A Dangerous Collaboration

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  I ignored the barb and replied only to his words. “I suppose such a thing would be possible,” I reasoned. “The currents around here must be dangerous.”

  “That was brought to my attention many times by my drinking companions,” he informed me. “They also like to think that she is haunting the island, but that was no doubt a story for my benefit as an outsider. They’ve created a sort of cottage industry about her disappearance. Peter tried to sell me a charm to protect me against her ghost.”

  “How much did it cost you?” I knew him too well. He would never have passed up an enterprising child bent upon earning a coin.

  He reached into his pocket, producing a bit of shell strung upon a ragged string. “Two shillings.”

  “Two shillings! Highway robbery,” I said with a lightness I did not feel, “particularly as you’ve already agreed to teach him to use a sword.”

  He thrust the unlovely item back into his pocket. “He is a bright boy and someone should encourage his initiative.” I was not surprised at his justification. He was forever distributing coins to the filthy waifs who trundled to our doors with barrows of fruit or half-read newspapers or bits of nasty embroidery stitched by consumptive sisters. He was the softest of touches.

  I fell into step beside him and we started up the path again, walking for a few minutes in silence. We had passed many hours in comfortable quietude with one another, but this constraint was new and unwelcome, and I was uncertain of how to put it right. I only knew that I could not take back the words I had spoken the previous night. He might disagree with my position, but I could no more change it than I could change the course of the sun. “I hope you are at least consoled that I am in no danger from whatever attentions your brother may offer. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, as I have just demonstrated with ample effectiveness,” I said with a penetrating glance at his manly areas.

  He gave me a level look. “I would never make the mistake of thinking you needed anyone.”

  With that, he picked up his pace with a long-legged stride, leaving me to gape after him. “You ought to hurry if you want to beat the storm,” he called over his shoulder. “I hear it’s going to be absolutely monsoonal.”

  He did not turn to see if I followed, which was probably for the best. He would not have appreciated the gesture I directed to his back.

  CHAPTER

  6

  I arrived back at the castle just as the deluge began. Mrs. Trengrouse was waiting at the door. “I will take those boots if you please, miss,” she said. “And I have brought your slippers.”

  “How very kind.” I smiled. “And desperately efficient. I should have tracked mud all over your lovely carpets otherwise.”

  She took my boots, holding the muddy things at arm’s length away from the pristine linen of her apron. “The others have just gathered in the dining parlor for luncheon,” she told me. “If you would like to wash, there is a small water closet just behind that bit of paneling.” She nodded towards a length of linenfold. I pressed it experimentally and it sprang open to reveal a tiny modern room devoted to hygienic purposes.

  “What a clever arrangement. I should never have known it was there,” I said.

  She gave a satisfied nod. “The castle is full of such devices. There was no way to build up or out beyond the original structure, so the masters of St. Maddern’s have had to be clever in putting in cupboards and water closets and boot rooms and the like. They are fitted in wherever, which makes it all a bit higgledy-piggledy. But if you discover you are lost, you’ve only to give a shout and one of the maids will come and find you. The small dining parlor is just along this corridor,” she added.

  I thanked her and, after washing my hands and tidying my hair, made my way to the dining parlor. “Miss Speedwell!” Malcolm Romilly said with alacrity. “Now the company is at last complete. Please, do be seated,” he said, gesturing towards the round table in the middle of the room. It ought to have been a bright chamber, for the long windows faced the sea, but the gathering storm had darkened the room and a large candelabrum had been lit in the center of the table, the fitful light throwing shadows about the room.

  Malcolm Romilly drew the curtains—heavy lengths of dark blue silk—against the storm, making the room cozy and womblike. “Much better,” he murmured, taking his seat. A sideboard had been laid with all manner of things: a tureen of piping-hot soup, roasted chickens and a vast ham, bowls of pickles and wedges of good cheese. There were dishes of curried lamb and a duck salad, venison pie, and an enormous baron of cold beef, as well as baked macaroni and fresh bread rolls. Beside these sat the expected cruets and sauceboats and pickle dishes offering every accompaniment from chutney to peaches bottled with brandy and spices.

  “It is an old custom,” Malcolm told me as we filled our plates informally. “Called a groaning board. Centuries ago, the master of St. Maddern’s would keep a table for anyone on the island who might be hungry, with an assortment of dishes left from the family dinner the night before. Somehow, the custom was adapted and the groaning board is for the castle folk and the dishes are all made fresh, but it does make for a curious variety.”

  “It looks delicious,” I told him, adding a slice of ham to my plate.

  “All of the meat and vegetables come from the island, and the cherry compote is from Mertensia’s stillroom,” he said with a fond look at his sister. We had taken our seats and at the sound of her name, Mertensia roused herself.

  “Yes, this was rather a good lot, if I say it myself,” she said. She turned to Stoker. “You must try a spoonful of it.”

  “Certainly,” he said happily as she ladled out enough cherry compote to feed four men. Stoker’s sweet tooth was legendary and it seemed that Mertensia had discovered this.

  Caspian Romilly lifted his plate to his aunt, his expression deliberately innocent. “May I have some as well, or is it only for the gentlemen you fancy?”

  “Caspian,” his mother murmured in the mildest tone of reproof. “You mustn’t twit your aunt.”

  “I wasn’t,” he replied, widening his beautiful eyes to mock innocence. “I was encouraging her.”

  Mertensia’s gaze fell to her plate, two bright, hard spots of color rising in her cheeks.

  “Delicious,” Stoker pronounced, brandishing a spoonful. “And unexpected. Is there some spice?”

  Mertensia looked up, her expression almost pathetically grateful. “Cardamom.”

  “A family recipe or your own addition?” he inquired.

  “My own,” she told him, watching with greedy eyes as he spooned the last of the dark, sticky stuff into his mouth.

  * * *

  • • •

  After luncheon we went our separate ways. Helen claimed a headache, retiring to her room to rest, while Mertensia said she had work in the stillroom. Stoker and Tiberius chose a desultory game of billiards while I went to my room to finish the latest Arcadia Brown adventure. The exploits of my favorite fictional detective were always thrilling, but that afternoon I was conscious of a certain restlessness, a mental itch that I could not scratch with tales of audacious deeds. It occurred to me that it might prove useful to prepare for rearing my glasswings with some specialized knowledge of their natural habitat of St. Maddern’s Isle. I put aside my book and made my way down to the library in search of some materials—maps, journals—that could orient me in my new field of study.

  As I passed the family wing, I collided with Helen Romilly. She fell to the floor, landing hard upon her bustle.

  “My dear Mrs. Romilly, please accept my apologies,” I began as I bent to assist her.

  She looked up at me, her eyes vague. “Am I on the floor?”

  I smelt the heavy spirits on her breath and sighed. “I am afraid so. We were neither of us looking where we were going. Allow me to help you.”

  It took two tries, but she managed to get he
r feet under her just as Mrs. Trengrouse appeared, chatelaine jingling. “Mrs. Romilly,” she said in a steady voice. “Are you unwell?”

  “I think,” Helen said slowly, “that I am.”

  “What are you doing out of your room, then?” Mrs. Trengrouse inquired, putting a steadying arm to the lady’s waist.

  “I was looking for my cat,” she pronounced. She stared at me a long moment. “This young woman was helping me.”

  “Veronica Speedwell,” I reminded her.

  “Yes, of course. I ought to have remembered because Mertensia mentioned how curious a name it is. You are called after plants, aren’t you?” she asked, weaving a little.

  I put an arm around her other side, helping Mrs. Trengrouse to keep her on her feet. “I am indeed,” I said as we began walking her slowly towards her room. “No doubt you’ve seen speedwell. It’s a prettyish little plant with purple flowers. Most unassuming.”

  I kept up the patter of plant talk as we maneuvered her into her room and onto her bed.

  “There, now,” Mrs. Trengrouse said soothingly. “You have a nice rest.”

  Helen Romilly thrust herself onto her elbows, giving me a long, level look. “You have done very well for yourself,” she said with a slow wink. “A viscount! And a wealthy one! So many fellows with titles these days haven’t tuppence to rub together. But you have done very well,” she repeated, her head nodding like an overblown peony upon the stem. She roused, weaving a little as she leant near to me, her tone confiding. “Heed my advice, my dear. Get him to the altar at once. A woman cannot survive in this world without the help of a man.” She narrowed her eyes at me, blinking hard. “You’re a very handsome girl, beautiful, in fact. But it will not last, and you are getting older by the day, my dear. Older by the day.”

  With that she collapsed back onto the bed, and Mrs. Trengrouse tucked in the coverlet around her as she tossed fretfully, raising her hands in front of her face.

  “My poor Caspian,” she muttered as she stared dully at her hands. “What will become of him?”

  Mrs. Trengrouse made consoling noises but Helen would not be settled.

  Helen struggled to sit up in the bed. “Hecate,” she began.

  “I will send Daisy to find the cat,” the housekeeper promised her.

  She seemed satisfied at this and collapsed against the pillows, snoring gently before Mrs. Trengrouse even finished tucking in the coverlet around her. She flicked a knowing glance towards the washstand and collected a small bottle there.

  “Hair wash?” I asked, reading the label as we left the room.

  “Gin,” she corrected. She slipped the bottle into her pocket. “She has always liked a bit of a soother, she has. Bless her. She loved Mr. Lucian. It was a terrible blow when he died.”

  “He sounds an interesting fellow,” I suggested.

  She beamed. “Oh, what larks he got up to! Always merry as a grig, playing a tune or painting a picture. He went to London to make his fortune, did our Mr. Lucian. We thought he might become a famous actor like that Mr. Irving, but he never did get the right parts. And the pictures he painted were never quite good enough. The story of his life, I fear,” she said with a rueful smile. “Never quite good enough. The disappointments were difficult and they took their toll. Well,” she finished with a brisk gesture, “I must get on and set Daisy to finding that cat. Thank you for your trouble just now, miss. I know you will not speak of it.”

  She gave me a hopeful look, and I hastened to reassure her that I would not share with anyone that I had seen Helen Romilly sprawled upon the floor. “Certainly not. A lady’s private peccadilloes are her own business.”

  “Bless you, miss,” Mrs. Trengrouse said as she bustled away.

  I had very nearly reached the closed door of the library when I heard raised voices, one young and clearly upset, the other more sober and restrained but brooking no interruptions.

  “But you must!” the younger cried. It took little imagination to conclude the speaker was Caspian.

  His uncle responded flatly. “Must? I must do nothing. I cannot believe you would approach me in this fashion. I will not fund such an endeavor. You must look to yourself for the money.”

  “But I have not the means,” came the anguished response. There was a pause and when he spoke again, it was in a pleading tone of such despair, a stone might have been moved to pity. “I am begging, Uncle Malcolm. For Mama’s sake.”

  “I am not persuaded,” Malcolm Romilly replied with a coldness I would not have thought him capable of.

  “Then you can go straight to hell,” Caspian told him, biting off each word. I heard the scrape of chair legs and the slamming of the chair against the floor as he must have thrust himself to his feet. I had just enough time to move a few feet down the corridor and pretend to be deeply immersed in the study of a painting when Caspian emerged, his color high and his hands clasping and unclasping furiously.

  He brushed past, taking no notice of me in his rage, and I crept to the open door. Malcolm Romilly was righting the chair—or at least attempting to. It had been broken in Caspian’s fit of temper, and his uncle stared down at the pieces ruefully. He glanced up then.

  “Ah, Miss Speedwell. Please come in.” A tiny smile, half-embarrassed, touched his mouth. “You must have heard something of my nephew’s departure, I gather.”

  “It would have been difficult not to,” I admitted. “I do not mean to pry.”

  He took up the pieces of the chair and put them behind the door. “It is hardly prying when Caspian was shouting fit to shake the rafters. I have not seen my nephew in some years, and I am sorry to say I detect no improvement in his character. Caspian can be . . . difficult. He wants settling down.” He gestured. “Do come in, Miss Speedwell,” he urged.

  It was an impressive room, lined with bookshelves and furnished with several groupings of comfortable armchairs as well as a handsome mahogany desk and a pair of high Stuart armchairs covered in ruby velvet that had been gently nibbled by moths. “Family treasures from the days of Queen Anne,” he told me. “The fabric has long since been discontinued and I could not bear to re-cover them.” The whole room had the same shabbily contented air as those chairs. The maps hanging upon the wall were foxed; the bindings of the books were so well-worn, the gilt titles were rubbed down to the leather. But an air of serenity hung over the place, and the view from the windows was incomparable.

  Or at least it would have been had a heavy fog not obscured the view. Grey mist hung like shrouds at the windows, swirling about the casements like fingers of the dead, looking for a way in.

  He gestured for me to take one of the Stuart chairs in front of his desk, and I did so, spreading my skirts smoothly over my knees and returning to the subject of his nephew. “So many young men his age do want settling down,” I said with some sympathy. “Perhaps a long voyage,” I suggested. “To dangerous lands. A few perils are just the thing to shape a young man’s character.”

  The smile deepened. “And a young woman’s. I understand you have traveled the world on your expeditions. You are V. Speedwell, the regular contributor to the Journal of Aurelian Contemplations, are you not?”

  “I had no notion you read it!” I exclaimed. “You made no mention of it at dinner, and Tiberius led me to believe you were not terribly interested in butterflies.”

  “I must confess, my knowledge is limited to our own glasswings, but after our conversation last night, I rooted out the latest copies of the journal. My father used to subscribe and I never got around to stopping them from coming. I was terribly impressed with your articles.”

  “You are too kind,” I murmured.

  “Not at all,” he assured me. “I will tell you, Miss Speedwell, I rather suspected that Tiberius had inflated your interest in the glasswings as a means of securing your invitation. He is such a curious fellow, I admit I have never entirely understood
him in spite of our many years of friendship. It is the difficulty in making friends with a man so much cleverer than oneself,” he finished with a self-deprecating smile.

  I made the proper noises of protest, and he held up a hand. “I harbor no illusions about my abilities or my defects, I can assure you. I am aware of my limitations and my worth, which is more than most men, I think.” His genial gaze turned thoughtful. “I wonder, will his lordship make any difficulties about your hobby when you are married? Surely the Viscountess Templeton-Vane cannot continue in trade.”

  His manner was deliberately nonchalant, but there was a tautness to his hands as he rested them upon his desk and a bright inquisitiveness to his gaze. There was something about my relationship with Tiberius that unsettled him, but I could not imagine what it might be.

  I smiled. “I would never give up lepidoptery, not for any man,” I told him truthfully.

  “What if he insisted?” he pressed.

  “I should insist harder,” I assured him.

  “Yes, I rather think you would,” he said with a slow nod. He was silent a moment, then seemed to give himself a little shake as he assumed the manner of a genial host once more. “I do hope you are finding your visit a pleasant one.”

  “I am indeed. The island is a fascinating place.”

  He brightened. “Do you really think so? In that case, I must apologize for the fog. If not for the cloud, you could see all the way to the Three Sisters.”

  “Three Sisters?”

  He took down one of the framed maps upon the wall and pointed. “Here we are in the castle. Just to the west, off this little bit of beach, lie three smaller islands in a row, each more barren than the last.” They were marked out in thick black ink upon the map, a delicate chain of islands set in a perfectly straight line pointing towards the horizon. I realized then that these were the little isles I had spied from my window upon rising that morning.

  “Why are they called the Three Sisters?”