An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6)(81)

From behind me, I heard Stoker’s muffled curse and I went forward, extending my hand to Rupert. “How do you do, Sir Rupert?”

Rupert bowed over my hand, pressing his lips to the gloved fingers. “How do you do, Your Serene Highness?”

Without rising, he lifted his dark gaze to mine. I gave an imperceptible shake of the head and he straightened.

“May I present the rest of my entourage?” I said, launching into introductions. Maximilian looked bored whilst the baroness and chancellor were polite.

“How very kind of you to welcome us,” I said, infusing my words with a trace of a German accent.

“Not at all, madame. There are few things in life I enjoy more than a partner at dinner whose conversation is certain to entertain,” he said, his mouth twitching.

The castle usher made a discreet gesture and Rupert extended his arm. “Shall we go in?”

I accepted his arm and he covered my hand with his own, pressing tightly. “How happy I am to further the cause of Anglo-Alpenwalder relations,” he said loudly. I smiled at him and he dropped his voice. “What in the name of seven hells is going on?” he asked in a harsh whisper, still smiling as we made our way into the corridor.

“You sound just like your brother,” I whispered back.

“Miss Speedwell,” he began.

“The last time we met, you called me Veronica. And you said I could call you Rupert,” I reminded him.

“I was rather influenced by that diabolical drink you gave me,” he retorted.

“Aguardiente,” I said. “I regret I do not have my flask upon my person at present. This ensemble does not permit such appurtenances.”

“Veronica,” he said, tightening his grip, “we have perhaps thirty seconds before we reach the dining room where two dozen dignitaries and officials are waiting to eat dinner with you and then sign a peace treaty binding two countries in perpetual friendship—a treaty upon which I have labored for the better part of a year and for which I am to receive advancement. Please tell me that you are not intending to bring me to ruination by somehow contriving to destroy this.”

“Certainly not,” I assured him.

“Then would you please explain why else you are here if not to jettison my career?”

“I did not even know you were involved!” I protested. “Stoker never told me you had a post in the Foreign Office.”

“I do not, as it happens. My role is a more personal one in Her Majesty’s household,” he explained. “I am a sort of liaison. It is my task to bring together those who would not ordinarily work in tandem to accomplish goals set by the queen and her closest advisers.”

“Against the will of the government?” I asked.

“Of course not.” He sounded appalled at the very idea. “But sometimes what the government wants is for matters to be handled discreetly. In this case, it would be far too complicated to broker this treaty publicly and offend the German Empire, and it would no doubt make the empress’s position even more difficult than it already is.”

“I will not fail you,” I promised. “Your treaty will be signed.”

“It will hardly be legal if it is signed by Veronica Speedwell, spinster, of the Marylebone parish,” he muttered.

“It is not like you to be rude,” I told him in a soothing tone. “I fear you are hungry and it is making you dyspeptic.”

“I am not hungry. I am having an apoplexy,” he said, taking out a handkerchief and dabbing at his brow. I peered at his face.

“You do look rather florid. Would you like to take a moment?” I asked kindly.

He stopped before a tall pair of double doors. “There is no time,” he told me, fixing a thoroughly unconvincing smile upon his lips. “We are here.”





CHAPTER





24


Much of the evening passed as if in a dream. I was seated between Sir Rupert and the French delegate, who bowed deeply and kissed both of my hands when he was presented.

“General de Letellier,” Rupert murmured. “The general is the French signatory to the treaty.”

The general swept me a bow, clasping my outstretched hand.

“Your Serene Highness,” he murmured against my gloves, and it felt as much like a seduction as a greeting. He was at least thirty years my senior, with a tightly girdled waist and hair pomaded thickly against his head, but what he lacked in personal charms he more than compensated for in gallantry. “The English are very casual,” he remarked. “We ought to have been introduced in the anteroom, but I must not care about etiquette when it means I have the company of such a lady all to myself.”

He stepped sharply in front of the castle footman to push in my chair with his own hands, taking the opportunity to glance swiftly down my décolletage.

“Merveilleux,” he murmured.

“I beg your pardon,” I said, widening my eyes at him. I reflected then that my ordinary instincts in such situations could not be reliably called upon. I had often been complimented, inveigled, caressed, and otherwise importuned in my travels, and it was my experience that a few sharp minuten—tiny pins meant to fix a butterfly to a card—when judiciously applied to an offender’s person invariably rendered him apologetic. But that would hardly do in this case. To begin with, I risked causing grave insult to the other signatory of the treaty. Beyond that, there was every possibility that he would object strenuously to being stabbed. Men, as it happens, were often not enthused about such a development, I had observed.