An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell, #6)

by Deanna Raybourn

Although not as prestigious as the Times, the Eagle was a solidly respectable newspaper that prided itself on impeccable standards. Liberal politicians subscribed to it; Radicals adored it; Conservatives gave it to their servants for the wrapping of fish and use in the privy.

“We have a saying in the Alpenwald, Fraulein. Plans are jokes written by men for God’s amusement.” “That is hardly reassuring,” I told her. “It sounds better in German.”

“Fecklessness! We are never feckless,” I told her coldly. “We are full to the brim with feck.

(In my experience, abductors never will tie gags tightly enough. It is a skill more of them ought to practice.)

“There is no call to be in a temper,” I said. “Just because we have been abducted. Again.” “I think there is every call to be in a temper,” he returned. “This is precisely the sort of predicament I was trying to avoid.” “I certainly hope you do not mean to suggest this is my fault,” I began. “Suggest? No, I am stating it outright,” he told me. “I am saying it plainly. If you like, I will have it printed on the front page of the Daily Harbinger or spelt out in electric lights in Piccadilly Circus or tattooed on my backside—which, I would like to remind you, is in fact naked at this moment.”

“I do not bear a grudge over these kinds of things,” I told her. “I have nearly been murdered too many times to take it personally. But you might do me the courtesy of answering a question or two.”