A Dangerous Collaboration (A Veronica Speedwell Mystery) by Deanna Raybourn (english novels for students .txt) 📕

I was not surprised at his justification. He was forever distributing coins to the filthy waifs who trundled to our doors with barrows of fruit or half-read newspapers or bits of nasty embroidery stitched by consumptive sisters. He was the softest of touches.

I fell into step beside him and we started up the path again, walking for a few minutes in silence. We had passed many hours in comfortable quietude with one another, but this constraint was new and unwelcome, and I was uncertain of how to put it right. I only knew that I could not take back the words I had spoken the previous night. He might disagree with my position, but I could no more change it than I could change the course of the sun. “I hope you are at least consoled that I am in no danger from whatever attentions your brother may offer. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself, as I have just demonstrated with ample effectiveness,” I said with a penetrating glance at his manly areas.

He gave me a level look. “I would never make the mistake of thinking you needed anyone.”

With that, he picked up his pace with a long-legged stride, leaving me to gape after him. “You ought to hurry if you want to beat the storm,” he called over his shoulder. “I hear it’s going to be absolutely monsoonal.”

He did not turn to see if I followed, which was probably for the best. He would not have appreciated the gesture I directed to his back.

CHAPTER

6

I arrived back at the castle just as the deluge began. Mrs. Trengrouse was waiting at the door. “I will take those boots if you please, miss,” she said. “And I have brought your slippers.”

“How very kind.” I smiled. “And desperately efficient. I should have tracked mud all over your lovely carpets otherwise.”

She took my boots, holding the muddy things at arm’s length away from the pristine linen of her apron. “The others have just gathered in the dining parlor for luncheon,” she told me. “If you would like to wash, there is a small water closet just behind that bit of paneling.” She nodded towards a length of linenfold. I pressed it experimentally and it sprang open to reveal a tiny modern room devoted to hygienic purposes.

“What a clever arrangement. I should never have known it was there,” I said.

She gave a satisfied nod. “The castle is full of such devices. There was no way to build up or out beyond the original structure, so the masters of St. Maddern’s have had to be clever in putting in cupboards and water closets and boot rooms and the like. They are fitted in wherever, which makes it all a bit higgledy-piggledy. But if you discover you are lost, you’ve only to give a shout and one of the maids will come and find you. The small dining parlor is just along this corridor,” she added.

I thanked her and, after washing my hands and tidying my hair, made my way to the dining parlor. “Miss Speedwell!” Malcolm Romilly said with alacrity. “Now the company is at last complete. Please, do be seated,” he said, gesturing towards the round table in the middle of the room. It ought to have been a bright chamber, for the long windows faced the sea, but the gathering storm had darkened the room and a large candelabrum had been lit in the center of the table, the fitful light throwing shadows about the room.

Malcolm Romilly drew the curtains—heavy lengths of dark blue silk—against the storm, making the room cozy and womblike. “Much better,” he murmured, taking his seat. A sideboard had been laid with all manner of things: a tureen of piping-hot soup, roasted chickens and a vast ham, bowls of pickles and wedges of good cheese. There were dishes of curried lamb and a duck salad, venison pie, and an enormous baron of cold beef, as well as baked macaroni and fresh bread rolls. Beside these sat the expected cruets and sauceboats and pickle dishes offering every accompaniment from chutney to peaches bottled with brandy and spices.

“It is an old custom,” Malcolm told me as we filled our plates informally. “Called a groaning board. Centuries ago, the master of St. Maddern’s would keep a table for anyone on the island who might be hungry, with an assortment of dishes left from the family dinner the night before. Somehow, the custom was adapted and the groaning board is for the castle folk and the dishes are all made fresh, but it does make for a curious variety.”

“It looks delicious,” I told him, adding a slice of ham to my plate.

“All of the meat and vegetables come from the island, and the cherry compote is from Mertensia’s stillroom,” he said with a fond look at his sister. We had taken our seats and at the sound of her name, Mertensia roused herself.

“Yes, this was rather a good lot, if I say it myself,” she said. She turned to Stoker. “You must try a spoonful of it.”

“Certainly,” he said happily as she ladled out enough cherry compote to feed four men. Stoker’s sweet tooth was legendary and it seemed that Mertensia had discovered this.

Caspian Romilly lifted his plate to his aunt, his expression deliberately innocent. “May I have some as well, or is it only for the gentlemen you fancy?”

“Caspian,” his mother murmured in the mildest tone of reproof. “You mustn’t twit your aunt.”

“I wasn’t,” he replied, widening his beautiful eyes to mock innocence. “I was encouraging her.”

Mertensia’s gaze fell to her plate, two bright, hard spots of color rising in her cheeks.

“Delicious,” Stoker pronounced, brandishing a spoonful. “And unexpected. Is there some spice?”

Mertensia looked up, her expression almost pathetically grateful. “Cardamom.”

“A family recipe or your own addition?” he inquired.

“My own,” she told him, watching with greedy eyes as he spooned the last of the dark, sticky stuff into his mouth.

•   •   •

After luncheon we went