An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6) -Deanna Raybourn Page 0,88

her maid, and I could clearly see the hem of her frock hanging below the hem of the cloak. It was a dark blue velvet gown I had taken away to be sponged only that morning. It was edged with Mechlin lace. I was not likely to forget it.”

Stoker did not bother to glance at me, but he heaved a sigh. “Veronica, I can feel the emanations from your person just now. ‘Smug’ does not begin to describe them.”

J. J. looked from one of us to the other and back again. “What is all that about?”

“Never mind,” Stoker and I chorused. He picked up the thread of the interrogation.

“What next?”

“They walked around the corner and hailed a cab. I heard the address, so I followed in one of my own. I had the cabman drop me a street away and I kept to the shadows so they would not see me. They told the cabman to wait, and a short time later they got back in and went directly to St. Pancras station. The duke walked her in and when he came out, he was alone and I was waiting for him. I invited him to share my cab, and he got in.”

“No doubt thinking you were offering him something rather different than a mere ride in a cab,” I mused.

She smoothed her apron. “Well, he might have misunderstood me at first, but I corrected his thinking quite quickly. I simply told him what I had witnessed and that I thought we could help one another.”

“And on the strength of that, Maximilian gave you an interview?” I asked.

She shrugged again. Stoker looked at me. “Well, at least we know that Gisela did leave of her own accord. Whatever happened that night, it does not appear that Maximilian harmed her.”

“Max would never harm her,” J. J. said succinctly. “He adores her.”

“He has flirted outrageously with me and was prepared to avail himself of your services when he thought you were a prostitute,” I told her.

“That is because he has very old-fashioned ideas about women, bless him,” she said with some fondness. “He thinks all women are either saints or whores. He does not know what to make of the rest of us.”

“That is positively archaic,” I muttered.

“He is an Alpenwalder aristocrat,” she pointed out. “They are not precisely known for their progressive thinking. The whole bloody country is mired in the Dark Ages.”

“And you still wrote this,” I said, brandishing the newspaper, “to help him secure the post of consort?”

“He is no worse than the rest of them,” she said in a weary voice. “I am most heartily tired of men.”

Stoker looked a little wounded. “Not you,” I soothed.

“Especially him,” she corrected darkly. “He ruined my story.”

He bristled. “What on earth did I do?”

“You threw yourself between the ‘princess’”—she jabbed a finger in my direction—“and the explosive. And after I had written a beautiful piece detailing Maximilian playing the hero. Anyone standing on that pavement knows what really happened.”

“It was chaos,” I told her. “But your account was detailed—to a suspicious degree. In order for you to know how things were meant to play out, you must have had advance knowledge.”

To her credit, she flushed again. “I am sorry. I ought to have told you, but Maximilian swore me to secrecy and said there was no danger whatsoever.”

“Maximilian.” This time I did not bother to conceal my triumph. “He knew.”

“He arranged it,” she said dully. “It was only a large firework. It was meant to make a good deal of noise and smoke and nothing more.”

“Then what was the point of it?” Stoker asked.

“To let Max play the hero with Gisela,” J. J. explained. “She has been dragging her feet over accepting his proposal and he is growing desperate. It was put to him that if she felt vulnerable, it might nudge her towards marriage. A situation where she was threatened—even if only for a moment—and he acted decisively and courageously might be just enough to tip her into his arms.”

“Suggested?” Stoker pounced upon the word. “By whom?”

“By an unlovely gentleman to whom he owes money. Maximilian is a bit of a gambler. He likes betting on horse races, dog races, turtle races.”

“Turtle races?” Stoker asked. “How the bloody hell does one race a turtle?”

“Slowly,” she said with a ghost of her old smile. “He went to Deauville after a quarrel with Gisela and found himself overextended. The fellow to whom he owes the money has rather nasty schemes for getting