An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6) -Deanna Raybourn Page 0,105

myself.”

A sharp retort rose to my lips, but I felt a quick pinch from my other side. Rupert was still talking in a desultory fashion with an elderly Frenchwoman—something about porcelain—but his hand had slipped under the table to nip me hard upon the leg.

“Madame, you are quite well? Only you look pained,” the general said, his expression one of grave concern.

“I am quite well,” I assured him. “Just a passing discomfort.”

He leaned near, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “It is the English food. My liver has complained since I crossed the Channel. Nothing but beefsteaks and potatoes, so many potatoes,” he mourned. “I recommend a strong tisane of peppermint. It always soothes the stomach.”

I thanked him politely and just then the consommé bowls were taken away and the next course laid. I turned to find Rupert staring daggers at me. “Is it absolutely necessary to spout Radical philosophy at the general?” he demanded in a whisper.

“It is hardly Radical to propose that women have a say in government,” I told him.

“It is to anyone sitting at this table. And evolutionary theory? I hardly think the Princess of the Alpenwald has even heard of Mr. Darwin much less is conversant with his detractors.”

“Antoinette Brown Blackwell is not precisely a detractor—” I broke off as Rupert began to glower at me.

“You are doing it again,” he said tightly.

“I think my conversation amuses the general,” I said, lifting my fork.

“Do not worry about amusing him,” Rupert said as he stabbed his woodcock. “Your only concern is getting through this horror of an evening without anyone becoming the wiser as to who you are.”

I gave him a demure look that I hoped would signal my agreeableness, but he ignored me, eating his way stolidly through the course until the plates were changed. “You will give yourself indigestion if you carry on this way,” I advised Rupert as I turned back to the general.

The Frenchman was staring at his new plate mournfully. Slices of rosy beef were arranged artfully with piped pureed potatoes. “You see? Beefsteaks and potatoes,” he lamented.

I pointed to the menu. “Rosbif et pommes dauphines.”

He shrugged. “You may call it by a pretty name, but it is still the food of the British peasant.” He poked at the meat with his knife. “This steak is overcooked. It grieves upon my plate.”

The slices of beef were pink and succulent-looking, but every Frenchman I had ever known preferred his beef very nearly still on the hoof. I signaled to the footman behind me, who sprang to attention.

“Your Serene Highness?”

“I am afraid the general cannot eat his steak. Kindly bring him one that is much less thoroughly cooked. And a salad, lightly dressed with oil and vinegar.”

The footman whisked the offending plate away and the general gave a little crow of delight. He leaned towards me, his voice a caressing whisper. “You know, I say to myself, Achille, how can this lovely creature, so natural, so unspoilt, be a princess? I begin to doubt that you are the princess,” he said, smiling broadly. “Perhaps you are the faery changeling!”

A frisson of terror surged down my spine, icy as a chilblained finger. “Oh?” I said faintly.

“But then to see you command this fellow so expertly, I know you are a woman accustomed to giving the orders.” He regarded me with a practiced gleam in his eye. “Now I must mourn that you are a princess, so far out of reach,” he murmured. His gaze dropped lazily to my décolletage again and then rose, unwillingly it seemed, back to my face. “I think I will write poetry to you.”

“I beg you will not trouble yourself,” I told him.

“What is trouble when there is such beauty in the world?” he demanded. He launched into a lengthy poem in French, only half of which I understood, larded as it was with vernacular terms and metaphors that I suspected were slightly indecent. As the footman refilled his glass, I realized he had taken a great deal of the wine and had as yet consumed very little of the food.

He raised his glass to the light, studying the color. “Do you know, madame, there are those who say you should only taste wine from a goblet made of black glass so that the eye may not be fooled by the color, that only the senses of the nose and the tongue are to be trusted. But what a loss! See this beautiful color, like the velvet of my first mistress’s favorite