An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6) -Deanna Raybourn Page 0,31

whispered of excellent service and perfect comfort. I sighed as we crossed into the lobby, trading the sooty, befogged streets of the city for the glowing warmth of the hotel’s interior. Our journey had been lengthy and cold, traversing the frost-slicked streets in an imperfectly heated hackney with a driver who swore the air blue with his imprecations against the weather and the congested traffic.

But within the doors of the Sudbury all was calm and inviting. It was the newest and most luxurious of London accommodations, fitted with lifts and steam heat and modern plumbing in every room. A battalion of porters dressed in bottle green plush livery trimmed in gold braid moved swiftly and quietly through their appointed tasks as a harpist played softly in the corner of the hotel’s lobby—a selection of Brahms pieces, I realized, which only added to the atmosphere of gentle and satisfied wealth. Nothing ever truly dreadful could happen in this bastion of warmth and security. Everything, from the thick pile of the dark gold carpet to the heavy draperies of green silk and enormous green marble vases filled with hothouse blooms, had been designed to provide pleasure and serenity. I enjoyed the Sudbury for many reasons, not least that it was the site of employment for Julien d’Orlande, Stoker’s longtime friend and a pastry chef of immense talent and creativity. No matter the purpose of the chancellor’s summons, at the conclusion of our interview I had every intention of visiting the kitchens and sampling the latest of Julien’s creations.

As we entered the Sudbury, I was aware of a new atmosphere, a heightened sort of buzzing, like that of an agitated beehive. Porters moved more quickly, doors were closed with a decisive snap, and everywhere was a sense of purpose and watchfulness.

I had expected to give our names to a porter, but it was the manager himself who approached the moment we entered. “Miss Speedwell, Mr. Templeton-Vane,” he said, bowing from the neck. “I am Gerald Lovell, general manager of the Sudbury. Permit me to escort you to the princess’s suite.” He ushered us through the lobby, where I spied a number of what could only be policemen in plain clothes, unconvincingly pretending to read newspapers or hold conversations as they surveyed each new arrival in the hotel with a gimlet eye. I did not recognize any of them, but still I was grateful for the instinct that had caused me to pin a heavy veil to my hat, obscuring my features slightly. Stoker, I noticed, averted his face as we passed them. Whether any of our acquaintance at Scotland Yard had been assigned to the princess’s security detail, we had no desire to call attention to our presence. That was a complication we could ill afford.

Mr. Lovell led us up the stairs and around a wide gallery to a set of double doors closed firmly against the hushed noises of the public areas. From here we entered a small private lift which carried us up a number of floors. Unlike the older hotels, where a grand suite would be located on a lower level for convenience, the Sudbury’s modern lifts ensured that their most august guests could be accommodated on the higher floors in rooms with more light and less noise from the bustling streets. Instead of a series of tiny, cramped rooms for maids tucked under the eaves, the Sudbury had given over the upper levels to their most exclusive and expensive suites, with enormous French windows and balconies installed to give the guests the impression they were on a vast sailing ship, gliding above the city below. The maids, I had been told, were stashed in a stark dormitory belowstairs.

The lift arrived with a gentle pause, and the operator, a young man garbed in more of the bottle green plush and a lofty sense of his own importance, opened the gilded gates, bowing stiffly as we exited. A guard in what I could only imagine was Alpenwalder livery stood outside another set of double doors, eyeing us with suspicion. He was well over six feet tall, perhaps nearly six and a half, with a set of wide blond moustaches that curled at the ends like the horns of a ram. He saluted smartly at the manager’s approach, clicking his boot heels together. But his gaze took careful note of us and his hand fell to the sword at his side as we passed. He might be a showy sort of protection,