“Such boldness! Just when I thought I could not admire you more, Miss Speedwell,” he said, favoring me with a smile. “No, I did not. My wife, as it happens, was a thoroughly conventional and distinctly unlovable woman chosen for me by my father. A woman like you would be a different story altogether.” His gaze lingered on my décolletage a moment longer than propriety would allow.
Stoker recalled him sharply. “Did Havelock pursue anyone at the grotto? Have any entanglements of note?”
“No. He came once or twice a year and that was all. Just enough to amuse himself.”
“Did Ottilie Ramsforth ever appear at these entertainments?”
“Heavens, no!” His lordship seemed genuinely shocked at the idea. “Have you met her? Eyes only for her lord and master. She is the very last woman I should expect to engage in such frivolities. To be perfectly frank, I was quite surprised that she proved so willing to turn a blind eye to them. But she is that rarest and most tragic of creatures, a woman selflessly in love with her own husband.”
“What about Artemisia’s relationship with Ramsforth?” I asked. “How would you characterize it?”
He considered this a long moment. “Loving. They seemed sincerely attached. In fact, after Artemisia expressed her distaste for the affairs, Ramsforth closed the grotto to group activities in deference to her wishes.”
I pricked up my ears at this new bit of information. “Does that mean he did not go there again?”
He shrugged. “You would have to ask him. I know invitations were no longer forthcoming, and when I asked, he said it was down to her influence and that only private visits were permitted. He told me he would put the grotto at my disposal, but I found my interest in the place had waned. I was content to let the thing go. If nothing else, it had gotten devilishly expensive.”
“Expensive?” Stoker inquired.
“Ramsforth charged admission, a sort of subscription fee,” his brother explained. “Rumor has it he worked his way through most of the Troyon money Ottilie brought to the marriage in rebuilding Littledown. And he was always careful to hire professionals from the very best brothels in London. That sort do not come cheaply.”
“You mean he wasn’t bringing in the milkmaid or the footman at Littledown for a bit of sport?” I asked.
The viscount’s expression was one of naked horror. “God forbid! No, he only engaged professionals. He did not believe in corrupting those who were not already working in the intimate trades,” he said firmly. “There is such a thing as honor amongst debauchees, you know. Besides, a professional will keep quiet about such things. Money buys discretion.”
“One thing more, if you do not mind?”
His lordship leveled his gaze at me. “For you, my dear Miss Speedwell, I have all the time in the world.”
Stoker made a noise of disgust, but we both ignored him. “We were sent a key to the Elysian Grotto,” I told the viscount. “It was posted to us anonymously, we can only assume by a benefactor. Did you send it?”
He opened the drawer of his desk and drew out a key that matched ours in every particular. “I am, as you see, still in possession of mine. Ramsforth neglected to ask for it back after he stopped hosting entertainments. You are welcome to take it if it helps.”
I could not imagine how it would, but I took it anyway, thanking the viscount for his generosity.
I looked to Stoker. “I think we have learned all we can from his lordship.”
He nodded slowly, and the viscount rose with the air of a man liberated. He rubbed his hands together. “In that case, supper.”
CHAPTER
18
Supper with his lordship was a strained affair. Stoker was clearly regretting the fact that I had accepted his brother’s invitation. He said almost nothing over the meal, while the viscount and I discussed the theater and butterflies and my travels.
“I envy you,” he said at one point as he refilled my glass of wine. “I have always longed to travel, but my responsibilities here never permitted.”
He did not look at his brother as he spoke, but I knew Stoker felt the thrust of it. The tension in the air thickened, and for a moment, silence hung between them. I waited, hoping they would finally have the brawl they needed to thrash out whatever resentments still simmered, but neither spoke. Was that the root of it all then? An elder brother’s jealousy that his younger sibling could evade responsibility? It seemed possible but unlikely. In the same vein, I knew full well that Stoker did not begrudge his brother the title or the obligations carried with it. He had no ambition to wear a coronet and sit in the House of Lords. The very notion of Stoker engaged in such conventional activities was laughable. And looking at the urbane and polished appearance of the viscount, I could hardly credit the fact that he might covet the freedom of a brother who had returned to England sporting tattoos and pierced lobes with his eye patch.
As the silence stretched on, I decided to take charge. I rose, and both of them leapt to their feet. Whatever their differences, they shared the rigid upbringing of aristocratic Englishmen and all its reflexive courtesies.
“It grows late,” I told the viscount. “I think it is time we took our leave.”
He shot a glance to his brother. “Certainly. But, Revelstoke, you and I still have business to discuss.”
“Later,” Stoker said in a flat tone that brooked no argument.
But his lordship was not cowed. “So you have said. Repeatedly. I want you to meet with the solicitors so we can finish settling Father’s estate.”
“Later,” Stoker repeated.
“I want your oath on it,” the viscount said, giving him a level look. “For all your sins, your word is still worth something.”
“My word as a Templeton-Vane?” Stoker asked. His smile was thin and malicious. “Very well. You have my word I will meet with them. As a Templeton-Vane.”
He turned on his heel and strode from the room. The viscount watched him leave, then turned to me.
“Yours is an unusual friendship,” he observed.
“It is only a friendship, my lord,” I said, choosing my words carefully. “I assure you, I am no threat to the Templeton-Vanes.”
His only reply was the return of his enigmatic gaze.
“It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my lord,” I said, rather surprised to find I told the truth.
The corners of his mouth quirked up slightly. “I am not quite the martinet you expected?”
“Not quite,” I acknowledged.
He kept hold of my hand. “You have surprised me as well, Miss Speedwell. From Rupert’s description—well, that does not bear remembering. Suffice it to say that I have not enjoyed an evening this much in a very long time. And—” He paused, studying my hand a moment as it lay in his, my smaller palm flat against his smooth, broad one. He put his other fingertip to the back of my hand, stroking it with such practiced precision that it sent a frisson of something dark and hot to the depths of my spine. “I hope you will feel free to call whenever you wish. If you wait for Revelstoke to bring you, it will be a frosty day in the netherworld.”
“Perhaps,” I said.
He smiled, a slightly predatory smile that was nonetheless charming. With infinite slowness and care, he bent and brushed his lips to the back of my hand.
“Until the next time, Miss Speedwell.”
“My lord.”
• • •
Stoker said nothing until we were outside on the pavement. As soon as I appeared, he began to walk very quickly, his long-legged strides eating up the ground. I made no attempt to match his pace. He was clearly in a pet, and I was perfectly capable of seeing myself home.
But Stoker was far too well-bred for such a thing, and by the end of the block, he slowed to match my steps.
“I ought not to have sent the Beauclerk carriage on its way. Oxford is the next street.
We can easily find a cab there.”
“And just beyond is Marylebone. It is a fine night. Let us walk instead.”
He gave a brisk nod, and we crossed the street, passing through the bright lights and congestion of Oxford Street into the relative quiet of neighboring Marylebone.
“I was very interested to hear that Miles Ramsforth was in need of money,” I told him. “Does it suggest anything to you?”
He was in no mood to talk, but his agile and curious brain could never resist a challenge. “Of course,” he said shortly. “Blackmail.”
“Exactly. If Miles Ramsforth used his ledger to blackmail someone, they might very well be interested in seeing him hang for a murder he did not commit.”
“And Artemisia would not have been a victim so much as a pawn,” he added.
“Quite. Which puts rather a different spin on things.”
“How do you reason?” he asked, slipping his hand under my elbow to guide me around a puddle.
“Killing her in the heat of the moment is a crime of passion, of desperation or anger or jealousy. But killing her in cold blood in order to make Miles pay the price for it—that requires a chilling sort of detachment.”
“And there are any number of suspects whose names appear in that book,” he groaned.
I cursed our bad luck in losing the ledger. “I don’t imagine there is any hope of recovering it if we went back to search?” My tone was hopeful, but I knew the futility of it before I asked.
“The watchman would have had more than enough time to recover it at his leisure.”
“Blast,” I muttered.
“Indeed. We shall simply have to try another avenue,” he said. We fell silent then, making our way through the shadows of Marylebone towards Bishop’s Folly.
“Were you surprised?” I ventured. “About what your brother hinted about the entertainments? Orgies and riding crops and such? Do you think there were men with other men and women with other women?”
“Veronica. We do not need to discuss this.”
His profile was set, his steps dogged. I gave him a kindly look. “Are you confused by the process? I am happy to offer a little elaboration. You see, when a man prefers the company of other men—”
“For the love of Christ, Veronica, I know about poofters! I was in the navy, for God’s sake.”
“Poofters? Did you have so many that you had to devise a name for them?” I inquired.
He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “It is what most people call them.”
“Sounds rather pejorative,” I mused.
“It is the best of a bad lot,” he admitted. “Would you prefer ‘Sodomites’?”
“Hardly. That smacks of Evangelicalism, and you know my feelings on forcible religion,” I reminded him.
He gave a sigh of resignation. “There were such fellows in the navy,” he told me. “We didn’t discuss it. They don’t hang men for it anymore, but it can still get you ten years’ imprisonment. Some of the Continental navies are different—such things are done openly—but in Her Majesty’s fleet, there was a veneer of propriety.”
“Everything belowdecks and sub rosa?” I guessed.
“Exactly. People behave quite differently during a long haul at sea than they might at home.”
“But there are fellows who always prefer the company of other men,” I reminded him. “It seems terribly hypocritical to condemn them for a little discreet buggery when children are still starving in coal mines.” I tipped my head. “Stoker, when you were in the navy, did you ever—”
“Yes. Once a day and twice on Sundays.”
I stared at him in open-mouthed astonishment before he broke into laughter, so rare a sound for him, I almost did not recognize it.
“My God, your face,” he managed, wiping his eyes.
I pursed my lips. “I assure you, I was far more shocked by your candor than the notion of you indulging in the erotic arts with a member of your own sex.”
He sobered, but a wicked glint still lingered in his eyes. “No, Veronica, I did not. But for those who did, it was none of my affair. Still isn’t, for that matter. I do not much care for your habit of prying into other people’s bedrooms,” he added in mock severity.
I shrugged. “That is where they keep the most interesting secrets.”
He cocked his head. “Well, since we are peeking behind the boudoir door, as it were, have you ever sampled the Sapphic pleasures?”
“What a question!” I pronounced.
“It was a shot in the dark,” he said, nearly choking, “but you’ve gone quite pink. Our artist friends would call the hue cuisse de nymphe èmue.”
“Thigh of an aroused nymph?” I asked in a voice rather unlike my own.
“Yes,” he told me, clearly relishing the moment. “It is meant to suggest the sweetly rosy blush of the flesh when a woman is in the throes of sexual excitement. Apropos in light of our discussion—and the question which I should like to note you have pointedly not answered.”
He folded his arms over his chest and waited, his eyes bright with an unholy light.
I gave him a brisk nod. “Very well. There was a Sardinian shepherdess once. Very buxom, with pillowy lips and eyes like sloes. I kissed her—and that is all that I did. Purely out of scientific curiosity.”
“Scientific curiosity? How so?” he demanded.
“Because I had just lain with her twin brother and wondered if they shared a similar technique.” I put a pointed finger under his chin and pushed gently upwards. “Close your mouth, Stoker. You look like a carp.”
He gulped hard and I removed my finger. “The notion of you in the arms of your shepherdess friend is one I shall want to revisit at some later time,” he warned me. “But for now, I suppose we ought to think about the investigation.” He shook his head hard as if to clear it.
“Were you really not surprised by the conversation with his lordship?”
He shrugged. “It is no business of mine. He can bugger a barnyard for all I care.”
I turned to stare at him, the streetlight that illuminated half of his face throwing the other half in deepest shadow. “You do not see it, do you?”
“What?”
“His candor was his way of attempting to mend the breach between you.”
Stoker snorted and turned to walk away. I put a hand to his sleeve, pulling him to a stop.
“He did not have to tell us anything,” I reminded him. “He could have said we had imagined his name there. We do not have the ledger. We have no proof. He could have said he had only gone the one time or that his name had been forged. But he didn’t.”
“And?” The syllable was clipped and cold as if he had chiseled it from ice.
“It means he trusts us. If we choose to report him to the authorities, he could be put in prison, Stoker. You know the sorts of antics the Elysians got up to are illegal. He would be sentenced to hard labor.”
“Peers don’t go to prison,” he said, curling his lip.
“Do not play the cynic with me. It doesn’t suit you, and I can see right through it,” I told him. “It was an olive branch, whether you choose to interpret it as such or not.”
“Indeed? Veronica, he knows we cannot prove it. He was perfectly safe in sharing whatever sordid details of his life he cared to offer. Do you really not understand? He is one of them. He is an aristocrat. He is untouchable.”
He turned to walk away again, but the anger seemed to have drained away. We passed the next few blocks in silence.
“I am curious how men who go with men decide who plays the submissive part,” I said eventually.
Stoker made a strangled noise in the back of his throat. “Leave it, Veronica.”
“Very well. I suppose I might ask his lordship the next time I see him. He doesn’t seem bashful upon the subject.”
S
toker stopped dead in his tracks. “What the devil do you mean ‘the next time’?”
“The viscount has expressed a wish to share my company.”
“The bloody hell he has!” Stoker exploded.
“Heavens, Stoker, what difference does it make to you?”
“This is just like him, thinking he can do as he damn well pleases because he is the lord of the manor,” he said savagely. He turned away, then loomed back, using his height to full advantage. “You are not to go anywhere with him. You are not to call upon him. You are not to receive him.”
I was so astonished I very nearly laughed aloud. “You cannot seriously think I would permit you to dictate terms to me,” I began.
He leaned closer and I could smell the scent of his brother’s expensive whiskey on his breath. His mouth hovered just over mine, his body brushing against me. I could see the pulse beating hard in his throat.
“I can dictate these terms,” he said in a voice that was little more than a growl. “He has taken something of mine for the last time.”
“I am not something of yours,” I reminded him, scalding him with the scorn in my voice. “I don’t care what bad blood there is between you, you do not get to tell me whom I see. You are not my husband!”
I pressed my hands flat to his chest and heaved, but he did not move. His hands came up to grasp my wrists hard, and for an instant I saw something like hurt flicker in his gaze. “No,” he said slowly. “I am better than a husband. I am your friend.”
With agonizing slowness, he dropped my hands and walked away.
CHAPTER
19
The next morning I sped through the task I had allotted myself—identifying a woefully mislabeled tray of Lepidoptera from the Americas—in the hope of spending the afternoon at Havelock House. A late-morning missive from Emma Talbot put paid to that.
“She is unable to sketch you today,” I told Stoker, holding up the note she had sent the fourth delivery of the post. “She has a prior engagement. Hell and damnation,” I muttered, fuming at the delay.
A Perilous Undertaking Page 21
