An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6)(84)

“What the devil is happening over there?” Rupert demanded.

“The general is most appreciative of the vintage served with the meat,” I told him.

Rupert edged back in his chair and peered around me discreetly. “He is drunk as a lord,” he pronounced in obvious disgust.

“All the better,” I whispered. “It means he is less likely to notice any imposture on my part.”

The tablecloth moved as the general’s hand crept near, landing on my thigh. Rupert glanced down, reddening. “This cannot stand,” he began, half rising. “It is bad enough the man insisted on red wine being served during a course with artichokes, but this is quite too far.”

I clamped my hand over Rupert’s to stay him, careful to keep a smile on my lips in case we were observed. “I have the matter in hand, I assure you, Rupert. I have dealt with far more importunate men upon my travels. Leave it to me and eat your pudding.”

He subsided in his chair and applied himself to the sweet. The general’s hand crept higher, caressing the heavy satin draped over my thigh. Casually, I reached for my saltcellar, heaping the tiny spoon full.

“General,” I said suddenly, nodding towards the wall to his right, “is that painting French? I think it must be a Delacroix.” The painting in question was a long canvas, some four yards at least, featuring the allegorical figure of Time being crowned by Glory and Honor.

He turned his head, giving me just enough time to drop the salt into his wine. “A Delacroix here? It would be unthinkable,” he pronounced, turning back to me in some befuddlement. “Delacroix is the greatest painter France has ever produced. It is impossible that such a vast canvas should not hang in the Louvre.”

“Silly me. I am not a scholar of art,” I told him with a modest air. “Now, we have a custom in the Alpenwald, that the last of the wine must be drunk very quickly,” I said, raising my own glass of muscat. “It is a sort of tradition. To ensure good health,” I added quickly. I quaffed the last swallow of wine in one go, then raised my glass to him.

“à votre santé!” He downed the rest of the wine, shuddering. “It was badly served. There was sediment,” he told me seriously, smacking his lips. He paused a moment, then his expression turned to one of puzzlement, then outright concern.

“Madame,” he murmured. “You must excuse me.”

He thrust back his chair, knocking squarely into the footman. I applied myself calmly to my pudding. Rupert pretended to brush a crumb off of his lapel, turning his face towards me. “Did you just poison the French delegate to the Treaty of Windsor?” he demanded.

“Not in the slightest,” I replied. “Salt is an emetic, not a poison.”

He groaned as he turned back to his dinner partner. I continued on with my pouding Sax-Weimar. After several minutes, the general returned looking a little green about the face and dabbing perspiration from his temples.

“Feeling better, General?” I asked brightly.

He nodded, resuming his place. The footman presented a fresh dish of the pudding but the general waved him off hastily. “A cup of tea please,” he pleaded. “Very weak. Nothing more.”

The general spent the rest of the meal nursing his cup of tea and shuddering every time he looked at food. It was not the kindest method of handling the situation, I reflected, but it had always proven mightily effective. I glanced down the table to see Stoker still deeply engaged in conversation with Madame de Letellier. She laughed at something he said, exchanging his empty plate of pudding for her full one, and he attacked it with gusto. I gestured for the footman to fill my glass once more with the muscat the general had declined.

“But only halfway,” I instructed. After the lavish amount of champagne I had consumed the previous night, I intended to keep a clear head about me for the signing of the treaty.

When the last of the plates had been cleared, Rupert rose from his seat. “Your Serene Highness, my lords, ladies, and gentlemen,” he said. “We have been invited to take our champagne in the lantern room.”

Stoker sidled up behind me. “Did you have a nice dinner with Rupert?” he asked, grinning.

“I think your brother is rather put out with us,” I told him.

He shrugged. “Nothing that has not happened before.”

I nodded towards his dinner companion, Madame de Letellier. “Your partner is very pretty.”

His mouth twitched. “Enchantingly so. But she did not spend the meal leering into my gown. The general seems entirely taken with you.”

“Oh, he is. We mean to marry in the spring. We shall name our first child after you if it is a boy. Or a girl. Revelstokia.”

He gave a snort of suppressed laughter behind his gloved hand. There was something utterly delicious about sharing a jest with him, a secret laugh that no one else in that company could understand.

“Your Serene Highness,” the chancellor’s low voice interrupted my reverie. He gave me a tight smile. “You are doing very well,” he said, lowering his voice. “Not much longer.”

We entered the lantern room. Above swung the lamp for which the chamber was named, an enormous lantern that cast a warm glow over the octagonal room. Across the expanse of thick carpet, a table had been laid with a white cloth, and enormous silver champagne coolers had been filled with ice. Dark green bottles were nestled in the snowy piles, rivulets of water running down the golden labels. Behind the table, footmen were discreetly opening bottles and filling coupes.