An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6) -Deanna Raybourn Page 0,47

a parure, a matched set of enormous sapphires and amethysts shading from the wine-dark hues of midnight seas to the pale blues and purples of an Alpine evening. Larger stones had been set in the frame of the tiara whilst high loops of jewels circled around smaller gems hung en tremblant to swing gently as the wearer moved. Diamonds twinkled like stars throughout, leading the eye from the tiara to the girandole earrings and on to the high, collared necklace. A pair of bracelets and a wide stomacher completed the suite.

I stared at them, mesmerized, hardly daring to breathe upon their magnificence.

The baroness’s stern expression softened. “They are exquisite, are they not? A collection that once belonged to Marie Louise, the second empress of Napoléon. One of her nieces married into the Alpenwalder royal family and brought the parure with her. Our princess prefers it to the state jewels because it is lighter.”

She signaled to Yelena, who fastened the earrings to my ears the old-fashioned way, by means of narrow silk ribbons tied around the ear to hold the weight of sapphires the size of cherries. They swung heavily against my neck, almost touching the necklace she clasped about my throat. The last piece to go on was the tiara, nestled into the arrangement of plaits. I poked it idly with a finger, watching in concern as it wobbled a little.

“How on earth am I to keep it steady?” I asked.

The baroness reached for her chatelaine, extracting a threaded needle. She advanced upon me, and without a word, she stitched the tiara into my hair, whipping the needle around the base of the coronet and through one of the false plaits. When she was finished, she gave the tiara a hearty, painful tug. “There,” she pronounced in satisfaction. “It will sit as it should.”

I could scarcely turn my head for the combined weight of the wigs and jewels. “You will soon accustom yourself to it,” she assured me. “The more you wear it, the less you will notice it.”

“Luckily it is only for tonight,” I replied. The baroness said nothing but turned to Yelena, signaling to her to pack away the various cosmetics as the baroness herself locked away the jewel cases.

“It is only for tonight,” I pressed.

The baroness gave me a thin smile. “We have a saying in the Alpenwald, Fraulein. Plans are jokes written by men for God’s amusement.”

“That is hardly reassuring,” I told her.

“It sounds better in German.”

CHAPTER

11

The baroness carried on with her preparations by going to the bed, smoothing over the folds of the gown that Yelena had laid out, straightening the various ribbons and laces. She handled the princess’s things respectfully, reverently almost.

My eyes fell to a large gilded box on the dressing table, the wares of one of our most exclusive chocolatiers, I realized. The baroness’s attention never left the clothing she was inspecting, but nothing escaped her.

“You must help yourself, Miss Speedwell—but do so now if you wish a chocolate. It will not be possible once you have begun to dress.”

I lifted the lid of the box to find a selection of violet and rose creams—Stoker’s favorites.

“These are rather too rich for me,” I said politely, thinking of the delicacies Julien had pressed upon me during luncheon. “Would you care for one, Baroness?”

The baroness’s nostrils flared in an expression akin to outraged horror, but she managed a polite refusal. “This is not possible, Fraulein. It is not my place to eat with my princess unless I am invited.”

“But I am not your princess,” I pointed out. “And I have invited you.”

She drew herself up, her posture impeccably straight. “I think it best if I treat you as I would Her Serene Highness in order to preserve this masquerade.”

The baroness bent again to her task.

“You are very fond of your princess,” I ventured.

She carefully plucked a bit of fluff from the skirt of the gown before replying. “I have been in the service of the Crown all my life. It is my honor to serve.”

“How is it that all of you speak such good English?”

“The princess’s great-grandmother was English, one of your own princesses—Sophia Amelia, a sister of your King George III, the poor mad one,” the baroness said as she moved a pair of evening slippers exactly perpendicular to the end of the bed.

I had known that one of King George’s sisters had married the Danish king and had a very bad time of it—husband run insane, lover beheaded, early death from fever,