A Curious Beginning (24 page)

I tipped my head. “You just admitted I am a scientist rather than a dilettante who chases pretty things with wings.”

“You do chase pretty things with wings,” he returned. “You do not like the poor hairy moths.”

“Don't be ridiculous. I mightn't like all of the moths, but some of them are quite resplendent.
Hyalophora cecropia
, for instance—”

He raised a hand. “You needn't justify yourself to me. As you say, we are entitled to our prejudices. I should be far happier to work upon a lioness than a vulture. We are mere humans, Veronica. We are destined to prefer beauty to ugliness.”

His mouth twisted upon these last words, and I wondered if he was thinking of his own altered beauty and if he felt somehow diminished by it.

Suddenly, I surged from my chair, this time in triumph. “I know what the inscription on the key means.”

“What?” he demanded.

“Where would you go to leave something of value?”

“A bank,” was the prompt reply.

“And what city are we in?”

“London.” Understanding kindled in his face. “BOL. Bank of London.”

“Exactly.”

“And OXST?” His eyes lit and he gave me a grin. “Oxford Street branch.”

I curled my hands into triumphant fists. “Yes! I know it is right. I
know
it.”

“Veronica,” he said gently, “what do you hope to find there?”

“Proof that my father did not harm my mother,” I replied. “Proof that he did. Something,
anything
that I can hold on to and know is real.”

He gave me a searching look, then a grudging nod. “That I can understand.”

“What did Mornaday mean when he spoke of your family history?” I asked.

He considered his hands as he formed his answer. “Let us simply say that Inspector Mornaday knows things that are none of his business—things that ought to have been buried years ago.”

“I should not have pried.”

He gave me a ghostly smile. “It isn't your knowing that I mind. It's the telling.” I said nothing and after a moment he went on. “My family and I are not close. That is why I use only a variation of my given name rather than the name Lord Templeton-Vane gave me,” he told me with a curl of his lip. “I do not speak to them and they do not speak to me. It is better that way. Old sins are never forgot, but they may be packed away.”

A thousand questions hung upon my lips, but I asked him none. Instead I changed the subject.

“You wagered me a guinea that my birth is somehow linked to the baron's death. If we discover everything we can about my father, then if you are correct, we will surely stand a better chance of finding the baron's killer.”

“True,” he said absently.

“And it is very kind of Inspector Mornaday to play the ally. He has bought us time, perhaps even enough to establish your innocence.”

Stoker fixed me with a searching look. “Are you really so naïve? Kindness has nothing to do with it.”

“Well, I admit he would certainly profit from it professionally if he manages to conclude this case successfully,” I acknowledged.

He gave a snort of laughter. “Mornaday is more compelled by his libido than his ambition. Ah, that was a palpable hit. It has brought a blush to your cheek.” He poured out a fresh cup of tea for himself and added a splash of whiskey.

Something about his tone and his casual dismissal of Mornaday irritated me. The fellow had delivered us, not once but twice, and it required little imagination to think Stoker resented his interference. I had little sympathy with such overweening masculine pride, and I resolved to prick it.

I raised my chin. “It has done nothing of the sort,” I retorted. “If Inspector Mornaday hopes for a carnal reward at the end of this, his hopes might not be entirely misplaced.”

Stoker spluttered upon his tea. “What?”

“You heard me. He is a handsome fellow,” I said, warming to my theme. “Handsome enough I might even be persuaded to break my rule against dalliances with Englishmen. He has expressive eyes and a pleasing way about him. And I believe I have already mentioned his lovely hands.”

Stoker swore fluently and shoved his teacup aside.

“Where are you going?” I asked sweetly.

“Out.”

“Mind you don't stray too far. I promised Lady Cordelia we should dine with her and his lordship tonight.”

The only response was the slamming of the Belvedere door behind him. I smiled and poured out another cup of tea.

S
toker was in such a filthy temper when he returned that I felt rather sorry for the Beauclerks for inflicting him upon them. He said scarcely a dozen words at dinner, restricting himself to complimenting Lady Cordelia on the lamb and Lord Rosemorran on the acquisition of a rather fine pelt of a Himalayan bear. It was left to the Beauclerks and to me to carry the flag of civility, and we managed quite nicely.

We settled onto the subject of travel, and his lordship was most interested to find I had been to Switzerland, a country of particular interest to him.

“And how did you find Switzerland, Miss Speedwell?” he asked as we started in on some elegant fish roulades.

“Very pleasant, so long as one is able to overlook the preponderance of goiter,” I replied.

That led to a thoroughly engrossing discussion on the efficacy of the Chinese methods of dealing with goiter, the Boxer Rebellion, opium addiction, the problem of crime in the East End, and the difficulty of finding a cook who could produce a really good blancmange.

Through our conversational meanderings, I also learned that Lady Cordelia claimed membership in the Hippolyta Club, founded to celebrate the achievements of remarkable women. I had long been intrigued by its reputation for accepting the most distinguished members, whose intelligence was equaled only by their accomplishments. Some of the less respectful society wags had christened it the Curiosity Club on the basis that its members were constantly sticking in their noses where ladies' noses ought not to be, but the members had adopted the epithet as a badge of honor. For her part, Lady Cordelia had been nominated on the strength of a paper she had written upon the subject of hyperintegers, mathematics being her particular passion. Scarcely able to multiply beyond the twelves myself, I was immensely impressed, and I turned to Lord Rosemorran, inviting him to share my respect.

“Oh yes, Cordelia and her numbers. Very useful for keeping the estate accounts,” he said with a fond look.

I looked back at Lady Cordelia, who was quietly dissecting her lamb into tiny pieces. It was the rankest chauvinism that he reduced her intellectual accomplishments to columns in a ledger, but I realized from her placid looks that Lady Cordelia must be well accustomed to his benign neglect, and I sighed for her. She gave me a small, conspiratorial smile, and I found myself liking her very much indeed.

For his part, Lord Rosemorran was keen to display his newest treasure, a stuffed Eurasian eagle owl he had purchased at auction. “Belonged to Voltaire. Was it Voltaire?” he asked, rummaging in his pocket for the card with the specimen's description. “Ah well. It makes little difference now he's mine. I mean to call him Tacitus.” He nudged me in the ribs with his elbow. “D'ye mark the joke? Rather good one that, calling a stuffed owl Tacitus.”

He was still chuckling when we took our leave, and while Stoker tarried a moment to discuss the new trophy with his lordship, Lady Cordelia walked me through the morning room to make the acquaintance of her lovebirds, Crates and Hipparchia. They had the freedom of an enormous cage of wrought iron, some ten feet in length, but they cuddled close together on a single perch, rather like their namesakes.

I said as much to Lady Cordelia and she smiled her gentle Madonna's smile. “They are devoted to one another,” she said. She was dressed, as ever, in deepest black, and as she spoke, she twisted a ring upon her finger. It was a mourning ring set with a single lock of hair the color of a russet apple.

She saw my glance and squared her shoulders, concealing her hands in the folds of her skirts. “How go your investigative efforts, Miss Speedwell?”

“We are moving forward,” I told her. “There was a development today, in fact, during the course of which I am sorry to say that I lost your revolver. You must allow me to replace it.”

She shook her head. “Do not trouble yourself. I only hope it proved useful.”

“Indeed it did.”

“Good,” she said. “You must let me know if you require further protection of firearms. His lordship has quite a collection.”

“For the love of God, do not encourage her,” Stoker instructed as he strode up to join us.

“I am not encouraging,” she said calmly. “I am abetting.” She turned to me. “You are striking a blow for all of us with your adventures, Miss Speedwell. I hope you know that.”

I thought of her then, her brilliant mathematician's mind wasted upon grocers' bills and linen counts, and I pressed her hand in return. “I will do my best not to let down the side, Lady Cordelia.”

•   •   •

When Stoker and I returned to the snug in the Belvedere, I poured us each a stiff measure of whiskey, but when I attempted to introduce the subject of the latest developments in our adventure, he held up a repressive hand.

“No.”

“No?”

“Not tonight. As you noted earlier, we have been the victims of a thwarted abduction, swum halfway across the Thames, received cryptic revelations from Mornaday, and I cannot speak for you, but my head throbs. I am going to drink this and then go to bed, where I intend to sleep at least twelve hours. We have all of tomorrow to bat theories around like so many shuttlecocks. Until then, I am my own man.”

With that pronouncement, he took his glass and stalked off to the sofa, where he arranged himself with some difficulty, his long legs half-hanging over the arm.

“All right,” I agreed amiably. “We shall not speak of the murder or any of its attendant questions.”

We were silent awhile, companionably so. Stoker read a journal of zoology while I occupied myself with my own mammalian studies. I had become aware of an annoyingly insistent biological demand, which I had initially attributed to the excitement of our recent adventures. The urge for physical congress is closely linked to that of survival, I reasoned, and we had been fleeing from danger.

It had also been, I thought sadly, far too long since my last erotic indulgence. I began to count backward on my fingers to my last journey, but the task soon proved depressing. To say that I longed for a little male companionship would be an understatement so extreme as to be criminal. I fairly vibrated with need, and I knew from experience that my body's demands would only grow more urgent unless they were slaked. And while Stoker might be a little lacking in finesse, I had little doubt he could employ his admirably nimble hands and well-proportioned frame to great effect. He also had the advantage of proximity, I reflected.

Too great a proximity.
He was a fellow countryman, and therefore entirely out of bounds to me, I reminded myself with mingled disappointment and relief. I would have appreciated the satisfaction of a carnal paroxysm—in my experience, they bring a sparkle to the eye as well as brightness to the complexion and a spring to the step—but using Stoker to achieve that end was a means I could not begin to contemplate. Tumbling in the sheets with a man was one thing; facing him the next morning over the toast rack was another matter entirely.

Still, I found myself curious about how he managed his own physiological needs. He had shown himself immensely responsive—even against his will—to Salome's efforts. And during our brief embrace in the shadows, he had given every indication of an extremely passionate nature held firmly in check. I pondered the question for some time before my curiosity got the better of me.

“It occurs to me, Stoker, I have made no secret of the fact that I am accustomed to a certain amount of regular and health-giving exercise of the intimate variety whilst abroad,” I began. “And I think I must arrange a trip abroad soon if my health is not to suffer the consequences. It has been too long.” I tipped my head as I looked him over from tousled hair to scuffed boots. “How long has it been for you?”

He turned a shocked face to me. “That is bloody well none of your business!”

I shrugged. “Why? We are both scientists. I see no reason we cannot speak frankly of biological things. I find myself quite often distracted by such thoughts, and I merely wondered how you managed. Is there a technique you find effective in managing your urges?”

He raised his hands as if to ward off evil. “Stop. Now. I beg you.”

I blinked. “You mean you do not wish to talk about it?”

“That is precisely what I mean.”

I gave him a repressive look. “Oh, come now, Stoker. Don't be coy. Tell me. How long has it been for you?”

To my astonishment, he blushed. “It has been some time, years in fact—” He ground to a stop.

“How very extraordinary,” I murmured.

“Is it? A gentleman is supposed to hold himself to a certain standard,” he reminded me coldly.

“And yet you go to such lengths to pretend you do not deserve the title in other respects, it is curious you should cling so tightly to your scruples in this.”

“It is not when you consider—” He broke off.

“When I consider what?” I prodded gently.

He said nothing for a long moment, and when he spoke, it was with a seriousness of purpose that would not be gainsaid. “I have my reasons,” he told me. “And I must beg you to respect them.” He hesitated and went on in a rough voice. “I have not always conducted myself as a gentleman; that much is true. But I am set upon a different path now. I no longer believe that degrading myself with slatterns and tavern wenches is appropriate.”

I very nearly laughed, but his expression was so earnest, I could not. Instead I sat up. “Slatterns and tavern wenches? That's a curious sort of company to keep.”

“Brazil is a curious place.”

“Brazil? You have not lain with a woman since
Brazil
? Stoker, that was years ago.”

“And?” he demanded.

“You must engage in horizontal refreshment. It isn't healthy to congest oneself like that.”

“I am not congested,” he retorted.

“Really? That brings me back to my question. You are a man with demonstrably strong passions, and yet you live like a monk. What about the solitary sensual pursuits? Do you ever engage in—”

“Not. Another. Word,” he thundered. “I cannot believe you would ask me such a thing. And I am not discussing this further.”

I pulled a face. “Very well.”

It was his turn to blink in surprise. “Really? You concede? Just like that?”

“Heavens, Stoker. What did you expect? I asked for the truth and you have given as much as you feel comfortable sharing. Furthermore, I have discovered that whether you like it or not, you are a gentleman. And, I suspect, a romantic.”

He snorted. “A romantic?”

“Indeed. Otherwise you would have made frequent and athletic use of any number of London's professional ladies of light virtue. While as a pragmatist, I do not always understand romanticism, I respect it.”

“Well, then,” he said uncertainly.

“Indeed. Good night, Stoker.”

Retreating behind a rather splendid coromandel screen, I availed myself of the narrow campaign bed that had once belonged to the Duke of Wellington. Its proportions were modest, but it was comfortably furnished with a proper featherbed. I settled in, reflecting upon the curious character of the man with whom I had thrown in my lot. I could hear him turning the pages of the journal as he read, occasionally giving a low sigh as he arranged himself more comfortably. At length he blew out the lamp and we lay in darkness, separated by the screen. It was oddly companionable.

Something about his quickness of mind, his determination to live by his own lights, had called to me. I recognized his nature as my own. It was as if we were two castaways from a far-off land, adrift among strangers whose ways we could not entirely understand. But something within us spoke the same language, for all our clashes of words. He did not trust me entirely; that much was certain. And I frequently frustrated him to the point of madness. But I knew that whatever bedeviled him, he had need of me—and it seemed a betrayal to turn my back upon one of my own kind. I had seldom met another such as we, and I had learned that to be a child of the wilderness was a lonely thing.

Lying in the dark, I had intended to puzzle out the clues we had and assemble them in perfect order to present to Stoker the following morning as a dazzling solution in the manner of Arcadia Brown, Lady Detective. But just as I began to arrange the clues in my mind, I heard Stoker's voice.

“Cold water.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He gave a gusty sigh. “Try cold water. Bathing in it, not drinking. A swim is the best if you can manage it. It will put you right off of those sorts of thoughts.”

“Thank you, Stoker. I shall make a note of that.”

He snorted by way of response. Smiling into the darkness, I surrendered to the soothing delights of goose down and linen sheets and sank into a sleep like death.

When I woke, I could tell it was morning although the light was watery and grey. The fine weather had broken and a dull day lay before us with the steady drum of rain upon the roof. I rose and washed and dressed, taking a bit of cheese and a cold ham roll for my breakfast. Stoker was still slumbering upon the sofa, and I took a moment to admire the prospect presented by a virile, attractive man caught in the vulnerability of sleep. I would have happily played Diana to his Endymion, but in the light of our previous discussion, I kept my hands chastely to myself and began to prowl with only the mollusks and the stuffed birds and paintings for company. I browsed the books and perused the collections, delighted to find a private translation of Maria Sibylla Merian's
Der Raupen wunderbare Verwandlung und sonderbare Blumennahrung
. I had just settled in happily with the first volume of
The Caterpillars' Marvelous Transformation and Strange Floral Food
when I became increasingly aware that I was not alone. From behind a molting egret standing upon one leg, a quizzical pair of dark eyes assessed me.

“Who are you?”