“What of Sir Hugo?” I asked suddenly. “If Mornaday is there, his superior cannot be far behind.”
“Sir Hugo is abed,” he told me. “With gout.”
“Poor fellow,” I said with real sympathy. “We must send him a nice calf’s-foot jelly.”
“Or perhaps just a calf’s foot,” Stoker suggested, a gleam in his eye. He and Sir Hugo enjoyed a state of armed neutrality at the best of times.
I sighed as best as I could in my confining garb. “I suppose we will simply have to make the best of it. Keep your moustaches primped and your shako pulled low.”
Stoker gave me an appraising glance, from extravagant jewels to exuberant décolletage. “I do not think I will be the one they are looking at.” He nodded to the impossible slimness of my waist. “How can you eat in that?”
“I cannot eat,” I told him coldly. “I cannot bend. I cannot breathe. In short, I cannot do anything for which the human body is fashioned. I am an automaton for the evening, a doll, dressed and polished for your amusement.”
I might have carried on in the same vein, but his attention was drawn to the large gilded box on the dressing table. I sighed. “Rose and violet creams. Help yourself.”
He required no further urging. With a soft moan of pleasure, he reached into the box and took one of each, mingling the heavy floral creams in a single mouthful. His eyes rolled backwards. “Heaven,” he managed through the chocolate and cream. He reached in to take another, but suddenly his gaze sharpened and he plucked out a piece of card.
“What is this?”
I shrugged—a mistake, I realized at once, for it sent my earrings swinging painfully against my neck. “A note from the sender, I presume.”
He shook his head. “I doubt it. It was hid beneath the top layer of chocolates. And it is not precisely friendly.” He handed over the bit of card, a little grubby thanks to its proximity to the chocolates and printed simply. It smelt of sugar, but the message was none too sweet. PREPARE FOR YOUR END.
“A threat to the princess,” I breathed. I inspected the note for clues, but it had been hastily scrawled in an obvious attempt to disguise the handwriting, each letter printed in a harsh block capital on a torn bit of paper. I turned horrified eyes to Stoker. “Poison,” I said succinctly.
He heaved a sigh and went into the washroom. I do not know exactly what precautions he took to rid himself of the chocolates, but there was the distinct sound of retching and then the running of water. When he returned, his moustaches were a fraction less exuberant than they had been before, but he appeared well enough. I gripped his face and peered into his eyes.
“Your pupils seem normal. Stick out your tongue,” I ordered.
He pushed my hands aside, but gently, as he stuck out his tongue. His breath smelt of peppermint drops. “I am perfectly fine,” he insisted.
“You may have been poisoned,” I pointed out.
“Hardly likely,” he said. “The chocolates smelt and tasted fine.”
“Some tasteless substance,” I began.
“Much more common in fiction than in reality,” he assured me. “And I have rid myself of anything possibly noxious, which was a dreadful waste of good chocolate.”
I gave him a narrow look. “You will tell me if you feel at all unwell?”
“Well, I am hungry now,” he told me, stroking his chin thoughtfully. He rummaged in his pockets, unearthing a slab of shortbread wrapped in paper.
“You have the digestive capabilities of a gannet,” I told him. I turned my attention to the box. “When was this delivered?”
He examined it closely, shrugging. “There is nothing to indicate when it arrived or from whom.”
“Do you think she saw it?”
He considered a moment. “I should think not. If she saw it, she would have surely shown it to Durand or the chancellor.”
“She mightn’t have liked to,” I pointed out. “It is rather unpleasant.”
“All the more reason to pass it to the men responsible for her security,” Stoker countered. “And if she chose not to do so, why replace it in the box?”
“Out of sight, out of mind?” I suggested. “A stalwart soul might have faced the thing directly, but we have heard from those nearest to her that she has been known to be elusive. Perhaps this is the sort of thing she runs away from.”
His gaze sharpened. “You think she saw this and left of her own accord rather than being abducted?”
“I think we cannot rule anything out at present.”
I thrust the note back into the box, carefully concealing it with the remaining bonbons. “There is no time to deal with this at present, but it is evidence of something. I only wish I knew what.”
Stoker reached for my arm. “Veronica, I do not like this—” he began.
Before he could finish, the air was rent with a shriek. “Unhand her, sir! You will mark the velvet!”
The baroness entered, as stately as a ship in full sail. She had dressed her own hair in a more modest approximation of my own coiffure, piled high and embellished with plaits and jeweled pins. A tiara of garnets and enormous pearls sat atop, the tremblant pearls quivering in outrage. Her gown was the same hue as her gemstones, dark velvety red and edged in sables, the colors warming her pale cheeks almost as effectively as her rouge. A sash of the Order of St. Otthild crossed her bodice, pinned neatly with a jeweled otter badge. She wore no other decorations, but it was enough. She looked every inch the regal court lady.
She flicked a closed fan at Stoker, rapping him sharply upon the knuckles. “Know your place, sir.”
He gave her a deferential bow and tried to catch my eye, but I let my gaze slide just to the side, never quite meeting his. It would have been an excellent joke to share if I had permitted it. But I felt unlike myself in the princess’s clothes, armored almost, in satin and diamonds, aloof and untouchable. And when the baroness beckoned for me to walk ahead of her, I stepped forward on feet that scarcely seemed to touch the ground.
Just then, the sound of raised voices came from the sitting room. The chancellor made an exclamation—of some strong emotion, although whether it was pleasure or rage, I could not say. The baroness raised an imperious hand to me and to Stoker.
“Wait here,” she instructed. She slipped through the door, and after a moment her voice was added to the muffled conversation. I could hear a man’s laugh—distinctly not the chancellor’s—and then the voices carried on for a few minutes, low tones occasionally punctuated by a quick question or exclamation from the visitor. At length the baroness flung open the door, her color high.