An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6) -Deanna Raybourn Page 0,63

into the carriage at our feet and the door swung madly on its hinges as we raced through the streets. Sounds were oddly muffled, but I could make out screams as I struggled to push the captain off of me.

“What is happening?” I demanded. My voice sounded strange to my ears, distant and small.

The captain sat back and helped me up, settling me gently into my seat. It took some time for us to disentangle ourselves and take stock, but apart from a burnt patch on Stoker’s uniform and medals torn from the duke’s and the baroness’s badly dented tiara, we were fine if badly shaken.

“What happened?” I repeated.

Stoker’s expression was grim and I had to watch his mouth move to understand his words. “You have just survived your first bomb attack, Princess.”

CHAPTER

14

We traveled in stupefied silence—or at least I think it was silence. The bomb had set my ears to ringing, and I doubt I could have heard anything short of a foghorn. We were a dazed group, horror and disbelief mingling with a profound sense of relief that there had been no injuries to speak of, at least amongst our party. I thought of the crowds gathered on the pavement and wondered what had become of them.

When we arrived back at the hotel, the onlookers had mercifully dispersed. A bitterly cold wind had whipped off of the river, and tiny splinters of ice once more danced in the nimbus of the streetlamps.

I shivered and Maximilian wrapped his hand around my arm. “You must pretend to like the cold, Liebchen,” he told me. “Ice runs in our veins, you know.” I knew he was not speaking of only the weather. The fact that a bomb had been hurled mere inches from us had been upsetting, but the Alpenwalders were making every effort to behave normally. I suspected his little speech was as much for his own benefit as mine. His fingers trembled where they gripped my arm, and his expression was grim, but it seemed quite in keeping with his character to make a jest in order to lighten the mood.

We hurried into the hotel, the chancellor leading the way as the captain brought up the rear. Stoker had given his arm to the baroness, and she leant upon it with a grateful look. The suite seemed a haven when we at last reached its security and bolted the doors behind us. I thought of medieval criminals who hurled themselves into churches to claim sanctuary, secure that they were safe within those walls.

The chambermaid—not J. J., I noted with some relief—was just kindling a fire upon the hearth in the sitting room to augment the steam heat of the suite, and she scuttled out as we arrived, curtsying clumsily to each of us, even Stoker, as she hurried away. The captain locked the door and went to assure himself that the remaining rooms were secure as the rest of us collapsed into chairs near the fire. The baroness and I shared the sofa, sitting as comfortably as possible given the constraints of our corsets.

“Drinks,” the duke said succinctly. He did not ring for the maid to return but went himself to a cabinet in the corner and fetched a tray of glasses and a bottle with a label I did not recognize. The liquid inside was clear as ice and he poured a stiff measure for each of us.

“Drink it quickly,” he instructed me. “In one go.”

I tossed my head back and swallowed. It tasted of nothing, just a sensation of cold and then a ripe blooming heat took hold of my chest.

“Better?” he asked.

I nodded. He turned to the baroness. Her complexion was ashen, and I wondered if she was about to faint.

“Drink, Baroness,” he urged. She took the glass he held out to her with an unsteady hand. She looked doubtfully at her glass, then took a deep, shuddering breath to steel herself before drinking. She gasped, and the color finally returned to her cheeks.

“I am sorry about your tiara,” I told her as the duke moved on to offer restorative libations to the chancellor and Stoker. The baroness looked down at the badly damaged coronet still clutched in her gloved hands.

“It is nothing, a bagatelle,” she said. It was clearly a valuable piece, but she was right; compared to the cost of human life, it was nothing.

She looked at Stoker. “Mr. Templeton-Vane, I must thank you. If not for your swift action—” She broke off, pressing