“To what end?” Stoker argued. “The stories are upsetting to her father, whom she clearly adores.”
“Adores and deplores,” I reminded him. “Theirs is a prickly relationship. She might not mind upsetting him a trifle if it means distressing her stepmother. And the stories do vex Lady Tiverton. Besides which, you are overlooking the most obvious motivation. Members of the press have been known to remunerate their sources.”
“Not scrupulous ones,” Stoker pointed out.
“Does Mr. J. J. Butterworth strike you as particularly encumbered with such burdens as scruples?”
“Not especially,” he admitted. He shook his head. “I still cannot believe the girl would stoop so low.”
“I have a more thorough understanding of my own sex than you do,” I said kindly. “I know the horrors of which we are capable.”
“I have a little experience of that myself,” he reminded me dryly.
“Yes, but you think such monstrosities are an aberration. In your generous heart of hearts, you still believe we are good and gentle and everything men are not. You are, in short, my dear fellow, entirely too romantical about the crueler sex.”
He did not argue.
Abruptly, he flattened his palms on the tile and pushed, levering himself straight out of the water and onto the floor, like Poseidon rising from the deep. Rivulets of water cascaded from his body, shimmering over the taut muscles. A truly gracious woman would have looked away.
Our exercises concluded, we returned to the Belvedere in our dressing gowns to collect the evening post before returning to our respective abodes to prepare for dinner. As I put out my hand to the door, Stoker’s fingers clamped about my wrist. Without a word he nodded, and I saw that it was ajar. I never shrank from confrontation, but I was hardly dressed for battle, I reflected ruefully. I stepped back and let him take the lead as I worked a sharpened hairpin out of my Psyche knot purely as a precaution.
We stepped inside, edging on silent feet towards the glow of light from the lamp that sat upon my desk. I was perfectly certain I had blown it out when I had finished my work, and we advanced as one, Stoker’s hands clasped into loose fists, my hairpin at the ready.
We paused behind a handy caryatid, exchanged glances, and silently mouthed a count of three before springing out from the shadows.
CHAPTER
15
In the bedlam that erupted, I soon realized three things: 1. Our visitor was not bent upon harming us. 2. Our visitor was Mrs. Marshwood. 3. She was not actually being strangulated by a weasel in spite of her shriek and the fur at her throat. It was meant to be decorative.
She recovered herself quickly, putting a hand to her heart and fixing us with a repressive look. “How dare you come upon me like ruffians!” she demanded. “Is this any way to greet a caller?” Without waiting for a reply, she jerked her chin towards the enameled stove that formed the center of our little sitting area. “She is waiting for you. I tried to talk her out of this, but she insisted. I fear no good can come of it.”
Caroline de Morgan was seated before the stove in a porter’s chair that had once graced Versailles. The silk brocade was shattered, the gilt wood splintered, but there was a suggestion of former glory about it. The lady herself was wrapped in a heavy coat of moldering sables, no doubt a precaution against the chilly weather in her expectant state.
I looked at Stoker. “I am surprised the two of you don’t get on better. You both have such a fondness for dead animals.”
Caroline de Morgan raised her head and fixed me with a defiant stare. “If that is your idea of a cordial greeting, I will take my leave now.”
I bared my teeth in a smile. “Do close the door firmly behind you. There’s such a draft otherwise.”
She curled a lip. “My business is not with you. I have come to speak to him.” She gestured vaguely towards Stoker with a stick, and he heaved a sigh.
“I think we have said all that needs saying,” he began.
She flapped her hand, startling the dogs. They had both taken refuge behind a cradle—a curious piece fashioned of half a tortoiseshell set in silver. They huddled behind the cradle, peering over the edge from safety. Cowards.
“There have been new developments,” she informed us. “Can you not even bring yourself to offer the barest courtesies?” she demanded.
“Tea?” Stoker asked sweetly. “Coffee? Hemlock?”
She opened her mouth—no doubt to blast him—and I held up a hand. “That is enough from both of you. Yes, Mrs. de Morgan, I realize you came to speak with Stoker, but he is incapable of common courtesy in your presence. You bring out the worst in him. In his defense, I suspect you would drive the pope himself to strong drink. Now, I give you my word that Stoker will not poison you, but I encourage you to keep your remarks brief and to the point. What do you want?”
She did not like my taking charge of the situation, but if they were going to behave like recalcitrant schoolchildren, I was certainly capable of playing the nursery governess. She gave me a mutinous look and gestured towards a small carpetbag at her feet. “This is the only piece of baggage I brought out of Egypt. I want you to have it.”
“Why?” Stoker demanded.
“Because someone wants it,” she said darkly. “When I arrived from Dover, there was an attempt to take it from me at the train station. I thought nothing of it at the time. I presumed it was a common thief. The city is full of such blackguards,” she said, clearly preparing to give vent to her feelings on crime in the capital.
I cut her off swiftly. “There must have been a new attempt to take it. What happened?”
She gave me a look of grudging approval. “You have a brain at least. I will give you that. Someone broke into our house last night—specifically, they broke into my rooms.”
“Did you apprehend the fellow?” Stoker asked.
Her expression was sour. “We did not, thanks to the ham-fisted foolery of that imbecile butler. He tripped over a rug and was knocked completely senseless. Poor Papa nearly had an apoplexy fighting the thief off.”
Stoker lifted a skeptical brow. “Mr. Marshwood fought off a housebreaker?”
“Well, not so much fought him off as surprised him,” she amended.
“How do you know the housebreaker intended to steal the carpetbag?” I asked.
“Because it was in his hand! Papa surprised him and he dropped it as he fled.”
“Did he get a look at the fellow?” Stoker inquired.
“Papa is not in the habit of consorting with thieves,” she returned acidly. “Such a person is naturally beneath his notice.”
Stoker rolled his eyes at such snobbery, but I took a more patient tack. “Do you believe you are in some sort of danger if you keep the bag on the premises?”
“How should I know?” she demanded. “But I will not have a repeat of it. Heaven knows what the villain will try next.”
Stoker folded his arms over the breadth of his chest and cocked his head. There was an unholy light in his eyes. “If you truly believe you are in danger, you ought to hand that over to the Metropolitan Police.”
“The Metropolitan Police are a collection of fools and half-wits,” she said, her sables trembling in scorn. “They still believe I am quite possibly involved in a conspiracy with my husband. There is not a gentleman amongst them.”
“And you think to find one here?” Stoker challenged with a grim smile.
She narrowed her eyes. “For all your sins, Revelstoke, and they are legion, you are a gentleman born and bred. You will not desert a lady in distress. It would be a violation of eight hundred years of breeding.”
“I wonder how much it cost you to admit that,” he said softly.
She glared at him, and I moved once more to pour oil upon troubled waters. “Leave it with us, Mrs. de Morgan.”
“I don’t think so,” Stoker
said in a dangerously even voice.
Caroline de Morgan and I turned as one woman to stare at him. “Stoker,” I began.
“I am not inclined to offer my assistance.”
“Of course you aren’t,” I said in a reasonable tone, “but that shouldn’t stop you from doing it. If there have been two attempts to recover the bag, there might be something significant about it—” I broke off. “How stupid of me. Of course there is something significant.”
Stoker flicked me an approving glance. “You begin to understand her. There is something she has not told us.”
Caroline de Morgan opened her mouth, then snapped it shut as a tide of furious color rose in her cheeks. “Very well,” she managed finally. She thrust the bag at me, and I handed it to Stoker.
He opened it far enough that we could peer inside. There were the usual items one might expect from a woman traveling abroad. A few toilet articles, a change of linen, a soiled shirtwaist. There was a romantic novel of the most torrid variety—something I should not have expected from Caroline de Morgan. These Stoker put to the side, revealing an apparently empty bag. I gave him a querying glance, but he had already anticipated my question. With a conjuror’s quickness, he lifted out a false bottom. Beneath it nestled a pasteboard box, and I went to stand next to him as he opened it.
On a bed of plain cotton wool lay the diadem of Princess Ankheset. The homely little nest did nothing to detract from its beauty. The sinuous lines, the glow of the gold, the glimmer of the jewels. I could well imagine the princess of the Eighteenth Dynasty settling the slender crown onto her oiled black braids, lifting her chin imperiously.
Caroline de Morgan said nothing, but her gaze was mutinous as she watched us survey the little crown.
“You have had this the whole time,” I said, unable to keep the accusation from my tone.
“I did not know the diadem was there,” she said quickly. “I did not travel with jewels and had no reason to open the hidden compartment. It was not until this morning when I was thinking about the attempt last night to steal it that I wondered—”
“If John really was a thief,” Stoker finished flatly.
“If John took that diadem, he had his reasons,” she insisted. “And I want to know what they were.”
“Isn’t it obvious?” I asked gently. “Apart from the mummy, this is the centerpiece of the Tiverton find. It is worth a great deal of money.”
Her glance to me was scornful. “John would not have stolen it,” she swore.
“Very true,” Stoker said with quiet malice. “After all, John de Morgan never took anything that didn’t belong to him.”
She gasped as if he had struck her. Then a slow, cruel smile spread over her face. “How vicious you are. I never imagined the depths to which you could sink.”
“Didn’t you? You’re the one who told the world what I was. Are you now so surprised to find proof of it?”
She stepped closer, raising herself to her full height. “You will do this for me, Revelstoke.”
“And how do you mean to compel me?” he asked, his voice curiously detached.
“I know what happened last year. You did not even realize I saw, did you? But you thrashed John in plain sight of me. I can describe every filthy blow in sickening detail. I can tell the whole story and make certain everyone knows you are John’s greatest enemy. I wonder, will your life stand up to scrutiny a second time?” She flicked a glance to me. “Won’t your association with her prove interesting fodder for the newspapers? What exactly do you get up to here?” she demanded, spreading her hands wide to encompass the chaos of the Belvedere. “I call in broad daylight to find the pair of you not even respectably dressed. You’re flushed and damp, the pair of you,” she went on, dropping insinuation into every syllable. “What have you been doing with yourselves? I will make certain the newspapers ask. And you know what journalists are, Revelstoke. Once they catch scent of the game, they will stop at nothing to run you to earth. You survived the last time. Do you really want to expose Miss Speedwell to their ugly tricks?”
She stopped, her color high with triumph, and I realized with a sickening jolt to my stomach that she was actually enjoying herself. Something about torturing him pleased her. She was the sort of woman who would pluck the wings from a butterfly and smile as she did so.
“Do you really think your own behavior could stand up to scrutiny?” Stoker asked. “I could tell them the truth, you know. I could tell them that I found you in John’s tent. Three months my wife and yet you had your thighs around another man’s waist. Shall I tell them that?”
Caroline de Morgan’s knuckles turned white as she gripped the chair so hard I thought the wood would break under her grasp. “You lie,” she gasped, but the words were empty. She did not mean them. Something in his quiet litany of the facts had broken her resolve.
“Do I lie?” he asked softly. “Am I lying if I tell them that when a jaguar attacked me in the jungle, you and John left me for dead? Am I lying when I say that you knew the truth and still you peddled your filthy fabrications to anyone who would listen? You painted me a brute and a monster, and all the while you knew what you were, didn’t you?”
She opened her mouth, but Stoker’s quiet voice cut across her, forcing her to silence. “For the longest time, I did not understand you, but I do now. You did what you must, didn’t you? You told the only story you could, because to tell the truth meant admitting that you are a monster. You married me for money and a name, but your vows were a lie from the moment you spoke them. You wanted John. You loved John. But you could not stomach the notion of marrying a poor man, a man like your father and brothers. You wanted security more than anything and you sold your soul to get it. But you couldn’t face up to what you had done. Why? Did some flicker of guilt kindle in your soul? I suspect not. I suspect it was John who was remorseful about what the pair of you did to me. It didn’t matter in the end. You both told the same story, the only story you could tell, that you left me because I was brutal to you.” She made a low moan of protest, but he spoke on, silencing her with his litany of accusations. “I wonder sometimes if you took John just to prove that you could. He hated you at first. Did you know that? He warned me off marrying you, said I would regret it. Curious, isn’t it, how right he was? I have had a lot of time to think of things as they were then. Do you know how many sleepless nights you can pass in a year? Two? Three? There isn’t a night I close my eyes that I don’t think of the mistakes I have made and the tragedies I have wrought with my own two hands. But they are nothing compared to what you have done.”
Her mouth worked furiously, but she did not attempt to speak. I think she understood by then that the dam had broken and Stoker would have his say, come the devil himself.
“It took me a long time to understand why John told me not to marry you. I thought he was jealous that I had found someone and he had not. It’s because he already knew what you were, didn’t he? He was so unhappy those last few months. That’s why I wanted to take him to Amazonia. I thought he would recover something of himself, but that wouldn’t have been possible, would it? He was already in love with a woman who did not deserve him, but he could not bear to tell me the truth about you. Still, he was wiser than I was. He knew you for what you were and he loved you anyway. I loved only the illusion, the mirror face you chose to show me. I wonder which of us I pity more.”
A silent angry tear slid down her cheek. She did not brush it away. She wore it instead like a badge, defiantly, letting it run into the collar of her coat, wetting the fur.
“I won’t make the mistake of thinking that tear is for me,” he said, each word weighted with pain. “They are crocodile tears and I do not believe them. I seem to recall John has an uncle, a baronet with a tidy fortune and a line of dead sons. Tell me, with John missing, who will inherit when that uncle dies? If the child you carry is a son, you will have control of it—the estate,
the money. Quite a pretty packet. And you don’t even need John, do you? You are wed, so any child born to the marriage is legally his. As long as that baby is healthy and male, whoever controls the child controls the fortune. Tell me I am wrong.”
With each word, she had lowered her head, beaten down by the weight of his accusations. But at his command, she flung her head up, defiance kindling in her eyes. “What of it? Do you think to sit in judgment of me, Revelstoke? What do you know of being a woman? Of suffering the whole of your life for the mistakes the men in your family have made? My father, my brothers, my husband—over and over the same story, letting everything slip through their fingers through what? Carelessness? Stupidity? Women, horses, bad investments, gambling. A thousand excuses, but it all comes back to the same thing: your sex is weak,” she said, fairly spitting the words. “It is always down to us to make of life what we can, to recover from your mistakes and to carry on. Yes. I want the de Morgan fortune. I admit it. We are very nearly destitute, and my child’s inheritance is the only thing standing between us and ruin. I will do whatever I must to secure it. I will have a son, and I will take what is mine. Does that make me a monster? It makes me a survivor,” she spat.
Before Stoker could speak, I moved to take the diadem out of his hands. They were tightening into fists around the crown, and already I could see the box bending. I replaced the lid and set the box to the side. I repacked the carpetbag and handed it to Caroline de Morgan.
“Your property, Mrs. de Morgan. We will keep the crown, and we will discover what happened to your husband. Not because of your feeble attempt at blackmail but because it is the right thing to do. I am certain that motivation is foreign to you, but you will have to accept it.”
She darted a look at Stoker. “Is that all? Are you going to set your lapdog on me?”
A Treacherous Curse Page 22
