A Treacherous Curse

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  I nodded. “And somehow I do not like Mrs. Giddons for a mastermind. She is clearly answerable to someone, but whom?”

  “That is what we need to discover. Go and put on a hat,” he instructed. “We are bound for the Sudbury.”

  • • •

  I am seldom inclined to do as I am told, but with Stoker’s decisiveness came a resurgence of both his energy and his resolve, and I gave way with good grace, buttoning on my black astrakhan coat. My spirits were even more buoyed by the addition of a new hat—a fetching beaver top hat embellished with a cluster of lush red velvet roses and a length of black veiling tucked atop the rolled brim. The day was fine, at least as fine as may be expected in the killing fogs of February, and as we set off for the Sudbury even Stoker seemed jaunty. He wore his eye patch, and his normally tumbled locks were even more windblown than usual. He made no effort to subdue them, but merely clapped on a low, slouching hat purchased off a gaucho in the Argentine. The wide brim shadowed his face, giving him a menacing air, and as he enjoyed nothing better than frightening the timid, he set a brisk pace as we walked.

  We arrived at the Sudbury in good order. Julien d’Orlande was presiding over the first service of the luncheon hour, supervising the appearance of every tray before it was carried up to the waiting guests. He adjusted a bit of crystallized mint on a plate of ices, nodding as if bestowing a benediction. He gestured for us to wait in his office and joined us as soon as he was able, flicking an invisible bit of lint from his immaculate coat as he did so.

  “Hello, my friends. Please, make yourselves comfortable. I have arranged for some refreshments,” he said, ushering in one of his staff, who carried a tray laden with tiny glasses of sharp blackberry cordial and another with a plate of tiny tarts shaped like quatrefoils and filled with sweetened almond-scented cream and topped with candied cherries.

  Stoker sighed in rapture as he sank his teeth into the pastry. Then he gave a frankly indecent moan while I looked inquiringly to Monsieur d’Orlande.

  “We have come about the Tivertons,” I began.

  “Mademoiselle Speedwell!” he said in a tone of lamentation. “What am I to do with you? I am an artist, and yet you think only of business.” His expression was gently chiding, and he nodded once towards the pastry before me. “Eat that. Savor it. And then we will talk.”

  I did as he bade me, letting the crisp pastry melt on my tongue. He watched me narrowly, assessing my enjoyment of his arts, and I made the appropriate noises of appreciation. When I had swallowed the last delectable crumb, I settled back in my chair, folding my hands on my lap for good measure.

  Julien threw his head back and laughed. “Like a schoolgirl. But you liked it?”

  “It was heaven,” I told him. Stoker nodded emphatically, his cheeks bulging with cream.

  Julien accepted the praise as no more than his due. “I have worked for fifteen years to perfect that recipe. It is not yet what it can be, but it is better than it was.”

  “Will it ever be perfect?” I wondered.

  “No,” he told me with a smile. “Nothing in life is. But, my dear mademoiselle, life is not about achievement. It is about the effort. If one takes pleasure in every step, one enjoys the whole journey.” His eyes were twinkling, and I realized he might well be the most contented person of my acquaintance.

  “You wish to know about the Tivertons,” he said, pulling a face. “They are dull beyond belief. Typically English! Milk puddings and boiled chickens.” He glanced at the window overlooking his domain and flicked a finger. Instantly, a subordinate appeared, his attitude one of reverence as he approached the master. Julien gave him a careless look. “Ask Mademoiselle Birdie to come.”

  The fellow bobbed a head and vanished, reappearing almost instantaneously with a tiny, buxom brunette whose lavish curves were barely confined by the crisp lines of her chambermaid’s uniform. Her curls were covered by a starched white cap, but they threatened to escape, and her lips were a trifle too pink to owe their color to nature rather than art.

  She was a luscious-looking girl, but she had eyes only for the pastry chef. “Monsieur d’Orlande?” she asked breathlessly.

  He introduced us briefly. “Miss Speedwell, Mr. Templeton-Vane, this is Birdie, the chambermaid who attends the Tivertons. Birdie, you will speak frankly to Miss Speedwell and Mr. Templeton-Vane,” he instructed. “Whatever questions they put to you, you will answer.”

  She nodded, her eyes round and bright with the devotion of an acolyte. “Oh, yes, Monsieur!”

  “Good girl,” he said, his voice practically a purr. “Now, I regret to say that Mademoiselle Tiverton has resisted the charms of my pastries. She does not send her compliments, no matter what delicacies I prepare. I have learnt nothing.”

  I felt a rush of disappointment which must have been visible, for he lifted a quelling finger. “But I have perfect faith in Mademoiselle Birdie. My little oiseau, you have watched the Tiverton girl for me. What have you discovered?”

  Birdie was eager to tell. “She’s bored silly, Monsieur. Those parents of hers keep her on a short leash, they do. She doesn’t go to shops or entertainments. She keeps to her room, reading her books—always sensational novels like Rider Haggard’s.”

  Monsieur d’Orlande spread his hands in a thoroughly Gallic gesture. “If she wants adventure, I would recommend to her Dumas, but that is neither here nor there.”

  “Does she have visitors?” Stoker asked.

  The girl gave him a lingering look, paying homage to his attractions, but in the end she shrugged. Her attention was firmly fixed upon Julien. “Who would visit the little Tiverton? She is bored, I tell you. She goes out to walk the dog, and that is all. No callers, no going to the shops or entertainments. She talks to me sometimes, but I don’t like to tell her about my life.”

  “Why not?” I asked.

  Birdie tipped her head. “It sounds peculiar to say I feel sorry for her, miss, but I do. That father of hers is supposed to be so rich and high-and-mighty, but what good does it do her? I have three sisters and I have a laugh with every one of them. I go to the museums on my day off or the shops. I have friends and interests and a proper life. What does she have besides her dreary books and her dull papier-mâché?”

  Stoker and I looked at one another, and a smile of sheer delight spread over his features. “Did you say papier-mâché?”

  She glanced at Julien, who nodded his encouragement. “Yes, sir. Although why that should interest anyone, I cannot imagine. It is a pastime for children! But she is always asking me for newspaper, and there the poor girl sits in her room, making fruits and vegetables and ghastly heads out of whatever I can find her. It is most peculiar.”

  “On the contrary,” I told her. “It is the most interesting thing in the world right now.”

  “I’m sure I don’t know why,” she began, but Julien lifted a brow.

  “My little flower, who are we to judge the pleasures of others? We are responsible only for our own,” he murmured.

  She gave a breathy little sigh, and I flicked a glance to Stoker, who shrugged.

  “Is there anything else you can tell us about the Tivertons?” he asked the girl.

  She tipped her head, putting the tip of her tongue between her teeth as she thought. “Nothing that comes to mind, sir.”

  “Very well. If you think of anything else, you’ll be sure to tell Monsieur d’Orlande directly, yes?”

  She beamed ecstatically at Julien. “Of course.”

  She sketched a brief curtsy in our direction as Julien rose to walk her to the door. “You’ve done very well, my dove. Perhaps later you will come back and I will make for you a religieuse,” he promised.

  “Oh, what is that?” she asked, eyes wide with anticipation.

  “It is the French word for ‘nun,’” he told her. “But we will speak no more of chastity.”

  She g
ave a low giggle, and he closed the door behind her, turning back to us as he smoothed the velvet of his cap. I suppressed a smile, but Stoker looked at him reproachfully.

  “She is half your age,” he pointed out.

  Julien d’Orlande lifted his hands in a perfectly Gallic gesture. “Who am I to quibble with the demands of Venus?”

  “Mercury, more like, if you aren’t careful,” Stoker muttered.

  “Stoker!” I said sharply. “Kindly do not make reference to the treatment of venereal diseases in polite company.”

  “I wouldn’t exactly call Julien polite,” he protested, but he said nothing more. I rose and gave Julien my hand.

  “Forgive him. He’s been out of sorts lately.”

  Julien’s handsome mouth curved into a conspiratorial smile. “Really? How can you tell?”

  We shared a laugh as Stoker regarded us sourly. Julien bent over my hand. “Ah, this sweet blossom of a hand! How I hate to relinquish it,” he said, stroking it gently.

  “Relinquish it or swallow your own teeth,” Stoker told him in a pleasant tone laced with steel.

  Julien shook his head. “Mademoiselle, does he often threaten violence in your gentle presence?”

  “More than you would expect,” I told him. “And he has even, upon one notable occasion, stabbed me. But since I am responsible for his being shot a few months ago, I am inclined to overlook his moods.”

  Julien straightened, clearly startled as he turned to Stoker. “You stabbed her?” he demanded.

  Stoker looked mightily affronted. “Not deliberately! I would only ever stab Veronica on accident.”

  “Quite,” I said, giving him a fond smile. “You are, for all your sins, Stoker, a gentleman.”

  We bade a befuddled Julien farewell and made our way through the Sudbury kitchens, emerging onto the pavement.

  “I do wish you wouldn’t tell people I stabbed you,” Stoker protested.

  “But you did,” I pointed out. “I still have the scar.”

  “You bloody well do not! I stitched you up more prettily than the Bayeux Tapestry. Furthermore—” He was just warming to his theme when I stopped him with a hand to his chest. I may have applied rather more force than I intended, for he rocked backwards, stumbling into a coal hauler, and it was some several seconds before he disentangled himself and brushed off the coal dust.

  “Veronica, what the devil are you about?” he demanded.

  I grabbed his hand and towed him towards the corner, taking the precaution of pausing to peep around the building before emerging into view. “Look there,” I instructed, jerking my chin.

  Some little distance ahead, Figgy Tiverton was walking Nut.

  “So? We know the girl walks the dog,” he said in some irritation as he excavated a lump of coal from his pocket.

  “Look at who Figgy is following,” I ordered.

  Forty or fifty yards ahead of Figgy walked a slender figure with a graceful, distinctive step.

  “Lady Tiverton,” Stoker said softly, catching the scent of an intrigue.

  “Exactly. Now, why would young Figgy follow her stepmother without making her presence known?”

  Without bothering to wait for a reply, I moved to follow Figgy. Stoker’s hand clamped to my arm stayed me. “What do you mean to do?”

  “Trail them, of course.” I glanced at him, all six feet of distinctly male Revelstoke Templeton-Vane. He was dressed conventionally enough, in a town suit and proper shoes rather than his usual breeches and boots. But his hair was long, his hat was Bohemian, and his ears glinted with the gold of the loops threaded through each lobe. He looked like nothing so much as an Elizabethan privateer, and he would certainly attract attention just when we needed to be unremarkable. I pointed this out, to which he made a few rather sharp and somewhat nasty observations of his own—I believe the phrase “Roman prostitute” was bandied about with regard to my hat—and then I pulled down the veil on my hat, covering my face.

  “Stay here,” I hissed without bothering to wait for the inevitable protest. I slipped into the stream of foot traffic upon the Strand, following Figgy following her stepmother. It was easy enough to keep the child in view. She wore a sailor hat with a particularly lurid shade of yellow for the bow, and Nut kept darting in and out of the pedestrians, causing a bit of jolly havoc wherever she went.

  Ahead of us, Lady Tiverton walked with purpose, looking neither left nor right. We followed her as she crossed a street—Nut nearly expiring under the hooves of a passing tram team—and turned several corners before her ladyship reached her destination. She entered a narrow stone building with a jaunty blue-striped awning. Figgy hesitated when she came to the building, then continued on, looking behind her once or twice with a doubtful expression.

  I darted into a bookshop, browsing the volumes in the window as I kept a weather eye upon the street. After several minutes, Lady Tiverton emerged, carrying a parcel marked with the name of the business, Caswell and Co. Linen Drapers. I counted to thirty before stepping from the bookshop, but I needn’t have bothered. I had assumed Figgy had carried on down the street, but this was a miscalculation. Just as I stepped from the bookshop, she passed, so close I nearly trod on Nut’s paw. But the dog paid me no attention. Instead, she was straining at the lead, whining and lunging until the slim bit of leather slipped from Figgy’s hands.

  Without warning the dog dashed across the street, narrowly avoiding a streetcar and launching herself into the air. At the last moment Stoker caught her, holding her at arm’s length as she squirmed in delight, lavishing licks to his face.

  Figgy, with a cry of alarm, followed. I was not near enough to hear what Stoker said, but he must have spun her some tale, for she let him take Nut’s lead in hand, setting the dog carefully onto her feet again. With great courtesy, Stoker offered his arm, and the girl took it, her blush apparent from across the street. They turned in the direction of the Sudbury, and I watched them go in frank irritation until I saw Stoker take his lead hand and flick a sign at me behind his back. It was a brisk gesture in the direction of the blue awning, and I understood instantly what he intended.

  I entered the shop and waited to be attended to. A few minutes’ skillful conversation extracted the information I wanted. By way of showing my appreciation, I made a purchase of my own from the clerk and returned to the Sudbury to collect Stoker.

  He fell into step with me as I passed the hotel. “What did you learn?” he asked softly as we made our way to the Folly.

  “Nothing of real importance and this case begins to task me. I am in need of physical exertion to clear my mental processes,” I told him. I made my way directly to the Roman temple, where the plunge pool was located. Stoker was polite enough to wait until I had stripped off my clothes and paddled vigorously for some minutes before presenting himself. Too small for proper exercise, the plunge pool nonetheless provided an excellent opportunity for exercising the limbs, and I was rather deliciously invigorated by the time I emerged. With enormous delicacy, Stoker kept his back to me until I had wrapped myself in a Turkish robe I had left hanging in the bathhouse. Although mindful of my modesty—of which I had none, but it was sweet of him to think so—in contrast to his earlier mood, Stoker was perfectly heedless of his. He dropped his clothing with the nonchalance of Adam stalking through Eden without a fig leaf and slipped into the pool, crossing it several times with masterful strokes as I combed through my hair.

  When he was finished, he swam to the edge, his dark head as sleek as a seal’s. He folded his arms on the warmed tile, resting his chin as he gave me a long look.

  “All right. Reveal all, I beg you.”

  I primmed my mouth in the manner of a student preparing a recitation. “At quarter past two this afternoon, Lady Tiverton entered the establishment of Caswell and Co., linen drapers, where she proceeded to purchase—wait for the shocking revelation, I beg you—handkerc
hiefs.”

  “Handkerchiefs? All that cloak-and-dagger nonsense from Figgy about following her stepmother and for handkerchiefs? How do you know?”

  “A very helpful clerk was only too happy to reveal that they enjoyed Lady Tiverton’s custom there. She chose very sober handkerchiefs woven with a narrow band of black at the edge.”

  “Half-mourning,” he mused.

  “We were told that she still observed mourning for the first Lady Tiverton. We have never seen her in a color other than grey,” I agreed. “I don’t approve of the current fashion for ostentatious grief, but I must applaud her loyalty. Her affection for her predecessor strikes me as thoroughly sincere.”

  “And yet Figgy is suspicious enough of her to track her like a bloodhound upon the most innocent of errands,” Stoker said. “To what end?”

  We fell silent a moment, contemplating that question. I formed my own theory, and the more I considered it, the more I liked it.

  “What?” Stoker demanded. “You’re thinking something. I can always tell from the unholy light in your eyes when an idea strikes you.”

  “One should not hypothesize without enough information,” I reminded him.

  He gave me a stern look, one that was slightly mitigated by his current state of near nudity. “Kindly do not lecture me on scientific method. Now, speak, woman.”

  “Very well. It simply occurred to me that much of the colorful prose spilling from the pen of Mr. J. J. Butterworth is markedly detailed. Perhaps too markedly for someone outside the expedition.”

  He was quick to seize the idea. “You think someone inside the expedition is feeding the blackguard information? Figgy?”

  I shrugged. “Why not? We have already observed that she is a decidedly odd mix of child and adult. She is adventuresome enough to gad about town on her own. Why could she not have decided to supply the loathsome Butterworth with grist for his mill?”