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

But it is good to be cautious in these waters, and I would not have you miss one of our best beauties out there,” he added with a nod towards the Sisters.

“It sounds quite tranquil.”

“It is. One would think the Isle could provide such peace, but we are a bustling little place, what with a blacksmith and cider presses and quarries. On the Sisters, one has only the gulls for company, and the occasional seal.”

“And perhaps a mermaid?”

“Perhaps. Although they have been in short supply these past centuries.”

He fell silent then and I thought of his lost bride and wondered about her fate. Had she met with mischance, falling to a murderer’s dastardly intentions? Or had she run away from a marriage she could not face? If she had left of her own accord, that raised the question of how she had made her escape. Did she take a boat, veil tossing in the wind? Had she rowed herself to one of the Sisters to meet someone? More to the point, what had driven her to abandon her bridegroom on their wedding day? It seemed impossible that this attractive man could have said or done anything to frighten or alarm her.

And yet. Had I not just witnessed a fine display of temper directed at his nephew? For all his courtly ways, Malcolm Romilly had a way with rage. Had Rosamund ever borne the brunt of it? Had he frightened her somehow?

They were questions I could not ask. I turned to Malcolm, who still stared at the Sisters. “I wonder . . .” he whispered.

“Mr. Romilly?” I prompted.

He shook himself. “Malcolm, please. I apologize for my inattention. Building castles in Spain, I’m afraid. A common failing of mine, as anyone will tell you. Now, I suspect you would like to know more about the glasswing butterflies,” he said, turning to guide me back up the staircases and into the library. He moved to the bookshelf behind his desk, running his hand down the rank of books before plunging in to retrieve a large volume bound in bottle-green kid. “Here we are. Butterflies of St. Maddern’s Isle by Euphrosyne Romilly. She was an ancestor of mine, one of the first aurelians,” he told me.

He handed it to me and I opened it to find pages of illustrations, each carefully tinted by hand. “These are originals!” I exclaimed.

“Oh, yes. Grandmama Euphrosyne had that book bound in order to keep her collection of illustrations in one place. Not only did she document every butterfly found upon the islands, she included sketches of their habitats and notes on their habits—eating, mating, duration of pupation, and other quite technical terms with which I am thoroughly unfamiliar. It is quite comprehensive.”

“It is amazing,” I breathed, hardly daring to touch the book.

“Take it with you,” he urged. “Study it at your leisure.”

“Are you quite certain? It is almost impossibly valuable,” I warned him. “I realize it is important to your family collection, but within the history of English lepidoptery, this book is incalculably rare.”

“I am entirely certain. There are notes of where to find the glasswings that might prove useful to you. Things haven’t changed all that much on the island in a century,” he told me.

I thanked him profusely and clutched the book to my chest as I left him. I turned at the door to thank him again, but he was not looking at me. He had moved to the window and was staring out at the grey sea stretching to the horizon.

CHAPTER

7

I hastened to my room with my trophy and read through teatime. I missed the bell entirely, so engrossed was I, and Mrs. Trengrouse appeared a little while after with Daisy bearing a tray. “A little morsel, miss,” the housekeeper explained, shooing the maid from the room as soon as the girl had placed her burden upon the narrow writing desk. “Tea is served downstairs, but I thought you might like something special,” she told me, and I realized this was a sort of reward for my discretion with respect to Helen Romilly’s inebriation. Mrs. Trengrouse went on. “There is a plate of wine biscuits and a glass of our own red wine if you want a bit of proper refreshment. The grapes are grown here on the island on the vineyard head.”

I looked up from my book, blinking hard. “Vineyard head?”

“The spit of land to the southwest. The soil and winds make it suitable for the growing of grapes. ’Tis not a fine vintage, mind you, but quite nice enough for the luncheon wines,” she assured me.

“I am certain it will be delicious,” I told her.

She paused and looked at the enormous book in my lap and the notebook tucked under my chin. “If you would like to work comfortably, I can have one of the lads bring up a proper table. The writing desk is fine for a lady’s letters, but that book is far too cumbersome. You would want to spread your things out a little, I should think.”

I thought of the narrow stairs approaching my room. “That sounds like a great deal of trouble.”

“Not in the slightest,” she told me. She left, and I returned to my book, nibbling absently at the wine biscuits and tasting the wine. It was light and flinty with a hint of something unusual, a mineral quality that I attributed to the rocky soil of the island. I preferred the heavier vintages I had sampled in Madeira and put it aside, devoting my attention to the biscuits instead. Richly spiced and tasting strongly of pepper, they were delectable and I was just finishing the last crumb when a knock sounded at the door. A burly lad entered when I bade, carrying a plain table in one hand.

“Where shall I put this then, miss?” he asked in the soft Cornish accent of the local folk.

“Under the window, thank you,” I instructed. He set it neatly into place and then returned in a moment