An Unexpected Peril

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  The piece went on to describe the contretemps that arose on the fateful expedition to South America with Douglas Norton, adding rather more colorful detail than the lady herself had included when she had related the tale to me. According to the Daily Harbinger, upon the descent of El Cielo, she had publicly horsewhipped Douglas Norton, challenging him to a duel and claiming that he had stolen her summit. In return, he had laughed at her and claimed that El Cielo was no longer fit to climb since a woman had touched its summit. It was the last time she climbed with a man. From then on, she climbed alone or with her ladies, proving her achievements by planting a small green banner blazoned with her name at each peak. When guides removed her banners to call her accomplishments into question, she had begun to climb with photographic equipment, hauling the heavy camera to the summit in order to prove her success. I thought of the collection of photographs hung along the stairs of the Curiosity Club, silent testimony to one woman’s determination to prove her worth.

  “I wish we had met again, Alice,” I murmured as I paged through the newspaper to find the conclusion of the piece. “I think we would have got on rather well.”

  The rest of the article discussed her political leanings. Rebelling against the cult of True Womanhood with its insistence upon domestic virtue and bodily delicacy, Alice Baker-Greene had been a vehement advocate of fresh air and robust exercise, putting forth the notion not only that were women strong enough physically to endure the arduous requirements of mountaineering, but that they were better suited to the challenges of solitude or cooperation that different expeditions required. She claimed women were, by nature and nurture, more adaptable and easygoing than men, better able to govern their tempers and work in harmony with circumstances rather than against them. She detailed the numerous examples of men who had perished on mountaintops from their stubborn refusal to accept that conditions had turned murderous. She did not have to cite her father and grandfather as examples. It was well-known that on her grandfather’s fatal climb, her grandmother had protested against the prevailing wind, pointing out that the damp warmth of it was likely to spawn avalanches. The men had pushed on, and only Alice’s grandmother, with the wisdom born of long experience, had turned back, and she alone survived.

  Doubtless that event had shaped young Alice’s perspective and her determination to listen to her own instincts and experience rather than those of others. She gave speeches crediting her grandmother with the courage to resist even those who loved her when she knew they were wrong. And she pushed for women to do so in their own lives. She spoke at rallies for women’s suffrage and posed for a photograph of herself in climbing gear for a pamphlet on the subject. She wrote letters in support of Irish Home Rule and liberal immigration policies and comprehensive education for women. Her lectures on mountaineering were often picketed and protested, but she did not censor herself. Some of her articles took on a hectoring tone, lecturing against the evils of keeping women on pedestals that too often served as cages and advocating for rational dress. She had spent a night in jail in America for publicly burning a corset before climbing Pikes Peak. She was, in short, a firebrand who lived life on her own terms, and I felt oddly mournful as I read the conclusion of the article.

  “But who would have wanted you dead?” I wondered as I put it aside. Again, there had been no byline, but I suspected J. J. Butterworth might have known a thing or two about it. I made a mental note to run her to ground and see if I could pry a little information free.

  The last article was decidedly more salacious in tone, detailing her frequent visits to the Alpenwald in the last years of her life and the fact that she had often been seen in the company of an Alpenwalder aristocrat, the Duke of Lokendorf. There was an accompanying photograph of the duke, an official portrait of a handsome young man dressed in a dashing uniform lavishly covered in medals. The author of the piece hinted that Alice might well have found herself a duchess if she had lived, a minor member of the Alpenwalder royal family. I peered more closely at the photograph, reaching automatically for my magnifying glass. The photograph was poorly reproduced—the Daily Harbinger was not known for the quality of its prose or of its paper—but I could just make out the fine features of the duke, features that were enhanced by the presence of a lavish set of dark moustaches.

  “Goodness me, you were a dark horse, weren’t you, Alice?” I murmured. So, the gentleman who had posed with her for a photograph on the Teufelstreppe was the Duke of Lokendorf. It had been apparent from the picture in Alice’s possessions that they had enjoyed a certain closeness. Had there been an understanding between them? I steepled my fingers together as I studied the newspaper cutting, wondering exactly how well such a connection might have suited a formal European court, no matter how small.

  Just then Stoker appeared, hair disordered and hands streaked with unspeakable substances. I gave him a close-lipped smile. “You will want a bath,” I remarked, wrinkling my nose against the odor that clung to his clothes. It was a furious bouquet of mouse, sawdust, and fish heads, heightened by the pungent note of formalin.

  He grinned. “His lordship informed me this morning that the Roman baths have been repaired. I thought you might care to join me.”

  The Roman baths were one of a series of small follies situated on the estate. Room and board were included with our wages, and both of us had been given a choice of folly to serve as our private quarters. Stoker had selected a Chinese pagoda near the Roman baths whilst I had contented myself with an enchanting Gothic chapel, a miniature of Sainte-Chapelle, complete with star-flung skies and gilded tracery. These were, ostensibly, our private domains and not to be entered into by members of family or staff without our permission. The reality was somewhat less absolute. It was not uncommon to find one or another Beauclerk child lurking somewhere about, getting up to mischief.

  Our affair, though not entirely secret, was conducted with due discretion thanks to the presence of the Beauclerk offspring. There were some half a dozen of them, ranging in age from eight to twenty, of varying degrees of intelligence and comeliness. The youngest of them, Lady Rose, had formed a firm dislike of me on the grounds that she adored Stoker and would not countenance a rival for his regard. I had won her over by giving her the perfect recipe for dosing her despised brother with a rhubarb concoction that would see him heaving up his guts, but the ensuing punishment from her father had swiftly put an end to our accord. Given her slightly alarming tendency towards physical violence, Lady Rose was not an enemy I cared to provoke.

  “Lady Rose returned home this afternoon,” I informed him. “She has already told his lordship that she intends for you to take her stargazing this evening. Something about a meteor shower.”

  Stoker swore under his breath. “What the devil is the little menace doing home? She is supposed to be at school.” Stoker was smiling in spite of himself. He had a real fondness for the child and her obstreperous ways, no matter how much he railed against her.

  “Sent down,” I said briskly.

  “Again? Did she try to burn this school down as well?”

  “No,” I told him. “The headmistress.”

  Stoker blinked. “She tried to burn down her headmistress?”

  I shrugged. “She meant to light a firework off to stop them having to go to chapel, but the thing shot the wrong direction and ended up in the headmistress’s wig, according to Lady C.” Her niece’s waywardness was a frequent source of vexation to Lady Cordelia, who was often left to the practicalities of caring for her brother’s motherless children. The rest of them had their challenges, legacies of seven hundred years of Beauclerk eccentricity, I had little doubt, but Lady Rose took the peculiarities to new heights.

  I tipped my head. “I was just reading about Alice Baker-Greene. She advocated for strong physical education for high-spirited girls.”

  “Perhaps Lady Rose needs to be taken to a mountain,” Stoker suggested.

  “And shoved
off it,” I finished.

  “I am sorry about our evening,” he said, a faint note of hesitation in his voice.

  I waved a hand. “Never mind. I have a great deal of reading to do in any event. And with Lady C. busy finding another school for Lady Rose, more of the work of the opening of the Baker-Greene exhibition will fall to us.

  “Besides,” I added, resting a fond hand on Vespertine’s broad head, “I have a companion for tonight.”

  His mouth curved into a smile. “Replaced by a hound,” he said lightly. But the smile did not reach his eyes, and when he turned to go, I did not stop him.

  CHAPTER

  5

  I slept, as is my custom, quite well that night, waking to a chilly, fogbound morning and the weight of Vespertine draped over my legs and pinning me to the bed.

  I shoved him off and made my ablutions, reaching for a comfortable work ensemble of dark blue tweed piped narrowly in velvet. It reminded me a little of the princess’s costume although nothing near as fashionable. But the cut was serviceable and the color flattering, and I made my way to the Belvedere with a brisk step. Stoker and I habitually took breakfast there, the food brought down from the main house by George, the hallboy, and laid out in a sort of buffet atop a Greco-Roman sarcophagus. I had just finished my repast when Stoker appeared, looking a little the worse for wear. He had not shaved and the dark growth always in evidence after a day’s passing was a heavy shadow. He wore his eye patch, a sure sign that his old injury—the one responsible for damaging his eye and leaving the narrow scar running from brow to jaw—was troubling him.

  I gave him an inquiring look. “How was your meteor shower?”

  “Nonexistent,” he growled. “The bloody fog rolled in and we could not see two feet. Lady Rose was so mightily put out I had to teach her sea chanties until two in the morning to get her to go to bed like a nice child.”

  “Sea chanties?”

  “I was rather hoping that a little forthright naval language might persuade Lord Rosemorran he should forbid her from associating with me,” he said, his expression hopeful.

  “She will find a way,” I warned him.

  His face fell and he helped himself to a plate of eggs and sausages. He ate in silence for several minutes, then began to toss scraps to the dogs. “Was it a jealous rival in mountaineering? A thwarted lover? A failed climbing student?”

  I roused myself from my reverie. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Alice Baker-Greene’s murderer,” he said. “I presume you have spent the last few hours inventing theories.”

  “I do not invent theories,” I retorted in my chilliest tone. “I look at the facts and make deductions. There is such a thing as proper scientific method, you know.”

  He shrugged. “I presumed you couldn’t resist the urge to fling yourself headlong into another investigation, regardless of my objections.”

  I folded my arms over my chest. The fact that he had so neatly deduced my state of mind was maddening. “I do not fling myself anywhere. I have, upon occasion, been called upon to use my talents in the pursuit of justice. If I am called upon in the future, I shall of course do so again, but I have no need to go looking for such a thing.” The fact that this statement was not entirely a truthful reflection of my intentions was not, I decided, relevant to the conversation.

  “Good,” he said flatly.

  I opened my mouth, but the expression upon his face stopped me. The resentment at being told what to do ebbed and I almost reached for his hand. Instead, I sipped the last of my tea, taking a moment to meditate upon the conclusion of our last adventure and how easily it might have ended in tragedy.

  “We have been fortunate,” I began.

  “We have been damned lucky,” he corrected, his expression somber. “Veronica, either of us might have been killed through these ridiculous endeavors. I admit, I ought not to have said anything about the rope. That was akin to running a hare in front of a hound. But we decided yesterday to leave this with the chancellor to see what he decides. And the more I think on it, the more I believe we should, just this once, let things lie as they are. Alice Baker-Greene’s grandmother is her only family, and she is satisfied. So should we be.”

  “How?” I demanded. “How can we let such an injustice pass without making at least an attempt to see it rectified?”

  “We did,” he reminded me. “We presented the evidence, scant as it was, to the princess. She promised to pass the matter along to the chancellor.”

  “And what if he is not inclined to pursue it?”

  “Then it is at an end,” he said with a shrug.

  “And you are content with that?” My tone betrayed my astonishment.

  “Why does it surprise you?” He helped himself to another piece of toast, lavishing this one with honey.

  “Because the Revelstoke Templeton-Vane I have known flings himself headlong into adventure,” I jibed. “He does not shrink from a challenge.”

  His gaze was level and perhaps even slightly amused. “That is what you think I am doing? Shrinking from a challenge?”

  I felt instantly the unfairness of the charge. Stoker, more than any person I had ever known, had shown himself not just willing to hurl himself into danger, but happy to do so. I could never consider without a shudder the glint of unholy excitement I had detected in his gaze when he prepared to do battle with an enormous combatant armed only with a rebenque, a narrow leather whip that might have flayed the flesh from his bones.* Coupled with that the numerous near drownings, stabbings, shootings, and broken bones he had acquired in my company, I had done him a gross disservice in needling him on such a point.

  “Perhaps not,” I conceded, muttering the words into a sausage.

  “Let us finish the exhibition to the best of our ability,” he suggested. “That will honor Alice Baker-Greene’s memory and improve the cause of mountaineering, especially for women. Surely that is a worthy tribute to her?”

  “Indeed,” I said, my expression brightening. “And then we will devote ourselves anew to the work here. My case of Ornithoptera priamus poseidon chrysalides are very nearly ready to emerge.” This was no fabrication. I had been sent a case of the rare creatures as a Christmas present from Stoker’s elder brother, Lord Templeton-Vane—Tiberius to his friends. His lordship had embarked upon a series of travels with an eye to mending his grieving heart, and I had taken the opportunity to suggest a few stops of arresting natural beauty that might contribute to restoring his peace of mind. The fact that the locations were all host to the most elusive and coveted specimens of lepidoptera was the merest coincidence. The first parcel from Tiberius included a collection of O. p. poseidon, Common Green Birdwings, with a considerable supply of their favorite host plant, the Indian birthwort, or Dutchman’s pipe.

  “Interesting how Tiberius’ travels are taking him to the most fertile hunting grounds for butterflies,” Stoker observed mildly. “The merest happenstance, I presume.”

  His mouth twitched, and I knew he was close to laughing.

  “I might have sent him a letter or two with suggestions on beauty spots he would appreciate,” I allowed. “But I suspect you know that, as you no doubt sent him a few hints of your own.”

  He colored slightly. “There is a pretty little sloth I have been coveting,” he admitted. “If he happened to find one, I should not be entirely displeased.”

  “I shall tell him to make you a birthday present of one,” I promised.

  With that rare sympathy we shared, he fell silent then, holding my gaze, and I knew what he wanted.

  I sighed. “I give you my word that I will not seek out any further involvement in the matter of Alice Baker-Greene’s death.”

  “Then why,” he asked gravely, “do I suspect you of crossing your fingers?”

  Before I could form an indignant response, young George appeared, waving a note overhead. “Del
ivered by messenger,” he said in breathless excitement as he thrust it into my hands. My name and Stoker’s were scrawled on the envelope. The missive inside contained only a few hasty words—Come at once. Curiosity Club. C.

  I snatched up my hat and cloak and urged Stoker to haste. “Something is amiss,” I told him as he thrust his arms into his greatcoat, the tails flapping behind him as we strode along Marylebone Street. “Lady C. has the tidiest penmanship I have ever seen, but this looks as if it were written by an inebriated moose.”

  I stood on tiptoe on the edge of the pavement, straining to see an empty cab.

  Stoker cupped his hands to his mouth and made a sound of such eldritch horror that half the horses in the street started in surprise. But a cab came trotting smartly around the corner and we sprang inside, urging the driver to make haste. Still, the streets were thick with traffic, wagons and carriages and carts all jostling for place with the monstrous bulk of omnibuses while pedestrians picked their way as best they could through the throng. There were a few hours of short, sharp daylight that time of year, and the city never seemed more alive to me than in the brief bright hours in which so much business was conducted. Amidst the odors of horse and burning coal I could smell roasting chestnuts and the occasional whiff of woodsmoke. The air was damp and heavy, the clouds gathering to draw a grey veil over the sun.