A Dangerous Collaboration

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “Knives? Plural? I only gave you one, the little fellow to strap to your calf,” he said, his expression startled.

  “And I wear it,” I promised. “But a lady likes to have options.” I went to my carpetbag and lifted out the false bottom, revealing a compartment that Daisy the maid had not discovered. I began to extract my weapons, passing them to Stoker as they emerged. “Here is the hatpin I had made—a fine steel stiletto with a very sharp point. I warned you it was sharp,” I said, handing Stoker a handkerchief to staunch the bright bead of blood that welled up on his thumb. “Here are the minuten for my cuffs,” I added, handing over the packet of headless pins used by lepidopterists to secure specimens to pieces of card. I often threaded them through my cuffs when I desired a little extra protection. I removed a delicate violet silk corset from the compartment, holding it up as Stoker blushed furiously. “This is my favorite, I think. Each stay is actually a slim blade of excellent Italian steel,” I told him, demonstrating how quickly I could remove one from the bodice.

  “Anything else?” he asked. “A beehive to hide in your bustle? A poison ring full of arsenic to bung into someone’s tea?”

  I flapped a hand. “Don’t be crude. Poison is a distinctly unoriginal method.”

  He cocked his head curiously. “So how would you go about it if you were to dispatch someone?”

  “I have nineteen strategies at present and I am developing a twentieth. Don’t worry,” I told him cheerfully. “If I ever decide to kill you, I shall make it quick and creative. You will never see it coming.”

  “That, my dear Veronica, is what I am afraid of.”

  He paused and with that peculiar telepathy we sometimes shared, I knew what he was going to say next. “I know you do not wish to speak of Madeira,” he began in a halting voice, “but I think we must.”

  “There is nothing to say,” I replied.

  “I believe there is.” He turned to me, his sapphirine eyes bright with emotion. Anger? Challenge? I could not tell. “I was with Lord Rosemorran when the bills arrived, Veronica. A doctor. A wet nurse. A seamstress’s charges for the making of clothes for an infant.” He paused and the moment stretched between us, a taut silence waiting to be shattered.

  “Yes. All of that.” I lifted my chin. “You want me to be answerable to you?”

  “I should have thought our friendship would demand it,” he said simply.

  “I am answerable to no one,” I replied fiercely.

  “And I am no one?” he asked, his voice edged with some dark feeling I had never heard before.

  “Of course not.” My voice was snappish and I said the words quickly, thrusting them from my lips. “But I can give you no explanation.”

  “I see,” he said, turning once more to the fire.

  He said nothing more and I rose, my hands curling into fists. “I know it looks as if I went to Madeira to have a child,” I began.

  He rose too, more slowly, favoring the arm that had just been bandaged. The bruise blooming on his face was a slow, spreading purple, plummy and deep. He came close to me, pronouncing each word carefully. “I am not the men you have known before,” he reminded me.

  “It is time we cleared the air,” I told him, planting myself firmly in his path. “I have come to a decision. I do not break promises easily, but I owe you that much.”

  “That Lady Cordelia went to Madeira to have a child out of wedlock?” he hazarded.

  “How did you—”

  He sighed. “Veronica, give me a little credit. I may be a man, but I am a doctor, after all. I saw the signs. I also know that she would have sworn you to secrecy and you would have felt obliged to keep your promise to her. Therefore, I will ask you nothing about the child or its father. If Lady C. wishes me to know, she will tell me herself.”

  “Thank you for that,” I said simply.

  “The only thing I did not understand was why there were doctors’ bills with your name on them.” He lifted his brows in inquiry.

  “A relapse of malaria,” I told him. “I went to take care of Lady C. and instead she nursed me.” I smiled, thinking of the time Stoker had cared for me during a bout of the fever that lurked in my blood, bursting out at inopportune moments. “I must say, her bedside manner is rather gentler than yours. But I know whose I would rather have.” Something in his face eased and I smiled again. “Did you really never believe the worst of me?”

  He shrugged. “I knew you would never be so pigheadedly mysterious about your own child. You don’t care enough about public opinion to keep such a thing a secret. But you would go to your grave to protect a friend.”

  I stared at him, a smile breaking over my face. “You really do comprehend me.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “And you are a bloody sight more challenging than Latin, believe me.” He went on. “I also know that if you found yourself unexpectedly with child, you would put aside your obstinacy and come to me for help.”

  I canted my head as I moved a step closer, just near enough to see the silver-grey lights in the dark blue of his eyes. “What would you have done for me?”

  He shrugged and took his own step closer. “Whatever the situation required. I would have traveled with you to the furthest ends of creation. I would have delivered the child. I would have married you and given the damned thing a name if you wanted.”

  “I will never marry,” I reminded him sharply. He was standing scant inches from me now, his mouth temptingly close. I could smell sweetness on his breath—the honey drops he carried in his pocket at all times.

  “I know. Neither will I. I have seen too much of that particular institution to last me a lifetime.” I was surprised at his statement but not the sentiment behind it. He had suffered at the hands of his wife, this noble and generous soul who deserved nothing but loyalty.

  “Then we are agreed,” I replied. “We will never marry.”

  “Never. Although, no marriage does not necessarily rule out certain marital activities,” he observed.

  “Stoker—” I murmured. His hand moved up, his palm cupping my jaw as his thumb stroked my earlobe. I tipped my head back, arching my throat towards him as I twined my arms about his neck, careful not to disturb his wound. He put his mouth to the pulse in my throat, kissing a trail from my ear to the neck of my nightdress. I slid my hands into his hair, my lips parting as I said his name again on an exhalation of the sharpest, most exquisite anticipation.

  His mouth dipped lower still, his teeth grazing lightly over my flesh with only the thin fabric of my nightclothes between us. I tightened my grasp on his hair as I said his name a third time, an incantation of sorts, a prayer, a charm of summoning.

  But even as I moaned my encouragement, he pulled back, letting go of me so abruptly that I nearly fell over.

  “My dearest Veronica,” he said, his eyes widely, innocently blue, “I must offer my most heartfelt apologies for letting myself get carried away. After all, you were the one who said we must keep our friendship foremost. Such demonstrations can only disturb and confuse us,” he finished with an air of feigned contrition.

  “Revelstoke Templeton-Vane,” I said through gritted teeth.

  He held up his hands. “No, no, I am most sincerely sorry. Whatever must you think of me?”

  “Give me five minutes and I shall tell you,” I threatened.

  Instead he patted me on the head in an avuncular fashion and I snapped at his hand as I had his brother’s.

  “Now, now. That’s no sort of way to behave to a gentleman who prizes your friendship above all else,” he told me serenely. He gave a broad yawn. “I must say, the exertions of the day have left me heartily tired. I think a good night’s sleep is in order, don’t you? Good night, Veronica.”

  He left me before I could throw anything more substantial than a baleful look in his direction, but I was quite certain I heard his laughter on the stairs as
he went.

  CHAPTER

  13

  After Stoker’s departure, I put the interlude to the side. Clearly, he was determined to punish me for pushing him away yet again, this time using my own physical desire for him as the instrument of torture. I thought back to his languid disrobing on the beach, the artful way he had pressed against me in the passageway. He had spent the better part of the day arousing my appetites and yet refused to sate them. I applied a little cold water to my person to cool my heated blood and put all thoughts of Stoker and his enticing presence from my mind. He was not the only one who could play such games, I told myself.

  Besides, I reflected, there were more pressing issues at hand. To begin with, I was worried for Tiberius. Our friendship was a new and tenuous thing. We had seldom spoken of truly meaningful matters. As Stoker had noted, Tiberius had cultivated his air of cool detachment as a means of keeping the world at bay, and it had worked. Too well, I thought. It was difficult to penetrate to the heart of the man. Even his openness about his occasional sexual escapades was intended to alarm and alienate rather than create intimacy. He said shocking things in order to be thought outrageous, not to share anything real of himself. If one managed to remove his mask, he would be sure to have another smoothly settled into place before the real man could be glimpsed behind the façade. It was this very elusiveness that made him interesting to me. (Shall I explain the similarities between discovering his lordship’s true character and following the mazy, winding path of a butterfly determined to escape capture? They are legion, I can assure you, gentle reader.) This likeness to my favorite pastime and chosen profession was not designed for my benefit, but there were few people of the viscount’s acquaintance more qualified to appreciate it, I decided.

  And I had seen enough of Tiberius’ true character to see in him much of his younger brother—far more than either of them would have liked. Stoker and Tiberius were wounded things, both of them still carrying the barbs and venom of the attacks they had suffered at the hands of others. Stoker was marked in ways he could never escape, both physically and mentally. But for all his wealth and polish, Tiberius was just as damaged. The only difference was that his money had afforded him better camouflage for the carnage.

  Listening to him talk about Rosamund, I had been struck by the pain in his voice, all the more apparent for his efforts to conceal it. He had made his voice light, chosen his words carefully, but I had seen the tightness around his mouth, the white lines at his knuckles, the tautness of his hands. And that moment when he realized I saw and understood, when he had thrown himself into my arms and at last faced his pain . . . it was almost beyond bearing. No matter what happened in the castle, no matter what murderous intent played out around us, I would not abandon him. Tiberius had not thought to ask openly for help from a friend because he did not yet realize that he had one in me. But I would show him.

  Thus ran my thoughts for the rest of the night. I slipped into a heavy slumber in the smallest hours, waking just as dawn broke. In spite of my night of broken sleep, I bounded out of bed, determined both to enjoy my holiday upon the island and to make headway into unraveling our mystery. Washing swiftly, I dressed in my hunting costume of narrow skirt and jacket over slim trousers and took up my field notebook and pocket glass. I fitted half a dozen minuten to my cuffs and laced up my boots. A quick stop in the kitchens for provisions—a few rolls and an apple for my pockets—and I was off, making my way through the dew-drenched gardens and into the orchards beyond.

  In accordance with my expectations, Mertensia was already about, hands filthy, skirts bemired, perspiration pearling her brow. “Good morning,” she said shortly, responding to my greeting with a minimum of civility.

  She was near the gates of the poison garden and I joined her without waiting for an invitation. “I had not thought to meet anyone so early,” I lied. I offered her a roll, which she took, wiping her hands upon her skirts, streaking the fabric liberally with dirt.

  “Thank you.” She took the roll grudgingly, her hunger winning out over her obvious annoyance with me. “I ought to have brought something with me, but I came out before Cook was awake,” she told me, breaking off large pieces of the roll and stuffing them into her mouth.

  “You’ve been out here awhile, then,” I remarked.

  She chewed and nodded. “A few hours. I wanted to work with my Cestrums,” she told me. She finished the roll and moved towards the garden.

  “Are you going inside? I should very much like to accompany you,” I said, moving between her and the gates.

  She paused, then pursed her lips. “Very well.” She took a pair of gloves from her pocket. “Put these on and you may come with me.”

  “Don’t you need them?” I asked, tugging them into place.

  “I know what not to touch,” she informed me with a roll of the eyes. “Now, I know you have heard the warnings, but I shall repeat them again. Touch nothing, smell nothing, and for the love of God, eat nothing once inside these gates.”

  I swore obedience and she led me inside. The very air within the gates seemed different, charged with an almost narcotic heaviness.

  “Don’t breathe too deeply,” she warned. “That’s the Cestrums.”

  “Cestrums are nightshades, are they not?” I asked as we moved further into the garden. The air was heavy with the warm, vegetal breath of the plants.

  She led the way as she lectured. She might have been reluctant to keep company with me, but her obvious love of her plants won out over her irritation. She warmed as she spoke of them, dotingly, as a mother will her children. “Together with others, yes. All of my Cestrums are toxic, particularly the one whose perfume you can smell. That is Cestrum nocturnum, night-blooming jasmine,” she said, stopping short just in front of a massive shrub starred with small white flowers. “I prefer her colloquial name, lady of the night.” The shrub, in reality a clump of vines tangled together in impenetrable union, reached upwards, snaking its tendrils in spirals that rose far overhead, tangling with the structure behind. As I peered closer through the pointed glossy green leaves, I saw a woman’s face, withered and weathered, the vines wrapped about her throat. I leapt back, causing Mertensia to laugh, a trifle unpleasantly.

  “Some of the lads in the village make a living by salvage,” she told me. “They take what they can from ships lost along the islands. Pieces like that they bring to me and I buy them for the garden.”

  Belatedly, I realized the sculpture was a figurehead, all that remained of some poor benighted ship dashed to doom upon the rocks. “How very unique,” I said politely.

  She pulled a face. “You needn’t worry. There are surprises all over the garden, but none quite so startling as that one. I call her Mercy. Sometimes I talk to her whilst I work.”

  This last was said in a tone of near defiance, as if she were daring me to judge her for her eccentricities. “You are fortunate,” I told her.

  She blinked. “Fortunate?”

  I spread my arms. “To live in such a place. To have full reign here. It is like your own little kingdom and you are the queen.”

  She gave a sudden laugh, harsh and rusty, like a child’s squeeze-box that has not been used in a very long time. “I am not the queen. I am nothing but a pawn, moved by the whims of the king,” she added with a glance towards the windows of the castle.

  “That would be Malcolm,” I ventured.

  “Naturally. The garden, like everything else on this island, belongs to him.”

  She turned and began to tie up a slender green tendril.

  “Still, he seems to interfere little with you here,” I said, sitting on a modest stone bench. I don’t know if it was my tone—casually inviting—or my posture—relaxed and unhurried—that persuaded her I was not to be got rid of easily. She gave a sigh, then picked up her secateurs, clipping sharply as she spoke.

  “Malcolm lets me do as I please,”
she admitted. “For now.”

  “You expect that to change?”

  “It nearly did. But that’s in the past.” The words were spoken with no real desire to confide in me; that much was obvious. But I suspected it had been a very long time since Mertensia had enjoyed intimate conversation with a woman near her own age. I might have maneuvered her into further confidences, but it occurred to me a direct approach was the most likely to bear fruit.

  “Mertensia, you were cordial enough when I first arrived, but now you seem to have taken against me. If I have offered you some offense, I should like to know what so that I may apologize or at the very least stay out of your way. Otherwise, I shall sit here and wait for your apology for being frightfully rude to a guest in your home.”

  I settled my hands on my lap as she dropped her secateurs. She retrieved them, giving me a baleful look. “I was cordial because I thought I could like you.”

  “And you have decided otherwise?”

  “Obviously,” she said, snipping viciously at a bit of the Cestrum.

  “Now we are making progress,” I said.

  She was silent a long moment, the only sound the snap of her shears. Suddenly, she turned to me, bursting out with it. “Helen saw you. On the beach yesterday with Stoker.”

  “Yes, I know. We had a lively discussion of it over tea yesterday.”

  She gaped. “Aren’t you embarrassed? Ashamed? I said she saw you.”

  “Yes, I heard you, my dear. And I have nothing with which to reproach myself. Stoker and I are very good friends.”

  “I can imagine,” she said, her mouth thinning with real bitterness.

  “Not that good,” I amended. “But we have known one another for some time and we work together.”

  “You work?” Her eyes were narrow and suspicious.

  “Certainly. You didn’t imagine I wanted the glasswings for my amusement, did you? I am developing a vivarium in central London to be associated with the museum that Stoker and I are establishing. It will be the work of a decade or more, but we are confident.”