An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6)(97)

“Remind me to have an instructive discussion with your wives on the precautionary arts,” I told them.

“Come again?”

“Family planning,” Stoker explained dryly. “It would keep your wives from being subjected to more expectations and you lot from having more children than you can reasonably support.”

“That’s not natural, that isn’t,” Corrigan protested.

“And starvation is?” I put in tartly. “I shall send along pamphlets. Promise to read them and we will not refer this matter to the police.”

Corrigan relaxed visibly. “That’s mighty kind of you, miss.”

He gave me an address to direct the pamphlets to as Weaver took up the bound form of the baroness and set her onto the dock. Her hair had been whipped free of its plaits, and it hung in great silvering hanks about her face. She looked older, but there was still a trace of defiance in her eye.

“You cannot possibly think that you will get away with handling the lady-in-waiting to the Hereditary Princess of the Alpenwald in such a fashion,” she said, lifting her chin to an imperious angle. “I demand that you release me.”

“Oh, we will,” Stoker assured her. He pointed behind her. “Into their care.”

Coming down the dock were a number of figures, cloaked and hooded against the chill, but each wearing the distinctive dark blue of the Alpenwalder wool—Captain Durand, his head wrapped in a considerable bandage, flanked by the chancellor and the duke, their expressions grim with purpose. And leading them all, Her Serene Highness, Princess Gisela.

The princess spoke in a low voice that commanded attention. “Baroness von Wallenberg, according to the authority of the laws of the Alpenwald, you are to be taken into custody by the chancellor’s men and transported back to our country, where you will stand trial for the murder of Alice Baker-Greene.”

The baroness gambled all in one last throw of the dice. “You will never find me guilty! You cannot. You have no proof.”

“No, they do not,” said a new voice. From behind the chancellor came a creaking noise, and he stepped aside to permit an elderly woman in a Bath chair to propel herself forward. “But I do,” she said.

“Pompeia Baker-Greene!” I exclaimed softly to Stoker.

She held up a small, familiar medal. “‘Alpenwalder Kletterverein Gipfelabzeichen,’” she read in halting German. “Your summit badge, Baroness. Buried with my granddaughter. And the climbing rope cut by your hand.”

The baroness looked around wildly, but there was no mercy to be found.

“There is also the body of Yelena and a mask that matches the description of the figure seen on the Teufelstreppe the day Alice died,” the chancellor said. “You cannot escape this,” he added sternly. “You will answer for what you have done.”

At this, the baroness gave a deep groan and seemed to fold in on herself. The chancellor signaled and Captain Durand came forward slowly to take her in hand. As he led her away, the figure in the Bath chair pushed herself towards us.

“Mrs. Baker-Greene,” Stoker said, inclining his head.

“One and the same. Mr. Templeton-Vane, I presume? Miss Speedwell, it is good to see you again,” she said, giving me her hand. It was cold and rough, the flesh tempered by decades of pitting herself against the unforgiving granite of the world’s most demanding mountains.

“It is an honor,” I told her.

Princess Gisela came to stand behind her. She glanced at Stoker’s unorthodox garments and the coat flapping about my calves.

“Come. The pair of you must be half-perished from the cold. Let us return to the Sudbury. There are many things to say.”

As we walked away, Stoker put his arm through mine as Tommy and Billy waved an obviously relieved farewell. “It would serve them right if we handed them over to Mornaday,” he mused. “After all, they did conspire to abduct us.”

“An abduction they ultimately abandoned,” I reminded him. “Besides, we now know two men in possession of a boat and flexible morals who feel they owe us a favor. That, I have no doubt, will someday come in handy.”

Stoker groaned by way of reply, but I stoppered his protest with a kiss, short and hard.

“You owe me a pound.”

“Why in the name of seven hells do I owe you a pound?”

“Because an Alpenwalder has indeed proven our villain,” I said with deep satisfaction.

He reached into his borrowed pocket, but I stilled his hand with my own, clasping it warmly.

“Keep your money this time. Come along, Stoker. The sun is rising, and we have lived to see another day!”



* * *



? ? ?

A few hours later, we were bathed and dressed and comfortably ensconced in the drawing room of the princess’s suite, devouring plate after plate of Julien d’Orlande’s best efforts.

“Try the miniature pork pasty,” I urged Stoker as I passed him a tiny pie capped with a caramelized shallot. “He has done something quite wonderful with apple and sage.”

He took one, passing me the tray of petite éclairs stuffed with violet crème. The princess watched us in bemusement.

“Do you always take your own attempted murder in your stride?”

I considered this. “The first time is unnerving,” I admitted.