An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6) -Deanna Raybourn Page 0,106
gown. And the bouquet!” He inserted his nose deeply into the glass, sniffing hard. “Such heavy fruits! Cherries and the red currant, so subtle and ripe. This is a very good wine, a wine so good one may dine upon it.”
That seemed what he was inclined to do. He finished two more glasses before his food arrived, and when it did, he stared at his fork as if slightly confused by it. I exchanged my plate with his and cut his meat swiftly into little pieces before handing it back.
“Eat,” I ordered.
“I am yours to command,” he said with limpid eyes. He had eaten half the steak by the time the plates were cleared and there was a brief struggle as the footman removed his. The general clung to it, grumbling as he snatched another piece of steak.
The next course after the roasts was a lovely entremets of artichoke with a parsleyed white wine sauce. The general ignored his entirely in favor of picking desultorily at a jellied orange until the pudding course was served. He brightened at the fanciful display of pouding Sax-Weimar, a chocolate pudding lavishly embellished with cream and butter biscuits. He took a spoonful, rolling his eyes ecstatically in pleasure and making rather unseemly noises of appreciation. The footmen had attempted to take his glass of Bordeaux and pour the dessert wine, but the general would not hear of it, holding it up protectively out of reach and snapping his teeth at the hapless servants.
“What the devil is happening over there?” Rupert demanded.
“The general is most appreciative of the vintage served with the meat,” I told him.
Rupert edged back in his chair and peered around me discreetly. “He is drunk as a lord,” he pronounced in obvious disgust.
“All the better,” I whispered. “It means he is less likely to notice any imposture on my part.”
The tablecloth moved as the general’s hand crept near, landing on my thigh. Rupert glanced down, reddening. “This cannot stand,” he began, half rising. “It is bad enough the man insisted on red wine being served during a course with artichokes, but this is quite too far.”
I clamped my hand over Rupert’s to stay him, careful to keep a smile on my lips in case we were observed. “I have the matter in hand, I assure you, Rupert. I have dealt with far more importunate men upon my travels. Leave it to me and eat your pudding.”
He subsided in his chair and applied himself to the sweet. The general’s hand crept higher, caressing the heavy satin draped over my thigh. Casually, I reached for my saltcellar, heaping the tiny spoon full.
“General,” I said suddenly, nodding towards the wall to his right, “is that painting French? I think it must be a Delacroix.” The painting in question was a long canvas, some four yards at least, featuring the allegorical figure of Time being crowned by Glory and Honor.
He turned his head, giving me just enough time to drop the salt into his wine. “A Delacroix here? It would be unthinkable,” he pronounced, turning back to me in some befuddlement. “Delacroix is the greatest painter France has ever produced. It is impossible that such a vast canvas should not hang in the Louvre.”
“Silly me. I am not a scholar of art,” I told him with a modest air. “Now, we have a custom in the Alpenwald, that the last of the wine must be drunk very quickly,” I said, raising my own glass of muscat. “It is a sort of tradition. To ensure good health,” I added quickly. I quaffed the last swallow of wine in one go, then raised my glass to him.
“À votre santé!” He downed the rest of the wine, shuddering. “It was badly served. There was sediment,” he told me seriously, smacking his lips. He paused a moment, then his expression turned to one of puzzlement, then outright concern.
“Madame,” he murmured. “You must excuse me.”
He thrust back his chair, knocking squarely into the footman. I applied myself calmly to my pudding. Rupert pretended to brush a crumb off of his lapel, turning his face towards me. “Did you just poison the French delegate to the Treaty of Windsor?” he demanded.
“Not in the slightest,” I replied. “Salt is an emetic, not a poison.”
He groaned as he turned back to his dinner partner. I continued on with my pouding Sax-Weimar. After several minutes, the general returned looking a little green about the face and dabbing perspiration from his temples.