A Perilous Undertaking

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “You do realize you are shutting both eyes at once?”

  He blinked several times in rapid succession. “Am I indeed? How curious.”

  I turned to Stoker, who shrugged. “I fear Mr. Pettifer’s usefulness may be at an end. But we do not need him. It’s perfectly obvious why they have chosen not to make this information public.”

  “To keep Miles Ramsforth dangling at the end of a hangman’s noose,” I said bitterly. “They know if this were made public, it would open the verdict to doubt and they would rather see him hang than expose their own shoddy police work to scrutiny.”

  Stoker shook his head. “I doubt it is their police work they are looking to protect,” he told me. He put his lips near to my ear. “Louise.”

  I pitched my voice to a whisper. “You really think so? That they would let Miles Ramsforth hang for a crime he did not commit just to stop any potential scandal from touching the queen’s daughter?”

  “They have done far worse for far less,” he said flatly. “I do not claim it is a conspiracy hatched at Whitehall. I am simply pointing out that when an easy solution presented itself—a solution that would keep scandal at bay and prevent further questioning—they took it. That is all.”

  “Then why encourage the princess to come to me?” I demanded.

  “Because I suspect they didn’t believe you would get this far,” he told me in a gentle voice.

  I turned to my pipe, letting the cold rage wash over me. I smoked until the pipe was empty, filling myself with the odors of flowers and gunpowder and sweating horse, and when it was finished, I took a card from my case and tucked it into Mr. Pettifer’s pocket. “If you should think of anything else,” I told him firmly. He waved a flaccid hand and Stoker and I took our leave, pausing only long enough for Stoker to pay for our pipes and Mr. Pettifer’s.

  “It is the least we can do after frightening the poor fellow,” he told me magnanimously. He turned to look at me and his brows snapped together. “Veronica? Veronica, are you quite all right? You are weaving.”

  “I am not,” I told him. “I am standing perfectly still.” But while I was immobile, the walls had begun to move in a strange, undulating fashion.

  “You’re foxed,” he said.

  “I am no such thing. In fact, I have never felt better in my life,” I replied, stretching out my arms to embrace the world.

  “Bloody hell, this is all I need,” he muttered. He stooped and, with no visible effort at all, hoisted me onto his shoulder so that my torso was draped down his back, affording me a lovely view of his posterior. “Don’t squirm,” he ordered. “I will have you outside and in a cab in a few minutes. Try not to make a scene.”

  I felt a rush of gurgling laughter as he began to move. “Stoker, have I ever complimented your sitting-down parts? You have an exceptionally fine bottom.”

  “Veronica.” I could not see his face, but I could tell the word had been issued through clenched teeth.

  “I am entirely sincere,” I told him, reaching out to grope the attribute in question.

  “For the love of Christ,” he said. He bent an arm back to swat at my hands. “Stop that.”

  “But it’s so lovely and firm,” I protested.

  “Veronica, if you do not unhand me—” he began.

  “What?” I demanded. “What will you do?” He did not reply and I reached further still, causing him to shy like a frightened pony.

  “If you do that again, I will drop you into the nearest coal bin,” he promised. “Now, take your hands from between my legs,” he ordered as he yanked open the front door.

  He stopped so suddenly my head struck his caudal end and bounced off. Instinctively, I tightened my grip, causing him to jump again and slap at my hand.

  “Good evening, Mr. Templeton-Vane,” said a familiar voice. “I presume that is Miss Speedwell draped over your shoulder?”

  “It is,” I called. “Superb detecting, Inspector Mornaday.”

  He bent and angled his head to peer between Stoker’s legs, smiling broadly. “Well, well, this is an interesting development,” he told me. “Unfortunately, for you it is rather your unlucky night. This establishment is being raided. And you both are under arrest.”

  CHAPTER

  22

  Stoker swore as Mornaday carried on in the same cordial tone. “Mr. Templeton-Vane, if you would be so good as to relinquish Miss Speedwell’s person. She will be transported in a separate conveyance.”

  Stoker bent, setting me gently on my feet and keeping a hand clamped to my shoulder for support. “Miss Speedwell is presently unwell and ought not to be left unattended.”

  Mornaday peered closely into my eyes. “Miss Speedwell has been shaking hands with the poppy,” he corrected. “But we will take good care of her, as we shall you,” he promised Stoker.

  Stoker put out his arms, baring his wrists. “Come on then.”

  Mornaday’s expression was gleeful as he clapped a set of irons onto Stoker and stepped back to let one of his subordinates take charge of him. The sound of pounding feet and startled shrieks from the rest of the house indicated Mornaday’s compatriots at the Yard were making short work of rounding up the remaining inhabitants of the opium den.

  I looked him over scornfully. “You are a nasty piece of work, Mornaday. If it were not for you, we wouldn’t even be in this place.”

  He grinned. “I know, and I am sorry for it. But I didn’t realize word of your visit to Padgett and Pettifer would reach Sir Hugo so quickly. He suspected me of indiscretion, so I had to make myself useful and give you up under compromising circumstances.”

  “He already knows about our visit to the undertakers?” I asked, struggling to follow his logic with my befogged wits. “But Mr. Padgett promised his silence!” I was outraged. And after all the trouble I had gone to in order to secure him a specimen, I reflected bitterly. “See if he gets a Camberwell Beauty out of me,” I muttered.

  Mornaday held up a hand. “It wasn’t Mr. Padgett. It was his porter. Apparently he resides comfortably in Sir Hugo’s pocket, a fact of which I was unaware.”

  “And now Sir Hugo wants to lecture us,” I guessed. I held up my wrists. “Very well, clap me in irons as well. I expect you will enjoy it.”

  He gave me a look of abject horror. “Miss Speedwell! I shouldn’t dream of such a thing.”

  “You locked Stoker up,” I reminded him.

  His smile was one of merry malice. “Yes, I did. But you are a different matter altogether. A spell in the Black Maria won’t do him any harm. You will travel with me.” He stepped back to gesture for me to precede him.

  I shook my head slowly. “I do not think so,” I told him.

  His gaze narrowed. “Are you refusing a direct order of an officer of the law?”

  “Certainly not. I am content to go with you, Mornaday. But I seem to have misplaced my nether limbs.”

  I looked down at my legs. I could see my appendages quite clearly, but there was simply no way to make them move. As I stared at them, they seemed to slide out of focus, drifting very far away, through a black tunnel. From outside the tunnel I could hear Mornaday’s voice, but his words made no sense, and then I was flying, spiraling down on a drift of soft black wings that wrapped around me, cradling me until there was nothing but silence.

  • • •

  Icame to on the sofa in Sir Hugo’s office, my head as thick and muffled as if it had been stuffed with cotton wool.

  “How do you feel?” Stoker asked, looking intently at my pupils. How he had won his release from Mornaday’s custody, I did not know, but it did not surprise me in the slightest.

  “A bit like a boiled owl. And my arm hurts,” I told him, pointing to the spot.

  “Sorry,” Stoker said, pressing one of his enormous red handkerchiefs to my arm. “Hold that.”

  I did as he bade me, watching
with casual interest as he put away a syringe and a small bottle. “What did you give me?”

  “A mild solution of cocaine. You were unconscious rather longer than we liked, and a stimulant seemed indicated.” He eased back and I saw that Sir Hugo was sitting behind his desk, Mornaday standing with his back to the door. Both were watching me closely, and I favored them with a wide smile.

  “Good evening, gentlemen. I must say, this is a curious way to secure a lady’s company, but at least one cannot fault you for dullness.”

  Sir Hugo slammed the flat of his hand onto his desk causing his pen to rattle in its holder. “Miss Speedwell, I am glad you are conscious because I would hate for you to miss what I am about to say—”

  I sat up slowly with Stoker’s aid. “Dizzy?” he asked.

  “A little, but it is passing,” I told him. “Your cocaine is quite efficacious.”

  “Not mine. It came courtesy of the supplies of the Metropolitan Police. Mind, I do not often make use of it,” he said, “but for situations such as this, I find—”

  Sir Hugo slammed his desk again. “If we might return to the matter at hand.”

  Stoker sighed and I gave an airy wave. “Save your breath to cool your porridge, Sir Hugo,” I told him. “We know what you are going to say, and we have no interest in hearing it.”

  Mornaday’s mouth went slack and Sir Hugo looked as if he were going to have an apoplexy. I pushed myself to my feet and moved forward, slowly and carefully, testing my balance until I reached the desk. Sir Hugo in a temper was always a diverting sight. He had clearly been a handsome man once and was still comely, with a commanding air and a stubborn jaw that offset a pair of delicately carved lips he attempted to hide beneath mustaches that quivered when he was angry. I longed to reach out and twitch the ends of them, although I knew that would be a step too far even for me.

  I summoned a patient smile. “You are clearly angry, Sir Hugo, but I should point out that I might be just as out of temper with you,” I told him.

  He kept his voice low, but it throbbed with rage. “You promised not to investigate.”

  “Of course I did,” I said pleasantly. “You would never have let me out of here if I hadn’t. But I did not mean it, and you oughtn’t to have extracted such a promise under duress.”

  For a long moment he held himself rigid, his color high, his eyes blazing in magnificent fury. And then the anger seemed to ebb. His shoulders relaxed, and his mouth went soft.

  “You are right,” he said simply, throwing up his hands. “I ought to have known better. Telling you to keep out of this was no different than waving a red cape in front of a bull, was it?”

  “No, it was not.” I turned to our two companions who were silent and slack-jawed. “Gentlemen, would you give me a moment alone with Sir Hugo?”

  Stoker’s reluctance was nearly palpable, but he jerked his chin towards Mornaday. “I will if he does. I wouldn’t mind a moment alone with the inspector to discuss conditions in the Black Maria,” he said with a thin edge of menace to his voice.

  Mornaday’s eyes rolled in fear, but he smiled broadly. “Nothing I would like better, but I am afraid I have a heap of paperwork to attend to.” He scurried from the room, leaving the door open behind him.

  Stoker paused, his hand on the knob. “I will be right outside,” he said, and whether that was meant as a threat to Sir Hugo or reassurance to me, I could not have said.

  The door closed and I turned back to face Sir Hugo, gentling my voice to deliberate effect. “Sir Hugo, I hope that you will believe it was never my intention to embarrass you or make your life difficult in any way.”

  He tipped his head, studying me. “I think those might be the first honest words I have ever had from you.”

  “We are not enemies,” I persisted. “I know you do not trust me, but can you not at least give me the benefit of the doubt?”

  “Very well,” he said in a voice very different to any I had heard him use before. “Why are you pursuing this? It cannot be solely your irrepressible curiosity.”

  I studied him back, appreciating the lines of care at the corners of his eyes, the silver threads in his hair that had been bought with years of responsibility. The weight of it sat heavily upon him, and it occurred to me that Sir Hugo Montgomerie might be the most honorable man of my acquaintance, barring Stoker of course.

  The least I could do was offer him the truth. “I wanted to succeed at something, to impress them.”

  I had no need to elaborate. He knew precisely to whom I referred. His blue eyes were suddenly soft as they rested upon me.

  “You know that it will not matter,” he said, not unkindly. “You could unmask a thousand murderers and it will not move them. They are impressed by nothing and no one.”

  “I realize that,” I said, careful to keep my voice even. “It is a stupid reason, and it is unworthy of me, and that should convince you of my sincerity. If I were going to lie, I would have made myself look the better for it.”

  My voice went oddly flat on the last word, and I cleared my throat sharply. Sir Hugo, in a gesture of sensitivity that I would never have anticipated, looked away. After a moment, he turned back.

  “Did she offer to introduce you to your father?” he asked.

  “She did. Do not worry,” I told him quickly. “I know it will not happen. It cannot.”

  “No,” he agreed. “It cannot.”

  He closed his eyes for a long moment, then opened them with a sigh of resignation. “Very well.”

  I blinked in surprise. “What do you mean, ‘very well’?”

  “I mean, carry on. With limitations,” he said, a touch of the old iron returning to his manner. “You will report anything of interest to me, and you will initiate no contact with Her Royal Highness. If she needs to know something you have discovered, I will relate it to her. I cannot trust you to tell me the truth otherwise,” he added with some asperity.

  “Agreed,” I said swiftly. “Shall I swear to it?”

  To his credit, he smiled. “I think we both know what your promises are worth.”

  “Oaths made under duress are pinchbeck promises. This I give you freely—I will share with you anything of importance that we discover.”

  I put out my hand and he shook it. When I went to take my hand away, he held it fast, pulling ever so gently so that I was leaning over his desk. He bent forward, putting his face close to mine. “Do not think I have forgot that I owe you a lecture, Miss Speedwell. You have got round me this time, but I am keeping an accounting.”

  And with that he released me suddenly, leaving me off-balance. Which, I reflected as I took my leave, was entirely appropriate.

  • • •

  The courtesy of the Metropolitan Police did not extend to providing transportation home. We passed Mornaday as we departed, and he had the grace to look a little embarrassed. I tipped my nose in the air and swept past him without another glance, but I did see Stoker offer an eloquently obscene gesture.

  “Did you learn that in Her Majesty’s Navy?” I asked as we made our way onto the street.

  “Among other things.” He took charge, bundling me into a cab and giving the driver directions to Bishop’s Folly. I was glad of it. The interview with Sir Hugo had left me oddly unsettled—or perhaps it was the potent combination of cocaine and opium.

  “How long was I slumbering in the arms of Morpheus?” I asked Stoker with a good deal more aplomb than I felt. I sagged a little against him, his shoulder hard underneath my cheek.

  “Rather longer than any of us liked,” he replied in a dry tone. “Sir Hugo wanted to send for a police surgeon, but I told him I could revive you perfectly well.”

  “I am rather surprised he agreed.”

  Stoker shrugged. “He did warn me he would arrest me again if I poisoned you, but I told him that hardly ever happens.”

 
A smile tugged at his mouth, and I would have poked him pointedly, but it seemed like a great deal of trouble. I gave a great, jaw-cracking yawn.

  The ride passed in a blur of lights swirling from without the windows, long trails of illumination stretching and whirling and bouncing past. It was like tumbling through a kaleidoscope, the patterns ever changing.

  “Click, click, click,” I said, snapping my fingers with each word.

  “What are you talking about?” I heard Stoker’s voice, but his face was hid in the darkness of the cab and my gaze was fixed upon the symphony of lights outside.

  “I am inside the kaleidoscope,” I told him, feeling a delicious lassitude creeping through my limbs.

  “Home soon,” he promised as we swung into Regent Street. I watched the tall, elegant sweep of buildings unroll past the window like a phantasmascope. I rested against Stoker until the cab arrived at the far gate of Bishop’s Folly. I went to alight, but my limbs resisted my commands and my head lolled as Stoker reached for me.

  My next recollection, dim as it is, was of coming to my senses for a moment as Stoker dropped me onto my bed. I felt his hands at my ankles, taking off the slippers, and then at my head, removing the little silken cap and unplaiting my hair. The euphoria of the pipe had crept back, seeping into my bones and lifting me, light as thistledown. Every pore, every cell, every nerve, felt open and aware, expectant even.

  “The aftereffects of the cocaine wear off sooner than those of the opium,” he told me. “I could try a little atropine, but far better for you to sleep it off. I am still feeling a trifle euphoric myself. We will both be sorted in the morning.”

  He turned to go, but I caught him by the sleeve, pulling him down as I surged up against him. The muscles of his shoulders were hard beneath my hands, and I thrust my fingers into his hair. He hesitated a moment, only a moment. And then his lips moved on mine, muttering poetry—snatches of Keats that had never sounded so beautiful and so dangerous. He tasted of honey and smoke and need, such terrible need that I tore the shirt from his body and would have clawed my way into his bones if I could. His arms were hard around me, his muscles shaking with the effort to hold something back. I pressed my mouth to the hollow of his throat, lapping at his pulse, and he gave a shudder, moving his lips to my ear as he wrapped my hair into his fists. His lips parted and a word passed between us, a moan of such desperate longing that my head snapped back and I stared into eyes that were vacant with pain and loss. He did not mean to say it; I knew that as soon as I looked at him. But he had, and that single word wrenched me free of the dreaming haze that had enveloped us. I seemed to move outside myself, for I could see my own body as if from a distance as I gave a great shuddering groan and slipped away, falling into unconsciousness, my hands untwisting from his hair as I drifted. I was truly dreaming then—a storm had risen at sea, pulling us apart. I could see his head, just above the waves as I was borne over the horizon and into blackness.