An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6) -Deanna Raybourn Page 0,32
but he was clearly determined to defend the Alpenwald delegation from intruders. As we passed, I noticed the glint of an Alpenwalder summit badge on his uniform, polished as proudly as his military orders and insignia of rank.
“The princess’s private bodyguard, Captain Durand,” Mr. Lovell informed us as he escorted us through the doors. Durand! I resisted the urge to turn and study him, but I recognized the name at once from the Daily Harbinger. Durand was one of the eyewitnesses to Alice’s fatal climb. There had been no description of him in the newspaper, but I made a careful note to discuss his significant moustaches with Stoker upon the first opportunity.
Mr. Lovell went on, waving an airy hand as we walked. “Our most illustrious guests stay in a completely private wing.” The carpets were even thicker here, muffling our footsteps. The walls were hung with green silk brocade, gaslights flickering shadows onto the pattern. There was something watchful about the place, a sense of breath being held, waiting. I was not much given to fancies, but I felt a trifle uneasy as we made our way down the corridor.
He bore us to the end of the hall, where yet another set of double doors stood closed. A small brass plaque proclaimed it to be the Queen Victoria suite. “Our most elegant suite, always assigned to visiting royalty,” the manager informed us. He made a tiny tap against the door, the merest scratch, and instantly it opened. A maid, dressed in deepest black bombazine with a stiffly starched apron, stepped sharply aside, scuttling into the shadows, not even daring to glance up from under the edge of her enormous ruffled muslin cap. Mr. Lovell left us then and the maid hurried after him, leaving us standing just inside the doorway.
The Baroness von Wallenberg came forward, making a gesture of welcome. She was dressed in a fine day gown of mulberry velvet, her monocle attached to a black velvet ribbon at her collar. An enameled watch was pinned to her lapel, and a wide belt held a chatelaine of finely wrought silver at her waist. It jingled with various implements—a tiny metal purse, a thimble, miniature scissors, and assorted other tools as well as a ring of keys. The baroness was clearly attired for whatever task might fall to her as a lady-in-waiting. “Miss Speedwell. Mr. Templeton-Vane. This way.”
She led us into the sitting room, a luxurious chamber furnished in various shades of mossy green velvets and petal pink silks. A fire leapt merrily on the hearth, but there was no friendliness in the welcome. A gentleman stood stiffly at attention, his posture distinctly Teutonic, his uniform covered in medals from various honors. Like the guard captain’s, his moustaches were lavish and curled elaborately, but his head was bald as a new egg, shiny as the decorations on his chest. A second look told me that one of those decorations was a summit badge of the Alpenwalder Kletterverein Gipfelabzeichen, and I repressed a sigh of mild irritation. If every man from the Alpenwald sported moustaches and a summit badge, we should be overwhelmed by possible villains.
If I had to choose a likelier of the two men to prove the murderer, I should have selected this fellow without hesitation. A pair of long, narrow scars puckered his left cheek, and I was instantly reminded of my old friend the Baron von Stauffenbach, who sported identical marks as the relics of Bavarian duels fought in his youth. They lent dash and a certain devil-may-care air to a man, I always thought. But there was nothing of the baron’s warmth in this Alpenwalder, only a wary watchfulness as he clicked his heels and bowed from the neck. He fixed us with an icy blue stare, the hungry stare of a bird of prey assessing a small movement in the grass.
“Miss Speedwell. Mr. Templeton-Vane.”
Mindful of my manners, I raised my veil, then went forward, hand extended. “Chancellor von Rechstein, I presume?”
He regarded my hand with an expression akin to distaste, then took it, shaking only the fingertips. “Forgive me,” he said, inclining his head once more. “The shaking of hands is not a custom of our country.”
He overcame his disinclination to shake Stoker’s hand and waved us to a sofa that had been neatly placed in the center of the room, taking a chair opposite. The arrangement felt artificial until I realized it had been done quite deliberately to keep his face slightly shadowed while