A Dangerous Collaboration (A Veronica Speedwell Mystery)

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  He resumed his task and I stared at him, slack-jawed. I had expected an argument. I had depended upon it. There were few things I enjoyed more, and a set-to with Stoker was just the thing to cap my ebullient mood. The fact that the past few days had seen us somewhat at odds with one another made me all the keener to resume our usual banter. After six months with no word from him, I had anticipated a row to shake the rafters upon my return. Instead he had been blandly cordial, unreachable even, and his apathy goaded me far more effectively than any display of temper might have done.

  “Is that it?” I demanded. “No dire warnings about your brother’s wandering hands? No glowering silences or raging tantrums?”

  He backed out of the buffalo again, his expression inscrutable. “My dear Veronica, you must make up your mind. Do you want silence or savagery? You cannot have both.”

  Ordinarily such a remark would be heavily larded with sarcasm, his rage barely held in check. But this time there was only that maddening calm, a newfound self-possession I could not prick. If he meant to wound me, he could have chosen no sharper blade than indifference.

  “You are quite right,” I remarked acidly. “Do forgive the interruption. I’ll let you get on with your buffalo. I expect to be back in a fortnight. If I am not, it’s because I eloped with your brother to Gretna Green.”

  His sangfroid never slipped. He merely smiled and returned to his specimen, calling over his shoulder, “Mind you ask for separate lodgings. He snores like a fiend.”

  Silence dropped between us with all the finality of a stage curtain. That was it, then. I turned on my heel and left him without a backwards look. Carpetbag firmly in hand, I strode to the front of Bishop’s Folly, admiring the unholy muddle of architectural styles that had been assembled courtesy of several generations of Rosemorran earls. The Folly was well-named, for there was not a builder’s fancy that had been omitted—buttresses, vaults, towers, crenelations, the Folly boasted them all.

  Just as I rounded the corner, the great front door swung back and Lady Wellingtonia Beauclerk, the present earl’s great-aunt, emerged, calling a greeting. I paused to give her a smile.

  “I am so glad you happened to come out,” I told her. “I had no chance to say good-bye.”

  “It was not happenstance,” she said as she came down the short flight of stone steps to the drive of loose chipping. “I was looking for you. I’ve not yet welcomed you back from Madeira and here you are off again, like one of your pretty butterflies.” Her tone was light but her eyes were shrewd. “One might even think you were running away from something.”

  I gave an involuntary glance back at the Belvedere, where Stoker still labored. “Don’t be absurd, Lady Wellie.”

  “Are you certain there is nothing you would like to share with an old woman?” she prodded, lifting her walking stick to gesture vaguely in the direction of my person.

  “Absolutely not,” I returned.

  She did not bridle at the sharpness of my tone. She was obviously preoccupied as she brandished a newspaper at me. I could not quite read the headlines, but the text was enormous and the story clearly lurid.

  “Have you seen the newspapers? This Whitechapel murderer business is whipping up hysteria.”

  “I’m afraid I have heard nothing.”

  Her brows raised. “Lucky you. Prostitutes in the East End, child. Someone has been ripping them up and all of Scotland Yard has been thrown into tumult.”

  I thought of our previous involvement with the Yard* and the head of Special Branch in particular. “Poor Sir Hugo,” I said lightly. “He must be keeping busy.”

  She gave me a narrow look. “It is not just on Hugo to solve these atrocities,” she replied with a firmness that belied her eighty-plus years. “It is a national disgrace to have this monster stalking our streets and our police force unable to apprehend him. England ought to be better than this.”

  In Lady Wellie’s estimation, the Empire was the center of the universe and England the center of the Empire. Nothing else mattered but this blessed isle. The whole of her father’s life and hers had been devoted to its service, secretly, as each had fulfilled the function of an éminence grise, the power behind the royal family, always guiding, protecting, shielding, not for love of the family themselves but for love of the land and people they governed. Her blood was red as St. George’s Cross. She was, without doubt, the most patriotic individual I had ever known, and she was not above using anyone or anything in order to serve her goals. She was ruthless and hard-edged, and when she smiled, it was a crocodile’s smile, full of guile. I quite liked her, if I am honest, but that morning I was eager to be on my way.

  Her shrewd dark eyes missed nothing. “I know you want to be off. I’ll not keep you. But tell me where you mean to be in case I should like to write to you.”

  I rattled off the castle’s address, watching as she pursed her lips. “Malcolm Romilly’s place. I knew his grandfather. Waltzed with him at Victoria’s coronation ball. He trod on my toes, but he was a very good kisser. Quite a skillful tongue,” she said with a dreamy look.

  I smiled in spite of myself and pressed her hand. “Good day, Lady Wellie.”

  She lifted a withered hand. “Godspeed, child.”

  * * *

  • • •

  His lordship and I had arranged to meet at Waterloo Station, and I very nearly missed him in the teeming throng of travelers that balmy late September morning. The platforms were heaving with people of every description, starched nannies with their screaming charges, turbaned gentlemen making their way with courtly elegance past nut sellers, and pale, thin girls selling the last of the summer flowers, bawling out their wares in harsh cries to make themselves heard above the plump matrons offering meat pies for the journey. Through them all strode City men of business in their pinstriped rectitude, discreetly ogling the aristocratic ladies gliding past without glancing to the left or right, little dogs and ladies’ maids trotting in their wake.

  The viscount found me at last. “Miss Speedwell,” he said, coming to my side with long strides that earned the admiration of more than one passing lady. “I was beginning to despair of ever finding you in this melee. Come, I have secured our compartment and the porter will see to your bags.”

  A very upright porter with the posture of a broom handle took my bag from my hand and gave me a searching look. “Shall I wait for the lady’s maid, my lord?” he asked the viscount.

  Lord Templeton-Vane waved him off. “Miss Speedwell is a modern lady. She does not travel with a maid.”

  If his lordship had told the man I intended to travel stark naked with a pumpkin on my head, he could not have looked more appalled. He swallowed hard and gave a half bow that was both respectful and condescending. “Very good, my lord.”

  “And I will carry my own bag, thank you,” I said, retrieving my carpetbag with a gesture that brooked no argument.

  He gave a little sniff—offended either at my intransigence or the fact that he would see no tip from me—before drawing himself up to his full height and turning to the viscount. “In that case I will bid you a happy journey, my lord. The hamper and your small case are in the compartment and your larger bags are marked for Pencarron and stowed in the luggage van. Good day, sir,” he finished with a hopeful look at the viscount. His lordship obliged him with a substantial coin and the fellow gave me a dismissive look as he strode away.

  The viscount turned to me. “My dear Miss Speedwell, two minutes in and already you are causing a scandal. Whatever shall I do with you?”

  I did not trouble myself to reply. He offered his arm and we were soon comfortably established in our private compartment. As the train drew from the station in great gusts of steam, he settled back against his seat, regarding me thoughtfully. “I suppose I ought to have considered better the impropriety of our traveling together,” he said.

  I shrugged. “I am no s
tranger to impropriety. It troubles me not in the slightest,” I assured him. “After all, I work for a living. I am hardly a lady.”

  His handsome upper lip quirked into an effort at a smile. “And yet you speak with such distinction and your manner and gestures are thoroughly elegant. Tell me, Miss Speedwell, how did you come to be?”

  The tone was casual but the gaze that fell upon me was watchful. It occurred to me then that his lordship might have penetrated the truth about my identity. It was an imperfectly kept secret at best. Stoker knew, as did their second brother, Sir Rupert, along with an assortment of government officials, a few Irish malcontents, and our own royal family. Being the semi-legitimate daughter of the Prince of Wales came with a few drawbacks, not least the lack of recognition from my own blood relations. I had made my own way in the world, no thanks to them, but I concealed my birth from prying eyes. Permitting my story to become publicly known would rock the monarchy, I had been warned, although they needn’t have bothered. I had as little desire to be pestered and fussed over as they had of being deposed. The fact that one villain had already attempted to put a crown upon my head was enough to convince me that the life of royalty was not for me.

  But the question I pondered now was how much of this Lord Templeton-Vane knew. I gave him a noncommittal smile. “It is a dreadfully dull story, I’m afraid. My mother died when I was a year old and I never knew my father.” That much was true, strictly speaking. “I was brought up by two of my mother’s friends, a pair of spinster sisters who were like aunts. One of them encouraged my interest in lepidoptery, and I discovered that I could make a comfortable living with my net as well as see the world,” I finished lightly.

  His lordship said nothing for a long moment. “I think you underestimate how interesting a person you are,” he remarked finally.

  “I have always said that it is interesting people who find others interesting.”

  “And how neatly you turn my observation to a compliment! That takes real skill.”

  “I am merely observant—as are you, my lord.”

  He canted his head, a gesture I had seen Stoker perform a thousand times. “I think that we have progressed beyond ‘Miss Speedwell’ and ‘my lord.’ I would take it as a mark of generosity on your part if you would address me as Tiberius.”

  “Very well. If you wish.”

  “I do. Veronica,” he replied, drawing out the syllables as if reciting an incantation. Without warning, his expression darkened.

  “Is there something wrong?”

  He shook his head. “Not precisely. But I have taken a liberty of which you might not approve. You see, I remembered only this morning that Malcolm Romilly is a Roman Catholic, rather a fussy one. He would not approve of my traveling with a young lady unchaperoned.”

  “I am hardly a young lady!” I protested.

  “Young enough,” the viscount corrected with a wry twist of the lips. “And delectable to boot. No, I’m afraid Malcolm’s sensibilities might be offended and we can’t have that. But I realized a little polite fiction might smooth the path. He could hardly think it amiss if we travel together as an affianced couple.”

  I blinked. “You want me to pose as your fiancée?”

  “Yes,” he said, obviously relishing the idea. “That small pretense will serve us quite nicely.”

  “I hardly think it necessary,” I protested.

  “Oh, but it is,” he told me with an unmistakable air of satisfaction. “Malcolm can be a stickler about such things. What if he took offense and decided to withdraw his offer of the glasswing larvae? How dreadfully disappointing that would be.” His voice trailed off suggestively, letting the insinuation do its work.

  I had, as he had known, no choice. “I will not lose the glasswings,” I said forcefully.

  “Then we are in agreement,” he said, settling back with a broad smile. “And you will naturally forgive me for taking the precaution of sending a wire to our host with that information just before we departed.” Before I could respond, he gestured with an elegant hand, imperious as Jove. “Now, if you will reach into the hamper beside you, you will find a bottle of rather good champagne. I think a toast is in order.”

  The next hours passed in a haze of succulent food and drink and amiable company as the viscount and I talked and laughed and thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. The champagne was not the only delight to be found in the hamper. His lordship—or Tiberius, as I had been instructed to think of him—had laid in a supply of delicacies to last the better part of a week.

  “I thought the journey was to be completed by nightfall,” I told him as I helped myself to a tiny pie with a featherlight crust and a filling of herbed chicken.

  “And so it should be, but there is no reason for us to deny ourselves as much pleasure as possible along the way,” he remarked. I might have taken that for a proposition, but he merely selected a sandwich of the thinnest, whitest bread filled with slivers of perfectly roasted beef and lashings of horseradish sauce. “Divine,” he pronounced.

  “You have a crumb upon your lip,” I told him. He put out his tongue in search of it and missed. Laughing, I moved forward and touched my fingertip to the corner of his mouth. I had not considered the intimacy of such an action. It was the sort of thing I might have done to Stoker, and I had come to enjoy a similar although less intense rapport with the viscount.

  But if I was slow to appreciate the familiarity of the gesture, Tiberius was not. He held my gaze with his, all mockery fallen away as he leant forward. He parted his lips, taking my finger into his mouth as he removed the crumb. His eyes locked with mine, he gave a gentle suck, and I felt the blood beat in my veins.

  He released my finger and sat back with a slow, deliberate smile. “Delicious. As I suspected it would be,” he told me. And I knew he did not mean the crumb.

  * * *

  • • •

  For the rest of the journey—and make no mistake, to travel from London to the tip of Cornwall takes hours—the viscount behaved with almost perfect decorum. He still made the odd remark that might have been construed as inappropriate by Society’s standards, but nothing that imperiled my virtue, slight as it was. And he did not touch me again. Instead he applied himself to my comfort, insisting upon opening the window when the compartment grew stuffy and asking intelligent and penetrating questions about lepidoptery. I was no fool. I was familiar enough with the machinations of men to know when I was being catechized simply so that a gentleman might appear to marvel at my accomplishments, thereby endearing himself to me. But Tiberius was more skilled than most. I almost believed that he was sincerely impressed with the breadth of my knowledge.

  Almost. To test him, I spent the better part of an hour describing the Gypsy moth in exhaustive detail. If I am honest, which I have sworn to be within these pages, I will admit that I embroidered most of the facts and invented some out of whole cloth. Throughout my recitation, he kept his expression attentive and even offered thoughtful comments from time to time.

  “You don’t say,” he remarked at one point. “The Gypsy moth has a furry tail and feeds solely on Madagascar lizards. How frightfully interesting.”

  “No, it isn’t,” I corrected. “Because I made it up. Lymantria dispar do not have furry tails, nor do they eat lizards. No moth does. I was merely testing your ability to pretend to be interested. It is a prodigious skill, my lord. You lasted fifty-seven minutes.”

  He looked aggrieved, then smiled. “You were supposed to call me Tiberius,” he reminded me.

  “And you have no need for this pretense. Why play at being interested in moths, of all things?” I asked.

  “I am not interested in moths,” he admitted. “But I am interested in you.”

  “That,” I told him without a blush, “is entirely apparent.”

  “Good.”

  He sat forward, hands resting upon his knees. They were good hands, l
ike Stoker’s, beautifully shaped, although Tiberius’ were unstained by chemicals and glues and the various other nasty things that habitually fouled Stoker’s. These hands were strong and clean, the nails trimmed and the moons stark white.

  “You have never done a day’s work with those hands,” I told him.

  “No, but I’ve done many a night’s,” he said, reaching one out to cup my cheek.

  “My lord,” I began.

  “Tiberius,” he reminded me, leaning forward still further until his name was a breath across my lips. I was just trying to make up my mind whether to let him kiss me—the viscount was after all a very handsome man—or to give him a polite shove, when the train jerked to a stop, flinging him backwards onto his seat.

  “Oh, look. We’ve arrived in Exeter,” I said brightly.

  CHAPTER

  3

  After changing trains at Exeter, we carried on to Padstow, where we changed yet again, the trip requiring a further leg on a smaller railway to Pencarron and then a transfer to a quaint little quay full of fishing boats bobbing at anchor. They were brightly painted, as were the houses clustered on the hillside that rose sharply above the curved arm of the shore.

  The sea air was bracing and fresh, and Tiberius, with no sign of resentment at his thwarted attempts at lovemaking, drew in a breath and let it out in an exultant sigh. “There is nothing like sea air to mend what ails you,” he pronounced.

  “I did not know you were fond of the sea,” I told him as we made our way from the tiny station down to the waiting boats.

  “Indeed I am. A naval career is one of the things I envied Stoker bitterly.”