A Perilous Undertaking

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “And where did he get the notion that Miss Speedwell deserved it?” Stoker demanded with silky menace.

  Sir Rupert flushed delicately, just a hint of rose at the tips of his ears. “That was my fault, I am afraid. On the evening of Father’s funeral, we brothers gathered to toast him with the last of his Napoleon brandy. A toast to which you were invited,” he said pointedly to Stoker. “In any event, there were rather more bottles than we remembered, and we got through them all. At one point, I mentioned that your absence was possibly due to a previous engagement with Miss Speedwell. I might have further remarked that should I ever be offered the choice between drinking with my brothers and spending the evening in such charming company, I should not hesitate to choose the latter,” he added with a gallant nod towards me.

  Stoker made a sound of rank disbelief, but Sir Rupert continued. “Naturally, this led to questions on the part of both of our brothers, and when I attempted to describe Miss Speedwell, I fear I may have been overwarm in elucidating her charms.”

  I beamed at him. “Never mind, Sir Rupert. I understand entirely.”

  “So do I, Rip,” Stoker put in. “You were rat-arsed and no doubt made some highly vulgar observations which so inflamed Merry that he came round at the first opportunity to see Miss Speedwell for himself. He as much as insinuated she was my mistress,” he said flatly.

  Sir Rupert choked a little, sputtering out an apology.

  “Not at all,” I said graciously. “But Stoker’s recollection is not entirely accurate. Merryweather made no insinuation. He stated quite plainly that he was delighted to meet a ‘bad woman.’”

  Sir Rupert tossed back the last of his whiskey in a single go, shuddering as it went down. “I am heartily sorry for it.” He looked to Stoker. “He said you nearly whipped him, and I came to apologize to Miss Speedwell and give you a dressing-down, but I rather think I will thrash the little boil myself.”

  “Come now, Sir Rupert. Surely we can excuse him on the grounds of youthful high spirits. And if I am not prepared to hold a grudge, you cannot sustain one on my behalf.”

  “You are a truly gracious lady,” he told me, holding out his glass for another. He drank it while we made polite conversation about the state of affairs in Samoa—the Germans were threatening to assume control of the islands and cut off our rather lucrative trade there—the poor showing of the buddleias in his garden, and the imminent reopening of the Haymarket Theatre after its refurbishment.

  We talked until the clock struck the hour, at which point Sir Rupert leapt to his feet, rather less steadily than I had expected, exclaiming that he would be late for a dinner engagement. I walked him to the door while Stoker remained sprawled in his armchair, booted legs thrust out before him, a sullen expression on his face.

  At the door, Sir Rupert shook my hand warmly. “Very kind of you, Miss Speedwell. I say, there was something I meant to discuss with Revelstoke, but devil take me if I can remember what it was . . .” His brow furrowed.

  I hazarded a suggestion. “Did it have anything to do with your father’s estate?”

  “By Jove, yes!” he crowed. “You are a marvel, Miss Speedwell, it was indeed. But however did you guess?”

  “That was part of Mr. Merryweather’s mission as well.”

  “Ah. I daresay he was no more successful than I have been,” he said with a rueful smile. He pitched his voice low. “You have influence with him, you know. Stoker, I mean. I would be most appreciative if you would use it.”

  “Influence! My dear Sir Rupert, you are quite mistaken. We are colleagues and sometimes friends and we bicker like the proverbial cat and dog.”

  His smile was wistful. “If you say so, although I have observed something quite . . . different. It really would help most awfully if he would respond to the solicitors. Tiberius—that is to say, the new Lord Templeton-Vane—is growing restive, and we do not care for Tiberius to be restive,” he added with a shudder.

  Seeing Sir Rupert so deeply in his cups, I realized it would be taking the most unfair advantage of the situation to question him about Lord Templeton-Vane’s connection with the Elysian Grotto. Naturally, I wasted no time in doing so.

  I gave him my most winsome look. “I am curious about the new viscount,” I told him. “What sort of gentleman is he?”

  “Dictatorial,” he replied promptly. “Very much the eldest brother, bred to reign. He was badly spoilt as a child, and to his credit, he has grown out of much of that, but still he expects to be obeyed.”

  “A veritable Captain Bligh,” I suggested.

  “Oh, not as bad as that,” he hastened to correct. “But he can play the martinet. The trouble with Tiberius is that he feels his responsibilities quite keenly, and that can make him difficult.”

  “And is there a Lady Templeton-Vane?”

  He shook his head, staggered a moment, then righted himself. “Not at present. There was once, but the girl was no match for him. He only married her because she was the daughter of a duke, and he wanted to blue up the family blood even further. Much good it did him—the poor girl died within two years.”

  “And he has never remarried?”

  Sir Rupert shrugged. “He hasn’t the stomach for it. Mind you, he does like a pretty armful,” he said, then put his hand to his mouth, tugging his mustaches. “Oughtn’t to have said that. Do forgive me, Miss Speedwell.”

  “Not at all, Sir Rupert. We are, after all, adults. Surely we can discuss such things without embarrassment. It would be most surprising if a man of Lord Templeton-Vane’s standing did not amuse himself. Tell me, are his amusements always of the conventional sort, or does he indulge in more esoteric pursuits?”

  “Esoteric? You mean like philately?” he asked, furrowing his brows.

  “No, Sir Rupert, I mean like orgies.”

  He sputtered, his eyes going so wide I could see the whites surrounding his pupils. “My dear Miss Speedwell! The very thought— Pardon me, I believe I am going to be unwell.”

  He was lavishly sick behind the nearest bit of shrubbery, returning with a handkerchief pressed to his mouth. “I think I had better take my leave of you, Miss Speedwell,” he said with an air of apology. He wore the same expression Huxley did when he had rolled in something unspeakable in the garden.

  “Are you quite all right to see yourself home, Sir Rupert?”

  He raised a hand. “Quite. The fresh air will no doubt do me good,” he assured me as he rallied. He donned his hat and thumped the brim with a jaunty gesture. “Fare thee well, Miss Speedwell!” he cried as he strolled away, only bumping into one or two bits of shrubbery on his way.

  Naturally, when I returned to the Belvedere I did not approach Stoker directly on the subject of his father’s estate. It has been my experience in dealing with the male of the species that the easiest way to get one to do as you wish is to encourage him to do precisely the opposite.

  “I think you are quite right to ignore your family’s imprecations,” I began as I settled to a tray of dejected-looking Sphingidae.

  Stoker had been reading the newspaper, but he lowered it just enough to peer suspiciously over the edge. “Do you indeed?”

  “Certainly. You’ve had no cause to be answerable to them for years. Why bother now? In fact, you ought to throw any further missives straight onto the fire without reading them.”

  He snorted. “You are transparent as glass, Veronica.”

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  He laid the paper aside and rose to his feet, coming to stand at my elbow. I did not look up from my moths. “I mean that you think you can twist me round like those insipid lovers of yours.”

  I reared back. “They were not insipid! Do give me a little credit, Stoker. I would never conduct an affair with a fellow who could lay claim to that word.”

  He folded his arms over the breadth of his chest. “Very well. What word wo
uld you use to describe men who can be bullied by a woman?”

  I thrust back my chair, standing toe to toe with him. “I am not a bully.”

  “Of course you are,” he said blandly. “You use the force of your personality to get your own way regardless of what other people may want.”

  “That is preposterous. I absolutely do not. I never have.”

  He began to tick off his fingers. “You involved me in investigating the murder of the baron,” he said.

  “You abducted me because you thought I had had him murdered!” I protested. “I think the fault of that investigation may be laid squarely at your feet.”

  “You were the one who would not turn loose of the thing,” he reminded me. “You got your way about persuading Lord Rosemorran to mount an expedition to Fiji instead of Africa when you knew I preferred the Congo.” He continued in this vein, counting off a dozen other instances while I stood by in affected boredom.

  “Are you quite finished?” I asked icily when he paused to draw breath.

  “Finished? I have merely scratched the surface.”

  “Indeed? Well, if I am to blame for those crimes, your hands are plenty dirty as well,” I countered.

  “The devil they are!”

  I began a litany of my own. “You abducted me and forced me to live in a traveling show,” I told him. “You decided it was time to begin remounting specimens in this collection when the catalog is nowhere near to completion, simply because you don’t like ‘busywork,’ as you call it.” I rattled through a dozen or more complaints of my own as we moved closer to each other, venting our mutual frustrations in a heated discussion of our various deficiencies. I called into question his hygiene, his morality, and his scientific methods. He baldly stated that my own moral standards would bear no scrutiny whilst my intellectual rigor wouldn’t do credit to a child of nine.

  In all, it was a most excellent quarrel—clearing the air and giving us both the opportunity to vent a little spleen. When the dust had settled and we were feeling more in temper with one another, Stoker gave me a thoughtful look.

  “So what did Rupert tell you about Tiberius?”

  I did not bother to ask how he knew I had prodded Sir Rupert about the viscount. Though our acquaintance was of relatively brief duration, we shared a sort of mental shorthand I had never enjoyed with anyone before. It was an odd trick of his that he could often anticipate my movements or motives, but as I could do the same in return, I was not overly discomfited.

  “Nothing of significance. I introduced the subject of Lord Templeton-Vane possibly enjoying orgies. It did not prove fruitful.”

  Stoker’s mouth quivered as if he were suppressing the urge to laugh. “I should think not. What did he say?”

  “Not much. He was too busy sicking up his whiskey into the shrubbery.”

  Stoker swore. “That’s the last time I waste good single malt on him.”

  I sighed and stretched. “It has been a very full day.”

  “And not entirely unproductive,” he agreed.

  “Anyone would say we had gone above and beyond what could be expected of us,” I said.

  “We have.”

  “So, we are going out tonight?”

  “Certainly. I presume you want to go back to Littledown and see if we can gain access to the house itself? Or did you think to have another bash at searching Gilchrist’s room at Havelock House? He might be out tonight.”

  “Neither.” I paused and let him make the leap of logic for himself.

  “Veronica, no,” he said flatly.

  “We have no choice. It is a possible lead and we must follow it.”

  “It is not a lead,” he retorted. “It is you trying to meddle in my family business.”

  “Which would not be justified at all if it weren’t for the fact that the name Tiberius Templeton-Vane appears in the ledger kept by Miles Ramsforth.” I clapped him hard on the shoulder. “Chin up, Stoker. I shouldn’t ask it of you if a man’s life didn’t hang in the balance, but it does. Besides,” I added with an attempt at wide-eyed innocence, “if you don’t go, I shall be forced to conclude that you are simply afraid to face your eldest brother.”

  The next few minutes were an exercise in profanity for Stoker. I let him rattle on as I mentally composed a list of the butterflies I had yet to capture. I had just reached Greta oto, the Glasswing, when he at last wound down.

  “Finished?” I asked brightly. “Now, you say his lordship is a theater aficionado. It is not possible he would miss the opening night of the Haymarket. We can purchase late tickets for the stalls. We will dress ourselves properly and go and drink champagne, and we will ‘happen’ to cross paths with your eldest brother. He has been so eager to speak with you, he will certainly wish to engage in a little tête-á-tête, and that is when we will question him about the Elysian Grotto.”

  “A pointless exercise,” Stoker said, grinding the words out through clenched jaws. “The ledger shows he has not been there in some months.”

  I gave him a long, level stare. “We did not have the opportunity to inspect the last page, so we cannot say that with absolute certainty. Besides that, Revelstoke Templeton-Vane, I refuse to believe you are willing to let a man hang because you do not wish to speak to your brother.”

  He grunted a little but said nothing intelligible, and I knew the battle was won.

  “We must leave no stone unturned, and if this is unpleasant for you, I am sorry for it.”

  He rolled his eyes. “This entire investigation has been nothing but unpleasant for me. You have been swanning about with princesses while I am stripped naked and served up to Emma Talbot like a suckling pig.”

  “Next time I shall be sure to put an apple in your mouth and a nice rope of parsley about your neck. Now, hurry up and change. We haven’t much time,” I instructed.

  My little pricks and prods had not goaded him to agree, that much I knew. Stoker could be immovable as the earth when he chose. It was the reminder that Miles Ramsforth might hang for a crime he did not commit. Whatever his other faults, Stoker was a just man, and the notion of some villain using Ramsforth as a pawn galled him as it did me.

  • • •

  Ipossessed exactly one gown suitable for attending the theater—a simply cut but rather striking violet satin—and after bullying Stoker into agreement, I hurried to my own little abode to perform my toilette. Mrs. Bascombe made me a loan of one of the housemaids, Minnie, for my preparations, and she arrived with an arsenal of feminine weapons. She was desperate to better herself and train for a lady’s maid, and Mrs. Bascombe thought it far more suitable for her to practice upon me than the ladies of the family. For her part, Minnie was so grateful for the opportunity that she applied herself with real missionary zeal to the task. She dressed my hair simply, forgoing the usual frizzing irons and pads of supplementary curls in favor of piling my own black tresses loosely upon my head, securing them with a stunning number of discreetly hidden pins.

  I had already rubbed my face and décolletage with my favorite cold cream of roses and applied a bit of French scent, but Minnie gilded the lily, powdering me lavishly to make my skin glow like a pearl. She touched my lips lightly with a rosy-pink paint of her own concoction, adding a little to the apples of each cheek and blending it all so skillfully that it looked as if it owed the entirety of its charm to nature rather than artifice. A little clever work with a pencil-thin stick of kohl and her ministrations were complete. After torturing me into a proper corset, she laced me into my violet silk evening gown, pulling the ribbons as tightly as she could to whittle my waist and thrust my bosom skyward. The effect was decidedly voluptuous, and I remembered again why I loathed fashionable undergarments. During my working hours I favored a simple underbodice that permitted great range of movement and spontaneity, but for evening wear, there was no escaping a formal corset with all its attendant limita
tions. The result was to make of me a sort of helpless doll, with a slip of a waist and the rest so curvaceous it was very nearly indecent.

  “These clothes are utterly irrational,” I muttered.

  “But they make you look ever so lovely,” she breathed.

  I smiled and fetched her a banknote from my reticule which she thrust into her pocket.

  Minnie stared at me, aghast. “You have not put on your jewels!”

  “I have no jewels,” I told her.

  She went white to the lips. “You cannot go in public in the evening without jewels. Everyone will think you are poor!”

  “She will be unique,” said Lady Wellingtonia as she entered without ceremony. “Every other woman will be freighted with diamonds. Miss Speedwell has not a single adornment, and for that reason, she will stand out amongst them.”

  Lady Wellingtonia moved closer, looking me over from head to toe with a long, measured glance. “Very effective, my dear. Do forgive me coming without invitation, but I heard Mrs. Bascombe telling Minnie you were going to the theater tonight and I wanted to bring you a little something.”

  She reached into her pocket for a box, handing it over with a reverent gesture. “A loan,” she said, stressing the word. “I carried it once at a ball at Buckingham Palace,” she added. I opened the box to find a fan nestled in folded tissue. As I lifted it free, Minnie gave a rapturous little sigh, regarding the fan as an acolyte might a holy relic, and Lady Wellingtonia stood by with a small smile playing about her lips.

  I opened the fan. The sticks and guards were of finely carved ebony, and rather than the expected leaf of silk pleated between, this fan was composed of a line of black goose feathers, so smooth they had been painted with a luscious scene of Pygmalion and Galatea. The artist had captured the pair just at the moment that Pygmalion kissed his ripe creation, his roving hands coaxing her to pink-hued life. I thought of Frederick Havelock’s compliment and smiled to myself at the aptness of Lady Wellingtonia’s loan.