A Perilous Undertaking

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  He shook his head. “No, you do not. Because you have never given your heart to anyone.”

  I smiled, a small wry smile. “How can you know that?”

  “Because for all your winsome ways, sweet child, there is something untouched about you.”

  “Would it shock you to know that I am no virgin, Sir Frederick?”

  “I wasn’t speaking of your body,” he replied. “Did I not just tell you? Bodies are quite insignificant. The soul is a thing apart. When you decide to share that with someone, then you will know what it is to live.”

  I shifted on the little sofa. “We were talking about your affairs, not mine,” I reminded him gently. I made to remove my hand, but he clasped it awkwardly with his.

  “Sit with me awhile longer. It has been a long time since I held a woman’s hand so sweetly and smelt her perfume. I am an old man now,” he added with a slow smile. “I can do you no harm.”

  I did as he asked, leaving my hand tucked into his and wondering just how much harm he might already have done me.

  • • •

  As soon as I could effect a graceful exit, I left Sir Frederick. I realized with some annoyance that I had not questioned him about Julian Gilchrist’s attendance at the grotto entertainments or Artemisia’s, although their visits had occurred some time later than his last. There was something about his presence, a compelling trick of the personality, that made it quite difficult to keep to whatever plan I had formed. I liked the old fellow, but more than that, I felt the strength of his magnetism, the power of the man. I could not imagine what a force of nature he must have been in his younger days, but once away from him, it was easy to curse my own shortcomings.

  I had in mind to search Julian Gilchrist’s room but decided to look in on Stoker first. I found him alone in Miss Talbot’s rooms, passing the lady as she left. She was in a fine pet, swearing inventively at the interruption and giving me only a cursory grunt. I slipped into her studio to find Stoker draped in a velvet cloak that enveloped him from head to heels.

  “Whatever are you wearing?” I demanded. “That is hardly heroic enough to depict Perseus. I’d rather think you were a very unfortunate-looking vestal virgin.”

  He pulled a face. “It is bloody cold in here and Miss Talbot told me I could warm up while she went to fetch a fresh lot of charcoal. What have you been about?”

  I sketched my conversations with Sir Frederick as swiftly as I could, naturally omitting his observations about my own romantic inclinations.

  “So, he makes no bones about being a member of the grotto,” I concluded.

  “He is a reprobate,” Stoker said flatly.

  I said nothing but gave him a look which made him blush to his toes.

  “Very well. I have no claim on the pinnacle of morality upon that score,” he admitted.

  “There is more,” I said quickly, not wishing to open that particular basket of eels.

  I told him about Sir Frederick getting around with the aid of sticks rather than his Bath chair. “It seems he is a bit more robust than we originally believed,” I finished. “Do you think he could have done it?”

  I hardly liked to pose the question, but it deserved consideration. He shrugged. “Most things are possible, particularly in the grip of strong emotion. I could engage in a little pleasant homicide myself about now,” he added with a touch of bitterness.

  “What ails you, Stoker?” I demanded. “You are sullen as a debutante no one has asked to dance.”

  He gestured to his draperies. “This! You are off cavorting with murder suspects while I am locked up here with a woman who handles me like a fresh bit of beefsteak.”

  I gave him a severe look. “You are supposed to be investigating her,” I reminded him.

  “Bloody difficult when she will not let me speak,” he retorted.

  “Whyever not?”

  He flapped an impatient hand. “Something to do with my expression. She wants heroic and noble suffering, and apparently I cannot sustain it if I am chatting casually about the weather. She will not permit me to utter a word once she has posed me.”

  “Bad luck,” I sympathized. “But she must allow you time to stretch your muscles. Perhaps you could fake a cramp of some sort. Tell her you have a rheumatism,” I suggested.

  “A rheumatism? I am thirty-one,” he said in an aggrieved tone. “Hardly in my dotage.”

  “I should say,” came a voice from the doorway. I had not noticed Miss Talbot’s return, and I hoped she had not overlistened to our conversation. But her manner was perfectly composed, merely a little distracted with that air I had often seen in artists—a trick of appearing to be listening to music only they could hear. She bustled forward, clutching a handful of charcoal.

  “Found it. That fool Gilchrist helped himself to the last of mine and thought I wouldn’t notice,” she muttered. She gestured towards Stoker. “Back into place, please. That is the better part of ten minutes lost.”

  Stoker resumed his position upon the plinth in the center of the room and she fidgeted with him, turning his limbs this way and that as if he were a manikin. There was a sword for one hand and a gruesome wax head for the other. The last was a nod to Medusa, the vanquished Gorgon whose death at Perseus’ hands was his finest accomplishment.

  Miss Talbot circled Stoker, stopping occasionally to adjust the angle of his head. “The head must be right, then all else will follow,” she said, more to herself than either of us. She paused and considered him, then gestured for me to come forward. “The line of the throat is quite good, don’t you think?” She did not wait for me to reply. “I have been working the better part of five years on my series of Greek heroes, and I am lacking only a Perseus. You’ve no idea how long I have searched for that perfect marriage of towering masculine strength and noble suffering united in one form,” Miss Talbot said. Poor Stoker looked entirely hunted.

  “How very kind. But why exactly is Perseus suffering? He defeated Medusa, did he not? And rather quickly, if memory serves.”

  “But at what cost?” she returned, warming to her theme. She moved to where Stoker stood, stroking his muscles as she talked. “You must remember he was a prince of Argos, conceived in a golden shower when Zeus bestowed his attentions upon the beautiful Princess Danaë against the wishes of her father, the brutal Acrisius. Imagine the scene, the angry king, locking his own daughter and grandchild into a wooden chest and hurling them into the sea so that the ancient prophecy of his own death at the hands of his grandson could not bear fruit. How long did poor Danaë and her child suffer, tossed upon the waves, fearing death at any moment, until their safe delivery onto the shores of Serifos? Such suffering must be writ in the face, do you not see it?”

  “Oh, of course,” Stoker temporized.

  The artist continued her raptures. “Imagine him, graceful and lithe—for he was after all the son of Zeus—tasked by another jealous king with retrieving the head of Medusa. Think of him, knowing that he will likely never see his home and his family again, pitting himself against the horrors of the Gorgon cave and the monster that waits at the heart of it. Oh, I can picture it so clearly!”

  She adjusted the drape of the cloak, baring Stoker’s arm, her hand clenching as she prodded the muscle beneath the tattooed skin. “Such development of the biceps,” she murmured.

  “It seems a pity that the piece will not be seen in its proper setting,” I said casually. “At least not by the man who inspired the collection.”

  For a moment I thought she had not heard me, lost as she was in her art. But her fingers tightened on the cape, marking the velvet. She turned, her face very white. “Miss Speedwell, I appreciate that you want to help. But what the princess has asked of you is an act of cruelty.”

  “Is it cruelty to save a man from the gallows?” Stoker asked without moving his head.

  Her small hands curled into fists. “It
is cruelty to think you can,” she countered, her voice suddenly harsh. “Miles Ramsforth is going to hang. Everyone who knew and cared about him has made their peace with it. Why can’t Loosy?”

  “Because she does not believe he is guilty. Surely there is room for doubt?” I suggested.

  “Doubt?” Her grey eyes were bleak. “This is merely theory to you, so many pieces moving about the board on squares of black and white, an academic exercise to test your own cleverness. But there are lives at stake, real lives of no consequence to you.” Her posture was brittle, as if a single touch of a finger would shatter her to pieces.

  “Miss Talbot,” Stoker said, stepping from the plinth. “If you know anything that can help—”

  “I know nothing!” she cried. “But the law has found him guilty. Who are we to say they are wrong?”

  “They have been wrong before,” I told her. “Why are you so certain Miles Ramsforth is guilty?”

  She pressed her lips together and made no reply.

  “Miss Talbot, what do you know?” Stoker urged again.

  She smoothed the front of her skirt and folded back her cuffs with maddening precision. “I know that the law has said Miles Ramsforth is going to hang. And no one in heaven or on earth can stop it.”

  She took up her charcoal in a steady hand. “Resume your pose, Mr. Templeton-Vane, please.”

  Stoker gave her a long, level look, then did as she asked. He flicked me a glance, and I answered with a single shake of the head. There was no point in prolonging the interview. The opportunity for confidences was past.

  I went to the door. “I’ve no wish to intrude upon your process. I will leave you to it.”

  “Good,” she said. She had turned back to her work before the door even closed behind me. I stood with my back against it, breathing quite rapidly for some minutes before I collected myself.

  CHAPTER

  15

  Isped to Julian Gilchrist’s room on silent feet. I rapped lightly but received no reply. Holding my breath, I eased open the door and slipped inside. The windows were undraped and the room enjoyed excellent light, great shafts of it illuminating dancing motes of dust. This chamber had clearly escaped a housemaid’s touch, and I wondered if the cleaning of it had fallen to Cherry. There was a bed in one corner, unmade and bearing the unmistakable traces of recent congress. I could smell the salty tang of sweat and something rather more intimate in the air, and I saw where a damp patch darkened the sheet. Wrinkling my nose with distaste, I slowly made a tour of the room, passing by a collection of canvases to peer at the narrow shelf of books. There were only a few volumes and all upon the subject of art, I realized as I lifted them each and ruffled through the pages.

  Just as I replaced the last book, I heard the creaking of a floorboard. I whirled, realizing with a leap of the heart that I was not alone. A solid figure stood in the doorway, silent and shadowy, and it took a moment to realize it was Mr. Gilchrist. He made no move to enter, but stood as if deciding how to proceed.

  Always believing that the most effective retreat is couched as attack, I strode forward. “Mr. Gilchrist, I believe? Yes, of course. Our paths crossed the other evening here, although I doubt you will remember it. I hope you will forgive the intrusion, but I must have got quite lost. Is this your room?” I widened my eyes innocently and held my hand out expectantly. It hung in the air between us for a long moment before he shook it, almost against his will, it seemed. His hand engulfed mine in a hot, damp clasp.

  “Miss Speedwell, is it not? How very unexpected,” he murmured. He held my hand a long moment, searching my face with his gaze. He seemed to make a sudden decision, for he moved past me, still holding my hand, pulling me further into the room and closing the door. “Come. I want to show you something.” He gestured towards his pictures. “Look at them and tell me what you think,” he urged.

  From the collection of canvases, I deduced that Mr. Gilchrist was strictly a portraitist. His paintings were severely restricted to depictions of ladies from the shoulders up, all the same size and all wearing almost identical expressions of rapture. I stepped to the nearest one and examined it in the light. It was of a blond woman, not so many years past thirty, I guessed, her shoulders wrapped in a cloud of green silk that brought something lively to her brown eyes. Her skin was suffused with a delicate tint of rose, flushed from some exertion, while a damp curl trailed over one bare shoulder. It required little imagination to guess what she had been doing just before that portrait was painted, and I threw him a reproachful look.

  “Really, Mr. Gilchrist,” I said with a touch of asperity. “I know the lady. She is wife to the director of the Royal Museum of Natural History and a very respectable mother of four.”

  “Not that respectable,” he said demurely.

  I wagged a finger in mock severity. “Do not bother to pretend you are abashed. I do not believe you.”

  A slow smile spread across his features. His smile was that of one of the lesser angels, the naughty sort who might have pulled Lucifer’s curls or poked Saint Peter with a pin.

  “Very well. Yes. I had her just before I painted that. Twice.”

  I gestured to the rest of the paintings. “Have you had all of them?”

  He spread his hands as if to demonstrate his innocence. “No. Only most.” I shook my head severely, but his expression turned earnest. “It is hardly my fault, Miss Speedwell! I am commissioned by their husbands and fathers to paint them, to make them goddesses, immortalized upon canvas for eternity. For the society beauty, nothing could be simpler. She is certain of herself, secure in her own unassailable charms. So I simply find a flaw, a nose I claim is a shade too long or a chin too pointed. Suddenly the lady is uncertain, timorous, and since I am the one who made her so, only I can restore her confidence. I compliment her on something no one else has ever noticed. The shell-like ear, so delicate and tender. The line of her neck, arched like a swan’s. And they blossom like flowers.”

  “And the plain ones?” I asked.

  The slow, lazy smile showed itself once more. “Even simpler. They are unaccustomed to being called beautiful, and they would suspect me at once if I were so clumsy. So I coax them, slowly, ever so slowly. I tell them how relaxed I am with them, and because I am at my ease, so are they. Then I tell them that I am having trouble mixing just the right color for the eyes because I have never seen such a color before. But wait! I have seen it,” he said with a flourish. “In a flash of sunlight upon a sapphire sea, or in the dappled green of a forest glen, or the rich silken fur of a sable’s pelt.”

  I snorted. “And this works?”

  “Like a clockwork machine,” he assured me. “Fair or plain, a woman must be complimented upon something she believes she possesses but no one else has ever noticed. That tells her that you alone see her for who she truly is. And then she is yours.”

  He took a step closer, and now I caught the warm smell of bed sport clinging to his skin, the damp perfume of mingled limbs. I wondered with whom he had been frolicking recently.

  But his thoughts were elsewhere. “Do you know what I would compliment about you, Miss Speedwell?” he asked in a subtle, silvery tone.

  “No. Do tell me,” I instructed.

  He came nearer still, his lips almost brushing the curve of my ear. “Nothing.”

  I raised a brow. “Indeed?”

  He lifted a fingertip to almost but not quite stroke the line of my jaw. “Every other man who has seen you would remark upon those eyes. Violet eyes are too rare and jewel-like to go unmentioned. What man could resist the temptation? And those lips, so lush and ripe for kissing, like a pair of cherries, plump against the tongue.” His gaze lingered on each feature as he spoke. “And I should not compliment you upon your wit. You are far too clever not to know your own intelligence. You are intrepid and indefatigable, so I should not remark upon those qualities you so prize in yourself,” he a
dded, almost as an afterthought. He circled slowly around me, scrutinizing me from the tips of my boots to the crown of my hat. He came behind, to the other ear, and this time his lips did touch me, the brush of them against my lobe almost indistinguishable from the whisper of warm breath as he spoke. “No, indeed, Miss Speedwell, I should compliment you upon one thing only—your utterly incomparable curiosity.” He snapped his teeth upon the last word, nearly catching my lobe as he finished with a deep, wolfish growl.

  His arm crept about my waist, tightening just enough to pull me against him, his chest pressing against my back so I could feel the deep inhalation as he buried his nose in my hair. He gave a groan. “You smell of roses and spices and something more,” he murmured, his lips roaming from my securely pinned locks to the nape of my neck. “Warm honey, I think. I am dizzy with the scent of it,” he whispered, twisting one curl about his finger and tugging it free.

  “And I am appalled that you would make overtures to me when your sheets are still wet from your exertions with another woman, but I admire the effort,” I told him, neatly eluding his embrace. He dropped his arm, staring at me in astonishment as I repinned the lock he had loosened.

  His gaze narrowed in annoyance, but I was having none of it. “Come now, Mr. Gilchrist, do not sulk. I am certain your tricks are often successful, but I have rather more experience of seduction than you, and I can spot a stratagem at thirty paces.”

  His expression was mulish. “What gave me away?”

  I gave him a pitying smile. “When a man truly wants a woman, he finds it difficult to hide. And some parts of him are quite impossible to conceal,” I added with a meaningful look to the flat front of his trousers.

  He was still sputtering when I left him.

  • • •

  Iclosed the door of Mr. Gilchrist’s room behind me and descended the stairs, putting as much distance between us as I could. I had noticed a small cupboard fitted under the stairs, perfect for the hanging of coats and storing of umbrellas—and the most opportune place to keep a cloak one had worn during the doing of a nefarious deed, I decided. It took me less than a minute to find it. Someone had hid it beneath a bright green greatcoat and an ulster. I dove for it with an exclamation of glee. I had brought the scrap Huxley had secured, and it was the work of a moment to match the piece to the ragged hem left behind. I peered closer and saw a single gilt hair inside the hood, one of Julian Gilchrist’s bright golden threads, I realized with a rush of satisfaction.