An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6)(87)
There was no tactful answer to this, so I did not attempt one.
“Do you mean to unmask me?” I asked with more bravado than I felt.
Her response was oblique. “Do you know why I wanted this treaty, Miss Speedwell? Not simply to thwart my son. It was my husband’s great ambition to bring Germany into the modern age, no more looking fondly backwards to the military parades and battlefield glories. He was a good man, the Emperor Friedrich. His father wanted nothing to do with his liberality, with his desire to bind Germany to the rest of Europe. My Friedrich waited all of his life to ascend the throne and remake his fatherland. By the time he became emperor, he was dying.”
There was no bitterness in her words, only resignation to the cruelties of fate. “My poor Fritz was emperor for three months. For the whole of his short reign, they ignored him, those ministers and generals and Bismarck,” she said, fairly spitting the name. “They took one look at a dying man and knew his grip was too weak to hold power. They passed him over and went directly to the son, praising him and promising to make his wildest dreams of German domination come true. This was the great mistake, you know. They think they can control him, can use him for their own ends. But no one can control my son, and they will learn this too late. My only hope is that it will not be too late for the rest of the world.”
She paused, fixing me with that austere blue stare. “You are really doing this for the sake of the treaty?”
“I am.”
Silence stretched between us, brittle, until she gave a sigh. “Well, I have worked a year to bring it about. I am hardly going to take a hammer to it with my own hands, am I?” she asked. Something within me, taut and painful, eased when she said those words.
She inclined her head to my stained glove. “Take that off. Carefully. You don’t want to spot Gisela’s gown.”
I peeled away the soiled glove as well as its spotless mate. I washed my hands carefully to remove all traces of the ink, taking my time. The soap was good plain stuff, smelling faintly of lavender. There would be no cakes of finely milled French soap here, I reflected. Only good, honest English soap scented with lavender.
“The lavender is grown in the fields around Sandringham, in Norfolk,” she told me as she played handmaiden, holding out a towel for me to dry my hands. “It is his favorite house. Have you met him?”
She did not say my father’s name. She did not have to. “Never.”
“Would you like to? Properly, I mean. And privately. It could be arranged. After all, I suppose I owe you something for what you have done tonight.”
I thought of that sharp twist of longing I had felt when I looked at him. Was it the call of blood to blood? Or was it simply the childish wish to be recognized, to be owned by one’s begetter? I imagined that brilliant winsome smile turned upon me as I basked in its warmth, the kindly eyes crinkling as he looked at me.
“No,” I told her.
The empress gave me a long look. “Are you certain?”
I nodded, the jewels in my tiara clattering.
She touched one. “I never cared for tiaras with the gems en tremblant. Terribly noisy, I always think.”
Impulsively, I put out a hand, laying it gently on her sleeve. “Please, ma’am. I do not want to meet him at all. Not like this.”
She considered me a long moment. “Very well. Give me ten minutes. I will make your excuses and say you are unwell. Your carriages and entourage will be waiting for you out front.”
I thought of the suite at the Sudbury, yet to be searched. “If you please, can you keep the others here as long as possible? I need only one carriage and the black-haired gentleman with the eye patch.”
Her gaze sharpened. “Is this to do with Gisela’s disappearance?”
“In part. And another matter.”
“As you wish. Ten minutes. Find your way to the front of the castle and I will have the fellow meet you there. I will keep the others as long as I can.”
“What will you tell them?”
Her thin smile was once more in evidence. “That is the advantage of being an empress, my dear. I do not have to tell them anything at all.”
She turned to the looking glass and straightened the peak of her widow’s cap. “I shall never be reconciled to this,” she said with a dour look at it. “Black does not suit me.”
She gave me a last look over her shoulder. “Thank you, Veronica.”
“You are welcome, Your Imperial Majesty.”
Her smile was gentle. “My nieces and nephews all call me Aunt Vicky.”
She left me then, my aunt Vicky, the Dowager Empress of Germany. I took a breath, as deep as I could with the tight lacing of the corset, steadying myself against the washbasin.
Before I could gather my thoughts, the door opened once more and J. J. Butterworth slipped inside. “You look like something the cat sicked up,” she told me cheerfully.
“What an enchanting person you are,” I replied.
She grinned, unrepentant. “Do not wait for me when you leave tonight,” she instructed.
I blinked at her. “You mean to remain behind? At Windsor Castle?”
She shrugged. “I have a story to chase.”
“This was your plan in coming all along, was it not? You used us to gain entrée to the castle because they would never permit a journalist inside if they knew who you were. What now? Rifling through the queen’s wastepaper basket?”