An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6)(91)

I had not liked Yelena, but the thought of her, caught unawares by someone, struggling for breath, vision narrowing to a pinprick of light in the darkness and then . . . nothing. It was ghastly.

Stoker lifted her gently, and as he did so, a length of white silk was revealed. I slid my hand under her body to pull it free. It was heavily creased, and Stoker regarded it with a practiced eye. “Possibly the murder weapon,” he said grimly. “The width fits the bruising around her throat.”

I held the silk in my hands. It ought to have been cool from lying under Yelena’s dead body, but I fancied it was still warm, warm from strangling the life out of her.

“I know who did this,” I told him.

He glanced at the label on the trunk. “It is Maximilian’s case.”

“This is the riband of St. Otthild. And Maximilian was wearing his tonight. As was the chancellor. And who would need a mask with painted moustaches to masquerade as a man?”

He blinked at me. “But surely the baroness of all people would not—” Stoker began.

“Oh, but she did,” said a voice from the doorway. The baroness stood there, a small pistol in her hand, leveled at Stoker’s heart.

“Not again,” I muttered.

She smiled a mirthless smile. “You are rather prone to being the victims of homicidal attacks, are you not? You do have a penchant for putting yourself into dangerous situations. You see, you are not the only one capable of scientific inquiry, Miss Speedwell. I have made it my business to discover a few things about you.”

“Things that are supposed to be confidential,” I told her.

She shrugged. “Intelligence matters are often shared between allies.”

I glanced at Stoker. “I thought our activities were not a part of the official record.”

“They are not. But there will always be those who gossip, no matter how discreetly, and your activities have given you a reputation for fecklessness,” the baroness affirmed.

“Fecklessness! We are never feckless,” I told her coldly. “We are full to the brim with feck. Now, kindly put down your weapon and let us discuss this like rational people. It is obvious that you strangled Yelena after murdering Alice Baker-Greene. You might yet redeem yourself if you reveal what you have done with the princess.”

“I have no idea where the princess is,” she returned. “If I did, I would be infinitely happier.” She cocked her head like a bright little bird, the light glinting on her monocle, and gave a brisk twitch of the weapon. “Now, I have the gun, which means I am in command here. Miss Speedwell, you will remove your clothing, down to your chemise. I apologize for the indelicacy, but it is the only way to be certain that you are not armed. You will be quick about it.” I glanced at the door, wondering what had become of Durand.

“The captain,” I began, but she jerked her head to the side and I saw, just peeping out from behind one of the trunks, a pair of booted legs.

“Have you killed him?” I asked.

“Not yet. He is merely unconscious. He bled a lot,” she added ruefully. “I hit him in the head and it has made a mess. I will have to clean that up and I do not like a mess.”

I opened my mouth and the gun in her hand twitched towards Stoker. “Miss Speedwell, I told you not to attempt it. I will not shoot you. I will shoot Mr. Templeton-Vane instead.”

She had, unerringly, found my Achilles’ heel. The fact that Stoker had very recently been shot weighed on my conscience. It was the latest in a long line of such misadventures, but it had been the most serious—far too serious to permit a repeat performance. I would take chances with my life, but not his. I undressed swiftly, removing the corset with its slender blade and the knife from my boot as well as the minuten neatly embedded in my cuffs. When I had finished, I stood, shivering in my chemise and underdrawers.

“Now you,” she told Stoker.

“I would rather not,” he said, flushing to the tips of his ears.

“I will not be delayed,” the baroness told him, gesturing with the revolver. “Do as you are told.”

Still he hesitated, and suddenly I understood the reason for his reluctance. “Oh, Stoker,” I murmured. “How could you?”

“I was in a hurry,” he muttered. “I wanted to get to my spoonbill.”

His blush deepened as he looked to our captor. “You see, Baroness, I received a rather important trophy—a roseate spoonbill, Platalea ajaja—”

“The baroness does not care about the Latin,” I interrupted.

He carried on as if I had not spoken. “And in my eagerness to examine the bird, I am afraid I dressed in haste this morning and am only wearing trousers.”

“Then you are going to be very cold,” she said. The revolver jerked again. “Disrobe.”

He did as she said, pulling off his coat and shirt and dropping them on top of his boots. He hesitated at the buttons of his trousers, then unfastened them, stepping out of the garment and standing mother naked before her.

“Thank you both for being so obliging,” she said. “Now, open that trunk,” she instructed, pointing with the barrel of her pistol to an enormous iron-banded affair. Stoker threw back the lid. “You will find rope inside. Tie your companion,” she instructed. He did so, knotting the ropes as loosely as he dared around my wrists. “Put your arms about his neck,” she told me. I obliged her, looping my bound arms over his head in a parody of an embrace.