An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6) -Deanna Raybourn Page 0,40

dissolved almost instantly to a mouthful of rose-scented sweetness, not soapy, as one might expect, but tasting of sunshine and summer and a garden bursting into bloom.

“Exquisite,” I told him.

He preened. “You say such delightful things to me, ma chère Veronique.”

I fluttered my lashes a little and he puffed out his chest before plying me with dark chocolate bonbons topped with sugar-dusted violets. I ate two, emitting a tiny moan of pleasure as I did so.

Julien beamed at me in satisfaction. “For you it is a pleasure to create. You have the Gallic appreciation of the senses.”

Stoker snorted at him, but Julien waved him away. “All Englishmen are philistines,” he pronounced sternly before turning back to me. “You would do better with a Frenchman who would appreciate your subtleties.”

He waggled his eyebrows at me in a sort of invitation, and I plucked another guimauve from the tray, licking the marshmallow from my fingers when I finished.

“You are very good to me, Julien,” I said. “And perhaps you would be better still and tell us if the manager of the Sudbury, Mr. Lovell, has recently taken on a new chambermaid. Tall, slender, clever eyes?”

Stoker darted me a look, and I mouthed a name at him. He suppressed a groan and stuffed another choux bun into his mouth.

“Ah! What Frenchman could resist those eyes?” Julien asked, rolling his own heavenwards. “So knowing, so full of promise.”

“I thought you were attached to another maid, Birdie or Billie or some such,” Stoker pointed out.

Julien’s expression was pained. “Attached? ‘Attached’ is not a word that I like. It means to be tied, restricted, imprisoned. No, my friend. I prefer to think of my dalliances as larks, as light and dainty as the pastry in your mouth.”

Stoker snorted and I sighed. “Julien, I do hope you are not seducing chambermaids and then leaving them unprotected in the world.”

“I am shocked that you would suggest such a thing,” he told me in an aggrieved tone. “Julien d’Orlande is a gentleman. Besides, I take always the precautions.”

I held up my hands. “I have no wish to hear more. Now, what name did the chambermaid give you?”

“Jane,” he said promptly. “I call her Jeanne, the French is nicer, no?”

“Did she give you a surname? Did she give you any hint as to her purpose in coming here?”

His brows drew together. “Surnames are so impersonal! Why would I wish to know such a thing when I could be discussing the shape of her lips instead? And her purpose in coming to the hotel is to work. I presume she is in need of wages.”

“Has she given you any indication that she has another purpose?” Stoker inquired, taking up the thread of interrogation. “Asked any indiscreet questions? Particularly about the princess?”

“Now that you mention it,” Julien said slowly, “she does ask quite a lot about the princess’s tastes and habits, but this is because she wishes to do her job well. She must serve the princess, and perhaps she will receive a gratuity if she is quick and capable.”

“Or because she wishes to write about her,” I told him.

His mouth rounded in astonishment. “To write? She is a journalist, this Jane?”

“She is. Her name is J. J. Butterworth,” Stoker supplied. “She writes for a filthy little rag called the Daily Harbinger.”

“I know this newspaper,” Julien said, his mouth curving in disgust. “It is an abomination. Always with the ugly pictures and the sensational headlines. But they do have a very nice little column on the basic cooking,” he added. “I did save a receipt for a perfectly adequate roast of the pork. It calls for a sauce made of apples which might be easily improved with a little freshly ground cardamom—”

“Julien,” I said sternly. “To the matter at hand. Where might we find this Jane?”

“There is a sort of sitting room for the chambermaids when they are not about their business,” he told us with a shrug.

“It will be full of other maids,” Stoker said. “We need privacy in order to speak with her.”

“Julien,” I said, sweetening my voice. “We could use your assistance.”

Julien quickly summoned one of the hotel pages to deliver a message, and within a very few minutes there was a low knock at the door of the workroom. Julien called a greeting and the door opened and closed swiftly. A slim figure, wrapped in a long white apron, and topped with a mobcap, had entered. The maid took one look at us and whirled, her hand on