A Dangerous Collaboration

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “Have you been at the castle long?” I reached for my hatpin and tugged it loose. I wore a hat for travel and for any possibly dangerous enterprise—hatpins were among the most effective weapons I owned—but there was never a time I did not find them tedious in the extreme, no matter how luscious the flowers I insisted upon as embellishment.

  Mrs. Trengrouse moved forward, never hurried, but with a swift competence I would come to discover characterized all of her actions. “Since I was twelve years old. I came as a nurserymaid when the late Mrs. Romilly bore Mr. Malcolm.” She took my hat and shook the dust from it.

  “Then you are a friend to them indeed!”

  Her smile was one of the gentlest reproof. “I would never presume, miss. I see you have come without your maid. Shall I take this for you and have one of the girls give it a good brushing?”

  “That would be most appreciated, thank you.”

  She inclined her head. “If there is anything you want while you are here, you have only to ask. It is Mr. Malcolm’s express wish that his guests have every comfort.”

  “I will remember that,” I promised her.

  She left me then, closing the door gently behind her. I undressed and slipped into the bath, the warm, scented water lapping at my skin as I thought of Tiberius, in the room just below, doing exactly the same. I wondered precisely how long it would be before he attempted to make the trip up the narrow, winding stair. And I thought of Stoker, in the room just above, and wondered what further surprises the evening would hold.

  * * *

  • • •

  A short while later, there was a scratch at the door and an apple-cheeked maid appeared. She was young but tidy, with a spotless apron and neat dark plaits pinned at her nape. “Good evening, miss,” she said as she bustled in, the skirts of her starched cotton frock snapping. “Mrs. Trengrouse said as you had no maid of your own I was to wait upon you during your stay.”

  “That really is not necessary,” I began.

  She pressed her lips together firmly. “I am afraid Mrs. Trengrouse insists, miss.”

  “Of course she does,” I murmured. “Very well, you can begin with the unpacking.”

  The girl was as quick as she was determined, and in the veritable blink of an eye she had unpacked my solitary bag, hanging the clothes upon pegs in the wardrobe and arranging my comb and brush and pot of cold cream of roses on the washstand. My lepidoptery gear—specimen jars, ring net, pins, field notebook—was deposited in the bottom of the wardrobe. My books were placed in a tidy stack on the mantelpiece, and the boots I had worn during my travels were set outside the door to be collected by the boot boy. An enormous cake of soap smelling of herbs had been provided, and by the time I had rinsed off the suds and patted myself dry, she had shaken the wrinkles from my one evening dress and assembled a regiment of hairpins.

  She stroked the fabric of my evening dress as I slipped into my dressing gown, knotting the belt at my waist. “’Tis a fine color, that is, miss,” she remarked, turning the fabric this way and that to catch the light. “What d’ye call it?”

  “The dressmaker pronounced it azure,” I told her, “but to me it is the precise shade of the Morpho butterfly.”

  “The what, miss?” I seated myself at the dressing table and she began to dress my hair.

  “Morpho didius,” I explained. “A beastly great butterfly native to South America.”

  “South America! Fancy that,” she said, gathering my hair into loose waves to pin at the crown of my head. “Imagine someone going all the way to South America just to catch a butterfly. They’d have to be daft,” she added.

  I did not bother to tell her I had journeyed much further in my quests. “What is your name?” I asked her.

  “Daisy, miss. And if you want me, day or night, you’ve only to ring the bellpull by the fireplace and I’ll come.”

  I gave her a careful look and decided against delivering a lecture upon the evils of domestic servitude in exchange for low wages.

  She jerked her head towards the floor, indicating Tiberius’ room. “I saw his lordship on my way up,” she said, plucking a hairpin from between her teeth. “The word belowstairs is he is your intended, miss.”

  “Well, then it must be true,” I temporized.

  She gave a little sigh. It was highly irregular to gossip with the servants, I reminded myself, but I had never stood on ceremony, far preferring to establish myself on a friendly footing with those around me, whatever their station. We chattered on while she finished my hair, arranging it so cleverly that not a single pin could be seen. Then she helped me into my gown, giving the bustle a brisk shake so that the folds settled into elegant swags.

  “There you are, miss,” she told me. “Fine as a pheasant.” She gave me a broad wink as she left, and I realized that my time on St. Maddern’s Isle might be a good deal more diverting than I had even anticipated.

  * * *

  • • •

  The gong sounded shortly after I finished dressing and I made my way carefully down the stairs, holding my skirts well above my ankles so that I would not trip. It was a measure of Tiberius’ newfound distraction that he made no comment about the sight of them as I reached the bottom, where he waited. He always looked splendid in the black-and-white severity of evening clothes, and he had brushed his dark chestnut hair until it gleamed. But a tiny dot of crimson just below his ear showed that he had cut himself shaving, a curious development given that his lordship was usually as fastidious as a cat.

  “Shall we wait for Stoker?” I ventured.

  “Stoker has gone ahead,” his lordship replied, clipping the words.

  He led me through a series of rooms and passages in the labyrinthine castle, and I realized that he knew his way comfortably around. He was indeed no stranger to this place, I reflected. He paused outside a closed door, and as he hesitated, he reached for my hand.

  “Tiberius?”

  He said nothing, merely turned his head, his grey eyes glittering feverishly, his hand grasping mine with the strength of a drowning man. He opened the door to the drawing room, where a quartet of people had already assembled. Malcolm Romilly was deep in conversation with Stoker, the pair of them poring over what appeared to be a barometer of some antiquity. Helen Romilly rose from her perch on a sofa, dislodging an irritated Hecate the cat and towing in her wake an exceedingly young man with almost startling good looks. He wore an expression of acute boredom.

  “My lord, Miss Speedwell, may I present my son, Caspian Romilly? Caspian, say hello to Lord Templeton-Vane and his fiancée.” This was no boy; Caspian Romilly was eighteen at the very least and perfectly aware of his arresting appearance. He had his mother’s eyes and rosebud lips, but his stern brow and excellent nose were clearly the stuff of Romillys.

  He greeted us with an inaudible voice and a marked lack of enthusiasm, but just then his mother’s cat took a decided swipe at the hem of my gown, and she clucked her tongue. “Caspian, darling, do please take her in hand.”

  He gave an elaborate sigh and rolled his eyes but did as she asked, gathering up the sullen animal with surprising gentleness and coaxing her out the door.

  “Such a lovely boy,” his mother murmured. “Quite a way with animals. He’s terribly sensitive.”

  “He wants whipping,” Tiberius murmured into my ear as Helen Romilly turned away at her brother-in-law’s approach. He and Stoker had left off their discussion in order to join us, and I saw Helen Romilly’s gaze rest a moment too long upon Stoker. It was always a surprise to see him in evening clothes since he wore them so well, his careless good looks and deep ebony hair setting off the severe black and white. The garments were indifferently tailored, but he would suit a burlap sack, I thought, and Helen Romilly seemed to agree.

  For his part, Malcolm Romilly looked pale and tense in his evening clothes, but they were well tailored and his stickpin
was of heavy gold, set with an unusual stone.

  “I see you are admiring my carnelian,” he told me. “We are rich in such gems here upon the island. The rocks are heavy with seams of carnelian, jasper, agate. Semiprecious, of course, but worth the effort just the same. If you would like a souvenir of your travels, you must visit the jeweler in the village. He has an assortment of our local gems.”

  “Is the island large enough to support a jeweler? I had no idea,” I told him. “I confess, I was dreadfully unaware St. Maddern’s Isle even existed before his lordship mentioned it.”

  Malcolm Romilly gave me a singularly sweet smile, as sad as it was genuine, as he poured out small glasses of wine for the company. “We have been in seclusion, Miss Speedwell. You are the first guests we have invited in three years.”

  “Lucky for us,” Stoker said as he took a glass.

  “Have you been here before, Mr. Templeton-Vane?” Helen Romilly asked Stoker as she accepted a glass of wine from her brother-in-law.

  “I have not had that pleasure, Mrs. Romilly,” Stoker told her. “I was always deeply envious of my brother when he returned from one of his holidays here. I can only count myself fortunate to be included in this one.” He lifted his glass towards his host and sipped.

  She gave a hard little laugh. “I shall be interested to hear your impressions of the place. It always seems a curious dream when one is here. I am never entirely certain I haven’t been away with the faeries when I return to the mainland.”

  “Surely you mean the piskies, Helen,” Malcolm Romilly corrected with a smile. “After all, we are part of Cornwall.”

  Her look at him was level and long. “Just as you say, Malcolm.”

  There were odd currents of tension in the room, swirling and eddying about us, and before I could determine what it all meant, Mrs. Trengrouse appeared in the doorway.

  “Dinner is served.”

  CHAPTER

  4

  The table was set with a handsome silver service, a line of elaborate epergnes marching down the center of the table, each lavishly filled with striped red-and-white roses that perfumed the air. Before I could remark upon them, a disheveled-looking lady of perhaps thirty appeared, slipping into her seat next to Stoker with a hasty glance of apology towards Malcolm Romilly.

  “Mertensia,” he said with the merest hint of reproof.

  “I know, Malcolm, but I was gathering rose hips and I quite lost track of time,” she protested.

  “And apparently the location of your looking glass,” her sister-in-law said with a smile that did not quite take the sting from her words. “You haven’t even changed your gown!”

  Mertensia Romilly looked down at her plain dress of striped cotton in apparent surprise. “So I haven’t. But I washed my hands,” she added brightly, flashing palms that were crossed with scratches and old scars but scrupulously clean.

  Helen Romilly flicked a glance towards Mertensia’s untidy hair and gave a little sigh before turning to her soup—a delicious mushroom consommé served in the tiniest of dishes. Malcolm made the introductions and his sister peered at Tiberius.

  “I remember you,” she said.

  Tiberius inclined his head. “Miss Mertensia. Always a pleasure to renew our acquaintance.”

  Then Miss Mertensia’s gaze fell properly upon Stoker for the first time. She colored heavily and I suppressed a sigh. I had seen it all before. Women, particularly those of original tastes, were invariably drawn to him. A metaphor involving moths and flames came to mind. Stoker was faultlessly kind in these situations.

  “I understand you are a keen gardener,” he ventured. “I should very much like to see the gardens whilst I am here.”

  She blinked at him and colored again as she made an inaudible reply. He applied himself to his soup as she turned to me.

  “Do you like gardens, Miss Speedwell?” she asked, her gaze penetrating.

  “Only inasmuch as they provide haven for my butterflies,” I told her. She sniffed and devoted her attention to her food with all the enthusiasm of a laborer who has toiled long and hard and earned her bread. I realized then that Miss Mertensia no doubt divided people into “garden” people—worth knowing—and “nongarden” people, who were obviously not.

  Malcolm Romilly turned to me. “My sister is responsible for overseeing the extensive gardens here at the castle, as well as the glasshouses and stillrooms. She is the castle’s very own white witch,” he added with a faintly teasing smile.

  Miss Mertensia rolled her eyes heavenwards as she finished off her soup. “It is not witchcraft, Malcolm. It’s medicine, only of a more traditional sort than those rubbishy fellows in Harley Street with their stethoscopes and condescending moustaches.”

  Helen Romilly leant forward to catch my eye. “Malcolm tells us you are a lepidopterist. You must explore the gardens whilst you are here, Miss Speedwell. They are absolutely enchanting. Mertensia has the greenest of thumbs!”

  “I shall make a point of it,” I assured her.

  Miss Mertensia looked up sharply. “Go where you please; in fact, I will even show you the best places to hunt butterflies if you like. The little wretches are always eating my plants. But mind you don’t explore alone, at least not the far end of the gardens.”

  If I was taken a little aback at the edge to her tone, I strove not to show it. “I shouldn’t dream of intruding, Miss Romilly.”

  She gave a grunt of approval as she returned to her food, switching her empty dish of consommé with Stoker’s.

  “Mertensia!” Helen Romilly exclaimed. “You have the manners of a peasant.”

  “Do not distress yourself,” Stoker said lazily. “Miss Romilly is welcome to the rest of my soup.”

  “What difference does it make to you?” Mertensia demanded of her sister-in-law. “My manners are no concern of yours.”

  A sudden chill seemed to settle over the table. No one spoke for several long seconds, each of them punctuated by the ticking of the mantel clock. Finally, Helen Romilly cleared her throat.

  “You are quite right, Mertensia. I ought not to have offered criticism where it is not welcome. I forget sometimes that we are not truly family although Caspian carries Romilly blood,” she finished with a nod towards her son.

  Mertensia’s eyes narrowed and she opened her mouth, but before she could speak, her brother stirred himself.

  “Mertensia,” Malcolm Romilly said in a steady, authoritative voice. “That is enough.” His sister shrugged, clearly more interested in her dinner than in sparring with her brother’s widow. Malcolm looked to his sister-in-law. “Helen, please accept my apologies. Of course you and Caspian are family. You were much loved by Lucian and he was much loved by us.” He raised his glass, the dark red wine catching the candlelight like a handful of garnets. “A toast, then. To the memory of my late brother, Lucian. And to burying the past.”

  Helen Romilly gave him a sharp look, but the rest of the company merely echoed the toast and sipped. Only Malcolm Romilly did not drink. He stared into his glass as conversations began around the table amongst the dinner partners.

  “Are you scrying?” I asked him in a teasing tone.

  He roused himself. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The old folk custom of looking into a crystal ball or a bowl of water to tell one’s future. I have never seen it done with a glass of wine, but I am certain it could be attempted.”

  He gave me a curiously attractive smile. “I am glad his lordship thought to bring his brother and you, Miss Speedwell. I think with strangers amongst us, we might behave better than otherwise.”

  He fell silent again, staring into his wine for a long moment before giving himself a visible shake. “Forgive me. I seem to be woolgathering and I am failing in my duties. Now, Tiberius tells me you have a passion for my glasswings. Has he mentioned my intention to make you a present of some lar
vae?”

  “It is very generous of you.”

  He waved a hand. “I am very happy to think that a colony of them might find a home in your vivarium. It is a miracle they have survived as long as they have. The slightest alteration in habitat or climate, and we might have lost them. In fact, for some years, we thought we did. It was the most delightful surprise to find them thriving once more.”

  We fell to talking of other things—the natural beauties of the island, the difficulties of living in so remote a place—and although we turned at times to talk to our partners, we conversed easily upon a variety of topics. The food was excellent, the consommé being followed by several courses of fish. From fried soles sauced delicately with lemon we proceeded to roasted turbot and curried lobster, all of it freshly drawn from the sea around the Isle, our host assured me with obvious pride.

  “Our waters are some of the most bountiful in all of England,” he boasted. “Luckily for us.”

  “Indeed?”

  He smiled. “We are a Catholic family, Miss Speedwell, and it is Friday,” he reminded me.

  We were partnered again during the sweet course, and after we had finished it, I remarked upon how clever the confection had been.

  “Clever?” he asked.

  I gestured towards my empty crystal dish. A sorbet had been served with tiny plates of the most elegant cakes I had seen outside of a patisserie. “The rose sorbet. It is a perfect complement to the roses in the centerpieces. Rosa mundi, are they not? The rose of the world?”

  * * *

  • • •

  As luck would have it, my remark came during lulls in the other conversations, and I distinctly heard the sharp rasp of a spoon scraping over china.

  “Rosamund,” Helen Romilly whispered.

  Malcolm Romilly gave her a thin smile. “It seems Miss Speedwell is the only one to notice my tribute. It is fitting, is it not? A mass of roses to commemorate Rosamund.”