences to you if you fail me tonight,” I added in a low voice. “I think your own imagination will suffice.”