An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6)(86)

Suddenly, my arm was gripped hard just above the elbow. “Oh dear,” said the empress coolly. “You seem to have spilt ink on your glove.”

I glanced down to the ruined pen still clutched in my nerveless fingers. I opened my palm to find pieces of it sitting in a pool of ebony ink on the ruined kidskin. “Come,” the empress ordered, steering me by the arm. “We must wash your hands.”

She guided me to the corner behind the champagne table, in the opposite direction from the prince. The baroness started forward to help, but the empress waved her off with an imperious gesture. I attempted to give the baroness a reassuring smile, but my mouth would not curve. I forced myself to walk calmly with the empress. In the corner there was only paneled wall, but she depressed a bit of molding and a hidden door sprang open. She led me through, closing it behind us. We were in a narrow corridor, a hushed passageway, thickly carpeted and leading deeper into the castle.

She did not speak as she moved, never hurrying but somehow covering the distance swiftly as she led me down the passage and through another concealed door. We passed through a small octagonal dining room and into another corridor, up a small staircase, and finally into a lavatory tiled in plain white and green and surprisingly plain for all its modern conveniences. She closed the door firmly behind us, locking it.

She turned, folding her hands together over the key. “Now, why don’t you tell me who you are and what you have done with Gisela?”

Her eyes, brightly blue and slightly protuberant, were watchful. She came only to my chin, but a royal upbringing and lifetime spent in the strictest courts of Europe had honed her imperiousness to a fine edge. I did not bother to lie. I would not have known how to begin.

“How did you know? I thought I was doing rather a good job of it.”

She did not smile, but the tightness of her lips eased. “I met Gisela last year at the baths at Friedrichsbad, where we both went to take the waters. We got to know one another quite well.”

“The chancellor said you had never met!”

“The chancellor knows only what Gisela wishes him to know,” she said with a knowing smile. “I presume he put you up to this. He of all people would know his princess from an imposter.”

“It was the chancellor’s idea,” I admitted.

“How much is he paying you?”

“Not a shilling,” I told her.

She raised an imperial brow. “Then why are you doing this?”

“For the sake of the treaty,” I said.

She regarded me a long moment, then shook her head. “You are a most remarkable person, Miss—” She gave me an expectant look.

“Speedwell,” I supplied.

I had not expected her to know the name, but her eyes went wide. “Not Veronica Speedwell? Bertie’s girl?”

“You know who I am?”

“Of course,” she told me. “I was newly married when all the business with your parents happened.” She waved a hand as if to brush aside the unpleasantness of my parents’ marriage, my father’s abandonment, and my mother’s subsequent suicide. “Bertie—His Royal Highness,” she corrected swiftly, “and I have always been close. He wrote to me often in Berlin. I helped him with his troubles.”

I did not much care for being characterized as one of his “troubles,” but there seemed little point in quibbling with her over the matter.

She tipped her head, her gaze bright as a bird’s as she looked me over. “You are very like Gisela. The resemblance is remarkable, in fact. But these things happen in families and you both do share a connection some generations back. Little wonder the chancellor thought to make use of you. But how did he come to meet you?”

“I was introduced to the princess a few days ago. The Baroness von Wallenberg noted the resemblance and when the princess went missing, she suggested the impersonation to the chancellor.”

Her gaze sharpened. “Gisela is missing?”

“Not precisely. She seems to have left of her own accord and means to return in due course. It is just that no one is certain of where she is.”

“So she is missing,” she replied tartly. “And Scotland Yard know nothing of this?”

“The chancellor thought it best not to tell them. He was afraid that the princess’s absence might signal disrespect to the French and the treaty might never be signed.”

She considered this a moment, then nodded. “He was right to worry. General de Letellier is a touchy sort of man. Very conscious of French dignity and easily offended. But how on earth did the chancellor think he could get away with this ridiculous charade?”

“But he has,” I pointed out. “You are the only one who has detected the masquerade. The French have signed the treaty. The chancellor has a secret document giving authority to me to sign on behalf of the princess. I am dubious of the legality of the thing—no doubt I have broken a dozen international laws—but the chancellor does not seem terribly worried about the prospect.”

She shrugged. “The Alpenwalders are acting in good faith inasmuch as they are committed to aiding the French against my son.” Her mouth twisted a little on the last word. How thankless to be the mother of such a child! She seemed to intuit my thoughts, for she gave me a thin smile. “You have never met your cousin, the kaiser. Be grateful, child.”