An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6) -Deanna Raybourn Page 0,90

publication if you take me with you to Windsor.”

“Why?” I asked. “I find it highly suspicious that you would willingly relinquish as explosive a story as that simply for the chance to see Windsor Castle. It is open to the public, you know. You could visit some Sunday with a nice group of tourists. Take a hamper for a picnic luncheon.”

She bared her teeth in what a foolish person might have thought was a smile. “I have bigger fish to fry, my dear. The scandalous peccadilloes of minor royalty are nothing compared to the story I want to write—something that will establish once and for all that I ought to be taken seriously by the editors.”

“Something political,” Stoker guessed.

“Full marks to Templeton-Vane,” she said.

“You are a demon in a petticoat,” I told her. “How can we be certain you will keep your bargain?”

She had the nerve to look offended. “I have never broken my word to you and I do not intend to begin now. I thought we were friends, Veronica. Or if not friends, at least that we understood one another.”

In spite of myself, I felt my rage ebbing. The trouble was, I did understand her. The challenges of being an intelligent woman working in a world limited by the whims of narrow-minded and unimaginative men were legion. J. J. had struggled for years to secure respect for herself as an investigative journalist, one who wrote important stories about the people shaping events. She longed to influence discourse, to raise topics worthy of discussion, of international importance. Her ambitions were limitless, but her scope was small. She was, very, very occasionally, permitted to write a piece that touched upon something of real merit. But far more often, she was relegated to writing knitting patterns or describing teething remedies for children. It was an endless trial for her, and while I deplored her methods, I understood her motivation.

“Very well,” I said.

Stoker spluttered, but I stood my ground. “She has us over the proverbial barrel,” I reminded him. “The Daily Harbinger is no friend to you. I will not have the business of your divorce raked up again. The mud has only just dried.”

He curled a lip in disgust, and J. J. had the grace to look a little embarrassed. But she did not back down and I put out my hand. “Very well. If the chancellor does not object, you may come as my maid, but you will conduct yourself at all times like a proper servant,” I warned her. “It is absolutely essential that you make no trouble. I will not bother to explain the consequences to you if you fail me tonight,” I added in a low voice. “I think your own imagination will suffice.”

She blanched a little, but rallied. “I will not fail,” she promised.

“See that you don’t.”

Stoker and I rose to leave, but just as we reached the door, he turned back, almost as an afterthought. “When Maximilian and Gisela stopped on the way to St. Pancras, where did they go?”

J. J. helped herself to a handful of sugared almonds, crunching them soundly before replying. “It is rather odd, I thought. They went to that club of yours, Veronica—the Curiosity Club.”

“How long did they stay?” I asked.

She munched another almond, shrugging. “Ten minutes? I cannot imagine what they wanted there, but Gisela left with a parcel about so big,” she added, holding her hands a foot and a half apart.

“What sort of parcel?” Stoker inquired.

“Something a little unwieldy. Max carried it into St. Pancras for her, but when he came back out, it was gone. Gisela must have taken it with her, wherever she went.”

CHAPTER

21

As we left the kitchens, Stoker helped himself to the last of the guimauves, chewing thoughtfully as I vented my spleen.

“That monstrous, outrageous—” I broke off as Stoker held up a hand.

“Yes, J. J. is difficult,” he began, stuffing in another guimauve.

“I was not talking about J. J.,” I said as we made our way back upstairs to the suite. “I meant Maximilian. Imagine playing such dreadful games with the woman you claim to want to marry!”

“Well, they did break into the Curiosity Club together,” he pointed out. “Clearly there is some trust if they are committing casual crimes with one another in a foreign country.”

I snorted by way of reply. Once we made our way back to the suite, we seized the opportunity to beard the duke in his den. We found him in his room in a languorous pose, legs