A Murderous Relation

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  His boots no longer a problem and Eddy recovered, Stoker applied himself with a clear head to the issue of navigation and soon had us on the correct course. He shepherded us through the dark streets until we reached Whitechapel High Street and the long road towards home.

  CHAPTER

  19

  We moved slowly, as much from the blanketing fog as from Stoker’s injuries and Eddy’s inebriated fatigue. Now that the excitement of the flight had ebbed, stiffness had settled into our bones. Our footsteps flushed a few pairs of lovers trysting in alleyways and the occasional transient settled for the night under a bit of accommodating shrubbery. More than one bobby gave us a penetrating glance, but no one stopped us, and as we crossed by, the bells of the Church of the Immaculate Conception in Mayfair struck the hour of four in the morning.

  “I quite forgot,” Eddy said sleepily, “where are we bound?”

  “My brother’s house,” Stoker told him.

  “Oh, indeed?” Eddy blinked to wakefulness. “And why are we going there? Is Lord Templeton-Vane expecting us?”

  “Not that brother,” he said shortly.

  He led us to a peaceful square a few streets from Tiberius’ address, where the houses were a little more modest but no less expensive. Keeping to the shadows, we slipped down the area stairs to the small, discreet entrance for domestic endeavors, waiting whilst Stoker rapped softly at the door. After a long moment, a butler appeared, dressing gown rigidly tied and nightcap so tidy I wondered if he slept standing up. He opened the door with a scowl, but at the sight of Stoker, he reared back in astonishment.

  “Mr. Stoker! Good evening, sir,” he said with a bow from the neck. “Is everything quite all right?”

  “It will be, Dearsley. Would you please rouse Sir Rupert and let him know I am here.”

  “Certainly, sir, but would you and your party not be more comfortable in the drawing room?” he asked.

  A small smile played about Stoker’s lips. “I rather think a bit of discretion is in order,” he said in a conspiratorial whisper.

  Dearsley bowed again. “As you wish, sir. I will be but a moment. May I offer you or your companions refreshment?” He eyed Eddy, who was weaving conspicuously on his feet. “Perhaps a little strong black coffee?”

  “After you’ve wakened my brother,” Stoker told him.

  “Very good.” Dearsley hurried away and Stoker and I went through to the kitchen, settling Eddy on a chair, where he promptly nodded off again.

  It was only a moment or two later before the master of the house appeared, Dearsley close behind.

  “Stoker, what the devil—oh, I do say, pardon me, Miss Speedwell. I did not see you there.” In contrast to his butler, Rupert looked decidedly askew, his dressing gown obviously tied in some haste and his silvering chestnut hair disordered. He smoothed it down as he spoke, and tugged his dressing gown closed over his bare shins, but not before I noticed that he—like Tiberius and Stoker—had rather fine legs.

  “Good evening, Sir Rupert—or should I say good morning?” I asked pleasantly.

  He eyed my costume with its rather exuberant display of bosom and immediately jerked his gaze away, blushing furiously. “Stoker, I do hope you have an excellent reason for keeping Miss Speedwell out and about at such an hour,” he said.

  Stoker’s only reply was to point to Eddy, slumped and slumbering in his chair. Sir Rupert looked once, then gave a start, peering closely at the sleeping prince.

  “Is that—”

  “Yes,” Stoker told him.

  Rupert sniffed deeply. “Has he been—”

  “Yes, to excess, but it was entirely understandable under the circumstances,” I assured him.

  Sir Rupert’s expression was pained. He gestured for Dearsley to close the kitchen door and set to making the coffee before turning once more to us. “I do not mean to be insulting, you understand, but I do hope you will forgive the indelicacy of the question: did you, by any chance, abduct this young person?”

  “We did not,” Stoker assured him.

  “Although he was abducted,” I pointed out. “But not by us.”

  “We liberated him,” Stoker added.

  “It was the least we could do,” I put in. “He was at least partially abducted because of us.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Stoker argued. “I think they would have taken him if we hadn’t been there, although it certainly played perfectly into their scheme to kidnap us together.”

  “Oh yes,” I agreed as Rupert pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “Would you care to start at the beginning?” he encouraged.

  “Certainly,” Stoker said. By unspoken agreement, we all fell silent until Dearsley finished brewing the coffee. He set the pot and various impedimenta on the table and discreetly withdrew, leaving us to convene our council of war, as it were. I played mother, pouring out a steaming cup for the brothers and another for Eddy, putting it to the side to cool just a little as he rested.

  “Nothing to eat?” Stoker asked his brother hopefully.

  Sir Rupert spread his hands. “There are bananas on that sideboard, but otherwise, I am afraid I cannot help you. I do not know where the key to the larder is kept.”

  I was not surprised; few gentlemen even knew where their kitchens were. Stoker had just opened his mouth—no doubt to offer to pick the larder lock—when the kitchen door opened and a tall, statuesque figure appeared. Her dressing gown was exceptionally fine violet silk and her nightcap was Belgian lace and neatly tied under her chin, and she carried herself with as much dignity as if she were wearing Court dress.

  “Stoker!” she exclaimed in genuine pleasure. She came forwards, extending her hands, and Stoker jumped to his feet.

  “Hullo, Lavinia. I am sorry to have woken the household,” he said. She put up her cheek to be kissed and he obliged.

  “Think nothing of it, dear boy. We don’t see half enough of you,” she assured him in a low and musical voice. She caught sight of me then and smiled. “You must be Miss Speedwell. Tiberius has spoken of you with the highest admiration,” she told me.

  “That’s very kind of you, Lady Templeton-Vane,” I said.

  She glanced around the table. “I see Dearsley has managed coffee, but there ought to be food, and if I know Stoker, it ought to be sweet.” She drew a key from her pocket and opened the larder, carrying out a large fruitcake, cheese, a small cold ham, and some chutney. She made quick work of carving the ham and putting out plates. “There now, eat up. And perhaps when you are finished you will explain why the future King of England is intoxicated in my kitchen,” she finished in the same pleasant tone.

  Rupert sighed. “I suppose it is not worth asking you to go back to bed and pretend you haven’t seen him?”

  “It is not,” she acknowledged. “Stoker, I presume there is a story to tell?”

  “There is, Lavinia.” With admirable clarity he apprised his brother and sister-in-law of the situation, omitting only my identity as the semi-legitimate daughter of the Prince of Wales.

  “You say your uncle is involved?” Sir Rupert asked. As a party to our first encounter with de Clare, Rupert already knew my secret, but as a barrister, he would consider himself bound to secrecy, and the shrewd look he gave me as he listened to Stoker’s tale conveyed that he understood the purpose of the abduction plot perfectly.

  “He is,” I confirmed. “Has there been any word of the prince’s disappearance?”

  Lady Templeton-Vane shook her head, setting her lace ruffles to waving. “Nothing in the newspapers and I daresay we would have heard a whisper or two.”

  “It has only been twenty-four hours since he was taken from Madame Aurore’s establishment,” Rupert pointed out. “It may well be that his sister has been thorough enough in concocting a story that no one at Balmoral has missed him.”

  “Then we must
return him to Balmoral before they do,” she said serenely.

  Sir Rupert goggled at her. “I beg your pardon, Lavinia.” It was not a question. Sir Rupert was clearly and completely appalled.

  But his wife of twenty years was unruffled. “Rupert, it is quite simple. The prince is here, in our kitchen. What is easier than smuggling him out into the mews into our carriage and taking him to the station? He would be conspicuous in our company in those tradesman’s clothes,” she went on, “but Lucius left several suits of clothes in his wardrobe before he went off to Cambridge and I daresay something of his will come near enough to fitting the prince.”

  “I am not concerned with the sartorial practicalities,” Sir Rupert began.

  “You ought to be,” Lavinia Templeton-Vane said calmly. “Stoker, do have another piece of fruitcake. I know how much you like this receipt. Grated apple is the secret.”

  Sir Rupert cleared his throat. “My dear—”

  “Oh, don’t ‘my dear’ me!” his wife erupted, startling us all. “I am always hearing from you and Tiberius about the grand adventures Stoker and Miss Speedwell are getting up to. Did it never occur to you that I might like a grand adventure myself?” she challenged, lifting her chin.

  Sir Rupert opened his mouth, then closed it again, wordlessly.

  Lady Templeton-Vane went on, putting an imploring hand to her husband’s sleeve. “We are not too old for an escapade, Rip,” she said gently. “I will order Dearsley to pack a hamper while we dress. We will give His Royal Highness plenty of coffee and food and a proper suit of clothes, and then we will take him to the station and board the first train for Scotland.”

  “And what then?” Sir Rupert asked in a dazed tone.

  She shrugged. “We have hours on the train with the prince to concoct a reasonable story in the event he has been missed. If there is any storm at all, it will be a tempest in a teacup if he returns in the company of a sober middle-aged couple of respectable reputation. You are one of the nation’s most distinguished barristers, Rupert, and I am the patroness of seven charities. No one would believe the prince has been carrying on in a scandalous fashion if he has been in our company.”

  “She does have a point,” Stoker put in. “Several of them, actually.”

  “I am well aware,” Rupert replied in a mild tone. “I have long said the only person who has ever bested me in an argument is my wife. She would have made a far better barrister than I.”

  “Do not talk about her as if she were not here,” his wife instructed, smiling as she poured another cup of coffee for Stoker. She gave me a glance. “I do wonder, Miss Speedwell, if that frock is entirely to your taste?”

  “It is not,” I assured her.

  “Then we will find you something more suitable as well,” she promised.

  “I think it best if we give them the loan of the carriage instead,” Sir Rupert put in. “It will have them to Marylebone and back by the time we have need of it, and at least we will spare ourselves the possibility of them being arrested for vagrancy from wandering the streets at this hour.”

  To my surprise, Stoker agreed, and Rupert sent Dearsley to rouse the coachman. It was some minutes until the carriage was standing ready in the mews, and we passed the time in finishing the impromptu meal and exchanging pleasantries. Lady Templeton-Vane trod a fine line between her natural curiosity and her innate courtesy, asking questions of me but taking great care not to pry.

  When the soft knock came at the kitchen door to signal the carriage’s arrival, she put out her hand to me. “It has been a very great pleasure to meet you, my dear. I hope you will come for tea so that we may get better acquainted.”

  “I would like that,” I told her and was rather surprised to find that I meant it.

  Stoker kissed her soundly on the cheek as I shook hands with Sir Rupert. “Miss Speedwell, it is, as ever, a most interesting encounter.”

  I grinned. “I do hope, Sir Rupert, that someday we will meet when we are not obliged to depend upon you for a service.”

  “Do not distress yourself, Miss Speedwell,” his wife assured me. “He is never happier than when he is of use.”

  They exchanged a smile of long familiarity and fell to talking with Stoker as I went to wake Eddy. I touched him gently on the shoulder and he roused himself with a start. I handed him the coffee and explained where he was and what would happen next.

  “So the Templeton-Vanes will see you safely back to Balmoral and that should be an end of the matter,” I told him.

  “And Archibond?” he demanded.

  I shrugged. “Without either of us in his power, there is precious little he can do. No doubt as soon as we were lost to him, he took to his heels. A man like that would never leave his survival to chance. I have every confidence that he had an escape plan in place, and that de Clare has scuttled back to his hole in Ireland or perhaps even abroad this time. Still, to make certain their misdeeds are known to the authorities, Stoker and I will explain everything to Sir Hugo Montgomerie. If either ever sets foot in this country, or attempts to use the diamond star against you, he will be held accountable, Your Royal Highness,” I promised.

  His moustaches drooped a little. “You were calling me Eddy, but I suppose the time for that is past.”

  “It is.”

  He took my hand in his. “I do not know if we will meet again, Veronica. Papa—” He broke off, struggling for words.

  “Your papa mightn’t like it,” I finished for him. “I have to go now, Eddy. The carriage is here.”

  He walked with us as far as the door, holding my hand the whole while. As I moved away, he suddenly clasped me to him, putting his long arms around me and holding me close, his head ducked against my neck. I hesitated, then returned his embrace for a fierce moment. He was spoilt and sometimes silly, thoughtless and young for his age. But there was a sweetness to him, a childlike candor that touched me, and I realized it might be the only time in the whole of my life that I would have the chance to hold a younger brother in my arms.

  After a long minute, I moved away. I stepped into the carriage and heard Stoker slam the door behind us, knocking once upon the roof. The wheels turned slowly, rolling us away from the quiet mews and the people we left behind. I did not look back.

  CHAPTER

  20

  It was nearly dawn by the time we reached Lord Rosemorran’s estate at Bishop’s Folly. We had passed exhaustion many hours back, but we took precautions, aware that there was a slender chance that de Clare and Archibond had anticipated our returning home. We left the carriage in the next street and walked around the estate, entering by means of a hidden door in the far side of the walled property.

  No sooner had we set foot on the grounds than the dogs rushed us, Huxley and Bet and Nut flinging themselves at us in an ecstasy of welcome. Stoker fell to his knees from a particularly ill-placed thrust of Bet’s head, and I occupied myself with scratching Huxley and Nut lavishly about the ears.

  “They would have alerted anyone to strangers on the premises,” I told Stoker, and he, too weary to speak, merely nodded. I helped him to his feet and, his arm draped over my shoulders, guided him to my little Gothic chapel. I drew off the borrowed boots, now falling to tatters, but did not help him undress further. He had fallen backwards onto the bed as soon as I began to tug and was completely asleep by the time the second boot hit the floor. The dogs arranged themselves around him protectively, and I covered him with a quilt pieced together from bits of clerical vestments. I pulled off my borrowed feathers—dress, hat, and boots—and did not bother with the rest, merely wrapping myself in my dressing gown and curling into a question mark on the little red sofa that had once graced an archbishop’s palace. It was chilly in the chapel, and my last thought was how nice it would be to light a fire . . .

  I awoke to sunlight streaming over my face, the night’s fog burned away in a blaze of autumna
l gold. I looked at once to the bed. Stoker was sitting up, leaving traces of blood and soot on the sheets along with copious amounts of dog hair.

  “You are up early,” I said cheerfully.

  He gave me a sour look. “If you dare to be merry, I will filet you like a haddock. I had a ghastly night’s sleep and I feel like something death might have forgotten.”

  “You will end up with forty kinds of blood poisoning if we don’t attend to those wounds,” I told him. “Let me just—”

  “I am off to have a wash,” he said shortly. “I can manage.”

  He was gone, taking the dogs with him, before I could form a suitable reply.

  I made a lengthy and thorough toilette, scrubbing off every vestige of the past few days and dressing myself in my favorite ensemble, my hunting costume. Designed for chasing butterflies, it had proven eminently suitable for our work as well. It consisted of a fitted white shirtwaist buttoned under a waistcoat of black and violet tweed. A narrow tweed skirt concealed slim trousers and long boots, laced to the knee. Topping it all was a jacket, cut severely but cleverly so that there was no extra fabric but plenty of range of movement. The skirt had an arrangement of buttons enabling it to be tucked out of the way in any number of configurations. I slid a handful of minuten—the tiny headless pins used by lepidopterists to secure their prey—into my cuffs, and tucked my favorite knife into my boot. I had no intention of being caught unawares again, I reflected grimly.

  Dressed and clean, I presented myself at Lady Wellie’s rooms to find Lord Rosemorran just emerging. He wore his usual expression of vague benignity as he stopped to speak.

  “How is Lady Wellie?” I asked.

  “No appreciable change. She drifts in and out of consciousness, but seems comfortable.”

  “I am glad to know she is no worse,” I told him.