“She has put off her wedding,” added the baroness, her mouth thinning a little in obvious disapproval. I glanced to her hand and saw a heavy set of rings on her left hand, the gold wedding band and ruby engagement ring held in place by an extravagant ring of black enamel. A widow then, I realized. But she had clearly prized her status as a married woman and wanted the same for her princess.
“Is she betrothed?” I asked.
“Net yet,” the chancellor replied mildly. “There is a suitable match, the most suitable, but she va—va—” He tipped his head, clearly searching for the proper word.
“Vacillates?” Stoker suggested.
“Just so, vacillates,” the chancellor said in obvious satisfaction. “She will not make up her mind to a formal announcement of the engagement.”
“If she would only permit the betrothal contracts to be signed and a date to be set,” the baroness lamented. “She would be happy then, I think. But she is frightened of marriage and so she resists, every day putting off the inevitable and causing the gossips.” The baroness sighed. “She can be very whimsical,” she added.
This view of the princess did not conform to the serious, imperious young woman I had met. But it was little surprise she did not wish to commit herself quite yet to the rigid formality of marriage and court life.
“The princess is young,” I began.
“She is your age,” the baroness said.
I gave her an oblique look. “You have indeed made inquiries.”
Her smile was faint and apologetic. “You must forgive the impertinence, Miss Speedwell. But I had to be certain.”
“Certain of what?”
“That you would be an acceptable candidate,” the chancellor answered.
“You still haven’t told us—a candidate for what?” Stoker asked.
“To impersonate the princess, of course,” the chancellor replied, his moustaches looking very satisfied indeed.
CHAPTER
8
I ought to have stared in astonishment or protested or demanded further explanation. Instead, I sat forward, gripping my hands together in excitement. “I will do it.”
Beside me, Stoker gave a start. “You must be joking.”
“Indeed, I am not,” I said.
The chancellor’s austere features relaxed in obvious satisfaction, and the baroness nodded gravely. “You are courageous, Miss Speedwell.”
“Courageous?” I asked.
She looked to the chancellor, but he merely waved a dismissive hand. “A head of state will always receive threats most unsavory. We shall not discuss them.”
“I think we bloody well shall,” Stoker stated, his innate courtesy deserting him for once.
“You dare to swear in my presence?” The chancellor’s moustaches were quivering in indignation.
“I will do a damned sight more than swear if you think you can simply dismiss dangers to Miss Speedwell with a flap of the hand,” Stoker told him in a tone of ringing finality.
“Now, see here,” the chancellor began.
I held up a hand. “Gentlemen, please. No brangling. Stoker, you have been decidedly rude to the chancellor but your concern is understandable. Excellency, what sort of dangers do you anticipate?”
“One cannot anticipate every danger,” Stoker said icily. “That is why they are dangerous.”
“I am aware,” I told him, maintaining my composure. “But forewarned is forearmed, is it not, Excellency? Now, what form have these threats taken?”
