A Dangerous Collaboration

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “That is all the poor devil needs,” Stoker muttered as he stuffed the last bit of toast into his mouth.

  “Will you go?” I asked.

  “If I must, but I hope he has sense enough to see himself back,” he replied with maddening calm. It was surprisingly tense, watching the tiny boat strive against the waves.

  “He must turn back,” I said, more to myself than to anyone else. I felt a sudden thrust of guilt at not revealing my role in Helen’s obvious reluctance to stay upon the island, but Tiberius gave me a consoling shake of the head as if intuiting my thoughts and indicating it would have done no good to confess.

  “Another wave like that, and they’ll both be thrown overboard,” Stoker said, pointing to the swell gathering strength and speed as it bore down hard upon them. We watched in mounting concern as they braced themselves, clinging together as the wave broke over the boat, soaking them both and filling the vessel with water.

  Stoker stripped off his coat—stiffly, thanks to the wound in his arm—but before he could make his way down to the shore, we saw Caspian change tack, making hard for the harbor again, rowing with all of his might. Helen pulled at the oars with him, her hat forgot as they toiled together to bring the boat to safety.

  “How reassuring,” Tiberius said dryly. “One does like to see filial devotion at work.”

  “Shut up,” Stoker said through clenched teeth as Tiberius studied his cuffs. From behind us I heard a sharp intake of breath.

  “I will go and order hot baths,” Mrs. Trengrouse said. “They’ll be lucky not to catch pneumonia after this. And not one of you with a proper breakfast yet!”

  I had not realized she was there, but I nodded. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Bless you, miss, no.”

  Mrs. Trengrouse hurried off. As the little boat drew near the shore, the fishermen dashed out to help heave her in. Helen was in a state of watery dishevelment and Caspian looked no better, the tails of his coat trailing seawater as he stomped across the shingle. The fishermen took it in hand to help Helen and convey the bags up to the castle while Caspian argued fiercely with old Trefusis, who refused to give back his money. In the end, the boy left it, shaking his fist as he took his leave of the elderly man, following the men who escorted his mother and their possessions to safety.

  We moved into the dining room for breakfast, feeling a little deflated now that the drama was ended. We picked at the meal while Mrs. Trengrouse bustled in and out with pots of tea and clutches of freshly boiled eggs. Caspian and Helen were sent upstairs for hot baths and in due course they trailed downstairs again for some refreshment. Helen was holding Hecate close to her chest, murmuring endearments and feeding bits of bacon to the outraged cat.

  “She is put out with me,” Helen said to no one in particular. “She doesn’t like boats.”

  “I know you’ve just nearly died at sea, but do you think you might keep that animal away from the table?” Mertensia asked in withering tones.

  Caspian, predictably, jumped to his mother’s defense. “How dare you—”

  His mother spoke up, in a sharper voice than I had yet heard her use with her son. “Caspian, that is quite enough. Leave it. And, no, Mertensia,” she finished with a long, level look at her sister-in-law, “I do not think I will keep the animal away from the table. She has been dreadfully upset and needs consoling.”

  “Oh, very well,” Mertensia said with ill grace.

  But Caspian was not to be placated. He flung his napery aside and strode from the room. Helen fed another piece of bacon to the cat and said nothing. After that everyone drifted from the table, Tiberius back to his correspondence and Mertensia to her stillroom. Helen said she would rest in her room, trailing away with the cat still clutched to her chest.

  “I believe ‘resting’ is a delicate euphemism for getting blind drunk,” Stoker said.

  “Don’t be horrid. The poor woman has obviously had a fright—for which I am partly responsible,” I reminded him.

  He pulled a face but followed me out of the dining room. As we passed one half-opened door, we heard the clash of balls and exchanged a quick glance. A peek inside the room revealed that Caspian had taken refuge in the billiards room, idly knocking the balls around with his stick.

  “Ah, thank God!” he exclaimed when we entered, his expression still thunderous. “We can get up a game now. It seemed wrong to go in search of partners, but since you’ve come of your own accord, perhaps you won’t think too badly of me for wanting a bit of diversion.”

  “Certainly not,” I said with a smile. I flicked a glance to Stoker, who went wordlessly to the rack and retrieved two sticks. We chalked the ends as Caspian gathered up the balls and arranged them in a triangle.

  “Shall I play you first, Miss Speedwell? And then the winner can play Mr. Templeton-Vane? And shall we say a pound a game?” There was something hectic about his mood, and I realized then that gambling must be his consolation as drink was his mother’s.

  We all agreed to the stakes and Caspian gallantly insisted that I have the first turn. I leveled my stick and sighted the ball down its length, conscious of Caspian across from me, watching narrowly as I bent over the table. With a single sharp motion I levered the stick, scattering the balls and sinking two.

  Caspian’s mouth gaped and it remained open for the next ten minutes. I cleared the table, dropping the balls neatly into the pockets. When I finished, I put out my hand with another smile. “My winnings, Mr. Romilly?”

  He grinned, although the smile did not quite touch his eyes. “My dear Miss Speedwell, you shall have to accept my word as a gentleman that I am good for it. I am afraid I have nothing in my pockets after that villain Trefusis took my last bit of money.”

  “I will accept information in lieu of a banknote,” I told him as Stoker retrieved the balls and set up the table for the next game.

  Caspian’s dark eyes narrowed. “I always pay debts of honor. Besides, what information could I possibly offer?”

  I waited until Stoker had broken and Caspian had lined up his first shot to step into his sight line. “Information about why you and your uncle were quarreling so heatedly,” I said just as he moved. His hand jerked and his stick skidded on the green baize, ripping a tiny hole in the cover. He swore under his breath and stepped backwards, ceding his place to Stoker.

  “I suppose it would be foolish to pretend it never happened,” Caspian said with a rueful smile. A single lock of dark hair fell over his brow, giving him the look of a very young, rather sulky poet.

  “Extremely foolish,” I assured him.

  Stoker broke the balls, dropping one with his first shot. “Laggard,” I said. He gave me a wink and moved around the table, taking his time in lining up the next. He was moving at a deliberate pace, giving me the chance to inveigle information from Caspian.

  I gave the young man an encouraging look and went to stand near him, so near that I had to tip my head back and look up at him from beneath my lashes. “Now, if you tell me the truth, Caspian, you will not find me unsympathetic.”

  He smiled again, but it was a sickly attempt. He looked for all the world like a child in trouble who was not certain if a tantrum or sorrowful confession would carry the day. I put a hand to his arm, and to my astonishment, he burst into tears, burying his head on my shoulder so heavily that I nearly staggered under the weight of it. I patted him as I looked to Stoker, who threw up his hands in mystification.

  “Caspian,” I began, but this only caused him to sob more loudly. He carried on in this fashion for some minutes as I continued to pat his back and make soothing noises in his direction. Stoker went on sinking billiard balls and rolling his eyes at this display of emotion until Caspian stuttered to a stop, winding down like a clockwork toy.

  “I do most sincerely apologize, Miss Speedwell,” he managed. “I do not know what came over me.”

 
; “You are clearly in great distress,” I consoled. “Perhaps it would help to unburden yourself.”

  He nodded, gulping a few times as he scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “You are very kind. Yes. I think it might.”

  He half turned his back on Stoker, who moved steadily through the game, hitting and sinking and retrieving the balls over and over again, as if he feared interrupting the pattern might cause Caspian to recall his presence and stem the flow of his confidences.

  The lamplight fell half across Caspian’s features, highlighting the noble brow and handsome nose. He looked like a prince from a tragic play, steeling himself to commit some act of self-destruction.

  “Do you know anything of my father? You might have heard that he was talented and much loved. The truth is, he was a sad disappointment to his family. But not to us, my mother and me. He was a second son, superfluous in every way. He left St. Maddern’s to make his own fortune. He met my mother in London and decided to marry, although he had precious little to offer. You see, my grandfather made it clear that everything would be left to my uncle Malcolm. Nothing of the estate is entailed, but the Romillys have always aped the customs of the great and good. Primogeniture is the habit here, and my father always knew he could not look to the Isle to sustain us.”

  “He sounds a unique and interesting man,” I said softly.

  The large brown eyes, soft as a spaniel’s, warmed with gratitude. “He was! The Romillys run to melancholia, you know. But not Papa. He was merry as a grig, always ready with a joke or a tease. He used to turn every situation, no matter how desperate, to something of a game. Even the times the creditors came and took our furniture away, he used to make us pretend we were castaways on a desert island and had to build our lives anew in the jungle. It was magical,” he said, his voice dreamy.

  It sounded frankly dreadful to me. There were few things in life more tiresome than a man who would not shoulder his responsibilities, and whilst I appreciated an optimistic spirit more than most, a man who played at crocodiles and tree houses instead of securing steady employment would have met with a sturdy kicking were I his wife.

  I forced myself to smile. “How resourceful,” I said.

  “He was,” Caspian assured me. “And he brought me up always to believe that I must follow my own north star, that I must never surrender to base ambition but listen to the dictates of my heart.”

  “And what does your heart tell you to do, Caspian?”

  “I mean to go on the stage,” he said with such gravity that I only smothered a laugh with the greatest of effort. I covered it with a cough, and he put a solicitous hand to my shoulder.

  “Are you quite well, Miss Speedwell? Shall I pour you a glass of water?”

  “Thank you, no. I was simply overwhelmed by the force of your passion, Caspian. You are clearly well suited to your chosen profession.”

  He preened but did not remove his hand. “Do you really think so? I feel it, here,” he said, thumping his chest hard with his closed fist. “This is the seat of an actor’s life, here in his breast,” he added, taking my hand and placing it flat upon his waistcoat. I could feel the thump of his heartbeat beneath his clothes, steady and quick.

  “I am overcome with emotion sometimes,” he added. “My passions run quite near to the surface, you understand. It must be so, if one is to access them and share them with an audience.”

  “Quite right,” I murmured as I discreetly withdrew my hand. Stoker had not made so much as a sound, but I could sense his feelings as clearly as if he had climbed atop the green baize table and shouted them.

  Caspian was shaking his head mournfully. “It is difficult to entertain one’s dreams without the support of one’s family.”

  “Does your mother not approve?”

  A gentle smile touched his lips. “Well, Mama would approve anything I wanted, I believe. But she is nervous of the insecurity of the life of a player. There is so little that may be relied upon from one year to the next. This matters not at all to me,” he hastened to assure me, “but Mama wants a guarantee that I will not starve. That is why she insisted we come here,” he told me, pitching his voice quite low. “She wanted to secure Uncle Malcolm’s interest.”

  “His interest?”

  “In my well-being. As it stands, Uncle Malcolm is a traditionalist, just like my grandfather. Mertensia may be his sister, but I believe he will leave St. Maddern’s and all its encumbrances to me as the only male in the direct line. We both, Mama and I, thought it high time that he make a separate allowance to me as his heir beyond what he gives to Mama.”

  I thought of the raised voices, the passionate plea and the cool dismissal, and of Caspian’s certainty he would inherit. “And Malcolm refused?”

  Resentment darkened his eyes. “It is not unusual, you know. Most great estates make a formal allowance to the heir to permit him to establish his own household. A few hundred pounds a year would mean so little to Uncle Malcolm, but it would enable me to pursue my career upon the stage without worrying about taking bit parts and small, unworthy roles. Besides that,” he added smoothly, “there is the matter of a few insignificant debts of honor to be paid. But Uncle Malcolm wouldn’t hear of it. He said that playacting is beneath the dignity of the Romilly name and he would have no part in my making a career on the stage.”

  I blinked at the breathtaking arrogance of demanding money from a man he hardly knew simply because he existed, but Caspian Romilly was hardly to blame. His mother had cosseted and coddled him from birth, indulging his every fancy. Little wonder he had emerged from her tender care as feckless a creature as his father.

  “Very natural that you should have resented his refusal,” I said.

  He brightened. “Thank you! I thought so as well. So unreasonable of him,” he added with a petulant twist of his mouth. It was a pity about that mouth. It was an enchanting feature, fashioned for kissing, but his expressions frequently ruined it.

  I patted his hand. “Well, I can hardly think that the quarrel would have lasted. Doubtless Malcolm will come to his senses sooner or later. He is much distracted with this Rosamund business at present.”

  “Yes,” he said slowly. “I suppose that is true.” He brightened. “I should go and look in on Mama now. Thank you for a most interesting and entertaining hour,” he said, bowing neatly before taking his leave.

  “God, the young are so exhaustingly buoyant,” Stoker said as he emerged from the shadows of the corner where he had discreetly kept himself for the duration of the discussion.

  I looked at him curiously. “I presume you heard everything.”

  “My hearing is acute, you know that.” He took his cue and bent to line up the shot. He paused for the space of a heartbeat, then rammed the stick home, sinking the ball with a gentle click. He straightened. “You don’t really think the boy capable of murder?”

  “He isn’t a boy,” I reminded him. “He is eighteen, a man under the law. He only seems young because his mother has treated him like a new-lain egg.”

  “Of course, it is interesting to ponder,” Stoker said, stroking the blue-black shadow at his jaw.

  “What?”

  “Well, if Rosamund was murdered, that young man has a very strong motive.”

  “What leap of logic has led you into that morass of a conclusion?”

  “Simply this: he stands to inherit a significant fortune. You heard him. The Romillys have always held with the old customs. Under the principles of primogeniture, that fellow is next in line. Unless his uncle Malcolm fathers a child.”

  “Men have killed for less,” I agreed grudgingly. “But would he really murder his uncle’s bride just to preserve his place in the succession?”

  Stoker shrugged. “He might. We do not yet know enough of his character.”

  “We know some,” I replied. “He is passionate, resentful, impulsive—qualities
I rather like, if I am honest—and not entirely trustworthy when it comes to money, I suspect.”

  “I’ll grant you the first three, but how can you possibly know the last?”

  “Because the little blackguard still owes me a pound.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Without ever quite discussing it, we somehow found ourselves walking down to the village. The atmosphere of the house had become oppressive, and the late-morning weather had taken a turn for the dramatic, the sea winds whipping color into our cheeks and the falling temperature causing us to walk quickly, drawing in great drafts of fresh, brisk air.

  “That’s better,” Stoker said, breathing deeply.

  “The air here is different. Do you feel it?” I asked.

  He stopped and breathed again, slowly, savoring the salt-tinged scent. “It smells of the sea, like any island. And apples from the orchards. And something else, something cold and mineral, like flinty wine.”

  I nodded and we set off again. Something tight within my chest eased a little. We had a mystery to solve, and such a quest never failed to bring out the best in us. As the temperature dropped and the seas swelled, my mood rose, as did Stoker’s. He began to recite poetry as we walked, lines from Keats:

  Souls of Poets dead and gone,

  What Elysium have ye known,

  Happy field or mossy cavern,

  Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?