A Treacherous Curse

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  I stepped between them just as Stoker moved. “You enjoy your games, Mrs. de Morgan. That much is obvious. And baiting Stoker obviously gives you tremendous pleasure. But let me make one thing perfectly clear: so long as I draw breath, you will not hurt him again.”

  She gave me a thin smile, drawing her sables about her with an imperious air. “And who are you to stop me?”

  “I am the woman who knows twenty ways to kill you and all of them with pain,” I told her with an answering smile. “Now, take your carpetbag and your decaying mother and leave. If you come here again, I will not be answerable for my actions.”

  She pointed to the crown and her hand was steady. “Judge me however you like. I care not. Just find my husband. I know you will not refuse me, no matter what has passed before. Your honor will not permit it.” Her lip curled as she looked at Stoker. “As I said, your sex is weak. If my unborn child were Miss Speedwell’s enemy, she would cut its throat in the cradle. We are the daughters of Hera, Miss Speedwell. It is what keeps us alive. I will see myself out.”

  It was not until the door slammed behind her that the dogs brought their heads above the edge of the cradle.

  I did not look at him. I went instead up to the snuggery and poured a glass of aguardiente, a double measure, and drank it off. I poured another and handed it to him as he appeared at the top of the stairs. He drank his slowly, holding the bitterness on his tongue.

  “You are forty kinds of a fool,” I said finally. “I cannot believe that you loved such a creature, that you, with all your gifts, could have been blinded by beauty to so much malice.”

  “Believe it,” he replied simply.

  I poured a second measure of aguardiente for myself and another for him. He stared into the little cup as a Gypsy scrying his fortune. Then he gave a laugh, bitter and mirthless.

  “What?” I demanded. “You cannot be drunk yet. You’ve scarcely begun.”

  “She is right, you know. All this time, all that has happened, and she still knows me better than anyone because she knows what I endured without a word. All that public humiliation, the agony of my name being dragged through the mud, never to be clean again. She was right to call me weak.”

  “What does she know?” I sipped at the aguardiente, warming my belly with the fire of it.

  He shook his head and looked at me with eyes that seemed to have seen a thousand years.

  “Everything the newspapers printed about me,” he said in a hollow voice. “The beatings and the mistreatment. It’s all lies. I never touched a hair of her head.”

  “Stoker, I never thought you really visited violence upon your wife. It is not in your nature to bring harm to the innocent.”

  “The innocent. God, to think of her in those terms! But she was innocent, at least where I was concerned.”

  He broke off, giving me a level look.

  “You mean, you did not—”

  “Never.”

  “But she was your wife.”

  “She played the part of the coy maiden well during our courtship. She never let me so much as kiss her. I pressed her hand and thought myself privileged. When our wedding night came, I took her into my arms to kiss her and she began to tremble. I did not mind. I was no virgin, but I was scared, so frightened of hurting her. I thought we could be terrified together. And that’s when she told me she could not.”

  “She refused you?”

  “Categorically. And she made it clear that she was not prepared to be a wife to me in the fullest sense of the word—ever.”

  I thought of him as he must have been then, before life and time and pain had changed him. He must have been so handsome it hurt to look at him, offering his heart to her. And she had twisted it in her hands, mangling it as a child will break a toy. Hatred, hot and violent and satisfying, coursed through my veins, drumming a rhythm in my head.

  “You might have annulled her,” I said in a voice I did not recognize.

  He looked surprised. “It never occurred to me. I was prepared not to have her body if it meant I could have her heart. That, she pretended to give. She was affectionate and sweet, and I thought she meant it. I believed that over time I could bring her to share my bed if only I was patient enough, kind enough. I did not yet realize she refused me her maidenhead because she could not bear the touch of my hands upon her. And all because I was not John.”

  He laughed, that peculiar unhappy sound that twisted my guts. “What kind of fool loses his wife to his best friend?”

  “You weren’t a fool,” I said slowly. “You were in love with her.”

  He looked at me in surprise. “In love with her? It seems impossible now, but I thought so. I thought it was love, but I was so very wrong. I have never known love, at least not until—”

  He broke off sharply and took a swift drink. My heart thudded against my ribs, and I was conscious of a single thought. Not like this.

  I changed the subject with brutal haste.

  “Why did she marry you if she was in love with John de Morgan?”

  He waved an impatient hand. “He was poor and his prospects were worse. Her parents would have permitted the match, but Caroline tortured him. She mocked his poverty and teased and tormented him. I thought it was silly banter, the games a comely girl will play with a suitor she does not mean to have. I excused her cruelty at the time, but it ought to have warned me. I ought to have seen her for what she was.” He passed a hand over his face. “God help me, I did. I did see the cruelty in her and I mistook it for a game. I never realized she meant it. I thought her wild and dangerous and exciting. And she was exactly what my parents wanted for me—beautiful and accomplished. She danced like an angel and spoke good French and that was supposed to be enough. But John knew.”

  “What were his feelings?”

  He spread his hands helplessly. “I don’t even know. He said almost nothing about her except that feeble attempt to talk me out of marrying her. I even joked that he was jealous, and he laughed with me. I ought to have seen he was half-sick with longing for her. They could not be within twenty feet of each other or they quarreled. I was so naïve,” he said, taking up the cup to drain it. “I thought they merely needed time to get to know one another better. It was important to me, I told them, that they become friends. I insisted upon the Amazonian trip as a means to bring them closer together.”

  He curled one lip in disgust. “Do you have any idea how much I have hated myself?”

  “For what?”

  “For all of it. For falling for her machinations and marrying her when I could not see her for what she was. For not understanding her or myself. For not pushing John to tell me what was really in his heart.” He paused. “Did you ever read mythology when you were a child?”

  “Insatiably.”

  “So did I. I was always affected by those couples who seemed destined for one another. Eurydice and Orpheus. Hero and Leander. Pyramus and Thisbe. I thought at some point in my life, I would have a great love like that, a woman fashioned by the gods just for me, as I had been made just for her, that we would find each other. I always believed she was waiting for me. But I did not wait for her. I married a base metal when the gods had promised me gold.” He gave a great sigh that seemed to empty him from the soul.

  “How did John come to marry her in the end? If he knew her true character?”

  His expression was bereft. “Because she got into his soul, and there is no cure for a man when a woman does that. She seduced him on the expedition, caught him in a moment of weakness, and when they were discovered and I was halfway to death’s door, they would have had only one way out then—they had to paint me as vicious a devil as they could. It was the only chance they had to salvage their life together. They sacrificed me to purchase a future, and I know what that cost John. He sold every last scrap of his self-respect when he did that to me. That is why he stood still and let
me beat him when we finally came face-to-face. Every blow I landed drew blood, and never once did he lift a finger to stop me.” His mouth twisted at the memory. “And when I had knocked him to the ground and you could hardly see his face for the blood, do you know what he did? The bastard smiled at me. He raised his hand in forgiveness and he smiled at me. And I turned on my heel and walked away. I left him, bleeding into the gutter, without a backwards glance.”

  He put aside the cup. “So now you know the worst of me, Veronica. It isn’t that I killed a man in Brazil or bought prostitutes or spent my youth in a thousand debaucheries. It is that my greatest pleasure in life has been beating a man nearly to death because he took what I loved. We are not supposed to rejoice in the pain of others, but it feeds me. Every time I think of him, taking what ought to have been mine—my wife, my name—and paying for it with his heart’s blood, I am glad of it.”

  “There are those who would tell you to give up such bitterness,” I told him. “That kind of hatred will only poison you from within.”

  He gave me a cold smile. “Do not fear for me, Veronica. The devil takes care of his own.”

  • • •

  It was Stoker’s idea for me to wear the diadem to the Tiverton reception at Karnak Hall that evening.

  “You must be joking,” I told him flatly. “It does not suit what I am wearing.” I had donned my best evening gown, a severely cut violet satin that flattered my figure and the color of my eyes. Innocent of the usual furbelows and embellishments, it boasted neither ruffles nor rosettes, only a graceful fall of fabric from a gently gathered bustle and a precise, almost military sharpness to the pin tucks.

  Stoker regarded me from the top of my neatly coiled hair to the tip of my purple evening slippers. He canted his head, studying my appearance with the critical eye of an artist.

  “I rather think it will do. The gown is quite plain, and you have no jewels. Against that witch black hair of yours, the coronet will show to good effect.”

  “I cannot simply appear wearing the crown of Princess Ankheset,” I protested. “In the first place, it is stolen property that must be returned to the Tivertons.”

  “They won’t mind,” he said dismissively. “No doubt the newspapers will have sent representatives, and seeing it displayed on the head of a beautiful woman will garner them inches in the press.”

  I ignored the compliment; it was not intended as such. Stoker was a scientist and merely made observations. If he thought me beautiful, it was only because of an accidental arrangement of proportions and features over which I had no control and could claim no credit.

  “I am not supposed to be making a spectacle of myself in the press, or had you forgot? My family won’t like it.”

  “Your family can hang for all I care,” he said succinctly.

  “Save your republican notions,” I warned him. “We cannot possibly explain this to the satisfaction of the Tivertons.”

  “Leave that to me,” he replied with the assurance of a man whose blood ran blue. “Besides, you are overlooking one important factor. If you appear wearing the diadem, we have the element of surprise. We already suspect Figgy and Lady Tiverton separately of some mischief. We can observe their reactions.”

  I hesitated. The scheme, while theatrical in the extreme, did appeal to me. While I pondered, Stoker reached out and slipped half a dozen pins from my hair.

  “That took the better part of an hour!” I protested. He ignored me entirely and busied himself redressing my hair until it tumbled about my shoulders, only the front half of it winged back, baring my temples. He lifted the diadem from its cotton nest, carefully settling it onto my hair. It fitted low on the brow, circling my head, and might have been a trifle too large but for the pinned locks that filled it snugly. He smoothed the slim golden ribbons, drawing one along either side of my face to frame it, and letting the others trail down the back, mingling with the tresses he had freed.

  He stepped back to observe his handiwork, scrutinizing from every angle. “It will do,” he pronounced finally. He handed me a mirror—a chinoiserie piece from a collection once belonging to Catherine the Great—and awaited my verdict. The violet of the gown highlighted the blue of the lapis and the purple of the plummy agates while the carnelians blazed orange fire with incendiary contrast. The effect was startling, and from the collarbone up, I looked quite unlike a modern Victorian woman.

  “I suppose you are right,” I told him with more reluctance than I felt. “Let us bait a mousetrap and I shall be the cheese.”

  CHAPTER

  16

  The hansom drew up to the curb in front of Karnak Hall, and I marveled at the difference a few days had made. The atmosphere was positively electric as carriages arrived, dispensing the great and the good dressed in their finest. Several of the ladies sported Egyptian-themed jewels or gowns, and I realized my diadem might not occasion as much discussion as Stoker and I had expected.

  The Metropolitan Police were in evidence as well. Caped bobbies strolled past, their uniforms smart, their buttons shined to brilliance, no doubt in honor of the expected arrival of the Prince of Wales. A few members of Special Branch milled about the crowd, keeping themselves discreetly at the edge of the gathering. I caught a brief glimpse of Mornaday, deep in conversation behind a potted palm. Ever the flirt, he had managed to find a slender young woman to dally with, although his expression was serious. I could not see hers, for her back was turned, but I was not surprised Mornaday had singled her out. He had an unfashionable partiality to ginger hair, I recollected with a smile. Stoker and I proceeded into the Hall in search of our hosts.

  Sir Leicester and Lady Tiverton were in the lobby, greeting guests as they arrived. The baronet was dressed in traditional evening wear, and his lady wore a silk gown of dove grey, unremarkable except for her own quiet grace and a spectacular necklace of Egyptian design. Her complexion was paler than I had seen it yet, with soft plum shadows beneath each eye. Her hand was laid upon her husband’s sleeve, the fingers curled protectively. She looked up as we approached, the first to see us, and gave a little gasp.

  The noise drew the attention of her husband. Sir Leicester swiveled his head like an owl, his gaze moving instantly to the diadem.

  “Miss Speedwell!” he exclaimed, his eyes fairly popping from their sockets.

  I fixed a bright smile. “I thought you would be pleased to see we have recovered it.”

  “‘Pleased’ is not the word,” he began.

  Stoker stepped up to my elbow. “We hoped that you would be so pleased you would overlook my gaucherie in persuading Miss Speedwell to wear it. A little joke,” he finished.

  Sir Leicester eyed the diadem. “I don’t know.” He hesitated. “It is, of course, a very valuable and ancient artifact.”

  Before Stoker could reply, Patrick Fairbrother approached looking harried. “Sir Leicester, I am sorry, but there is some question about the lighting of the dais when the sarcophagus is revealed, and I did not like to decide—” He broke off as he caught sight of the diadem. “I say, Miss Speedwell, is that—can it be—”

  “It is,” I replied, putting a tentative fingertip to the vulture hovering just above my brow.

  “But where—how did you recover it? Have you found John de Morgan?” Lady Tiverton asked anxiously.

  “We have not,” Stoker told her. “And we are happy to disclose how we happened to gain possession of the diadem, but not now. You have guests to whom you must attend. I presume this is the coronet that went missing when de Morgan disappeared?” He raised his brows, surveying the small group of Egyptologists.

  “Most assuredly,” Sir Leicester pronounced. He looked at Stoker. “I am still not persuaded that letting Miss Speedwell wear it is the soundest proposition.”

  “Oh, but, sir,” Fairbrother broke in. “Forgive me, but I think it a most excellent notion.” He glanced over his shoulder towards the
collection. “We did not anticipate its recovery, so we have no suitable vitrine for its display. The best we could do is jostle it in amidst the pots and canopic jars, and that hardly seems fitting. Far better to let it be shown to such superb effect upon the head of a lovely woman,” he finished, bowing slightly.

  His patron sighed. “I suppose you are right, Patrick.” He turned to his wife. “What say you, my dear?”

  She smiled. “Miss Speedwell looks quite magnificent. I think it could not be displayed half so well in any other fashion.”

  Sir Leicester nodded slowly. “All right, then. Miss Speedwell, I suppose I need not impress upon you the enormity of the responsibility you have taken on. You bear the weight of antiquity upon your head.”

  I murmured something suitable and turned to Lady Tiverton. “The crown is certainly remarkable, but your own jewel is very nearly as fine,” I said, nodding to the thickly beaded collar at her throat.

  “Do you like it, Miss Speedwell?” she asked, touching the necklace with a tentative fingertip. “It is a pectoral piece once belonging to Princess Ankheset.” She pitched her voice low. “My husband excavated it. It is a point of pride with him, and it is in tribute to Sir Leicester that I wear it, although I must confess I feel unworthy.”

  He caught the last of her statement and patted her hand. “None of that,” he said firmly. “It becomes you.”

  “And no doubt will further excite interest in the treasures you have brought out of Egypt,” Stoker said with calculated blandness.

  “Indeed, sir, indeed,” Sir Leicester agreed. He adopted a confiding tone. “I understand Figgy came to see you. I hope she didn’t make a nuisance of herself.”

  “Not at all,” I said. “She was calling upon Lady Wellingtonia and was interested in our work at the Belvedere. She is welcome at any time.”

  “I am glad to hear it.” Before he could reply further, Lady Tiverton gestured towards the decor of the Hall.

  “Was it not the greatest stroke of luck that we were able to secure this hall to display the finds? The setting is most atmospheric, is it not?”