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

“You dreadful man. I ought to have known. Stoker warned me, but I would not listen. You’ve dragged me down here for some nefarious purpose and I mean to know what it is.”

I stood with my back firmly against the door as I waited for his reply. He stripped off his evening coat and waistcoat and began yanking at his neckcloth, long fingers plucking irritably at the silk. “Dragged you? My dear Veronica, I had only to mention the glasswings and you were fairly begging to come.”

“Semantics,” I said firmly. “Now, what is this all about? What is Malcolm Romilly playing at with this gathering and what the devil happened to Rosamund?”

He arched a brow at me. It was an effective gesture, one Stoker often attempted and rarely achieved. “Excellent questions. I wish I knew the answers.”

“What do you mean?”

He plucked at his studs, removing each and dropping them to a tray upon the washstand before removing his collar and cuffs. “Lucky for you the master of the house didn’t see you creeping into my bedchamber like a lady of imperfect virtue. Malcolm is something of a prude, you know. He would be mightily shocked if he knew you were here right now.”

“He will be more shocked if he has to treat you for the injuries I am about to inflict if you do not begin answering my questions.”

He gave a short bark of laughter in spite of himself. “God, I was right to bring you,” he said, stripping off his shirt. His musculature was not as impressive as Stoker’s but it was a glorious thing in its own right. He was long and sleekly sensuous as a Praxitelean statue, and under other circumstances my fingertips would have itched to discover if that marble perfection was as solid as it looked. He took up a dressing gown of black silk and knotted it about his waist.

He gestured towards the chairs by the fire. “Would you like to make yourself comfortable? Or would you prefer the bed?” He chose the bed for himself, lounging against the pillows and patting the coverlet invitingly.

I remained where I was. “Tiberius.”

He gave a gusty sigh. “Very well.” He laced his hands behind his head and stared up at the canopy of the bed. The fabric had been gathered in a complex starburst pattern, pleated elaborately and most likely at great expense. “To repeat what you have already learnt this evening, three years ago Rosamund and Malcolm Romilly were married here in the castle. On their wedding day, Rosamund disappeared—apparently in her wedding gown and veil.”

“Apparently?”

“No one saw her leave,” he said in a flat monotone. “The wedding cake was left to molder, the ropes of flowers dropped their petals. It was all frightfully reminiscent of Miss Havisham. Finally, Malcolm accepted that she was gone and was not returning. Now, with the discovery of that dreadful bag, it seems he has decided he wants to rake it all up again, hence the party. He has brought together the only people he believes he can trust to investigate the problem.”

“Why not go to the police?”

“The police?” Tiberius pulled a face of mock horror. “My dear Veronica, the police would have been quite happy to hang him for her murder, only it was rather difficult without a body. They made no secret of their suspicions, and one or more of them spoke to the press with disastrous results. You and Stoker were both abroad at the time, but believe me when I tell you I have seldom witnessed a more brutal evisceration by our newspapers. You had only to read one to be convinced that Malcolm was an unholy combination of Bluebeard and Henry VIII. The scandal nearly destroyed him. That is why he is so skittish about my being discreet with any London inquiries I might make—for fear it might all be raked up again.”

I was not surprised. Similarly vicious stories had circulated about Stoker during his divorce proceedings. As he was not present to defend himself, the tales had done their work and even now many people believed the worst of him.

“How dreadful,” I murmured.

“Yes, well. The dangers of an unfettered press,” Tiberius returned. “In any event, the result is that Malcolm and Mertensia withdrew entirely. Neither of them has been off this island since, and they do not issue invitations. That is why I suspected something was afoot when I received his letter asking me to come.”

“Why did he ask you particularly? You said you had not seen him in some years?”

He did not answer for a long moment, and when he did, I smelt evasion in his reply. “Our paths have not crossed for a while, but we have been friends from boyhood, close as brothers. Closer, in my case,” he added with a thin smile. “You will have observed that Stoker and I are not especially devoted.”

“I think you are more attached to one another than either of you would care to acknowledge,” I told him. I canted my head, studying his long, elegant form. “I find it hard to imagine you as a child with boyhood friends. What were you like?”

“Incorrigible,” he replied with some relish. “Although not as savage as Stoker. I was always refined in my tastes, even as a lad.”

“Was Malcolm? Is that what drew you together?”

“Heavens no!” He seemed genuinely amused at the idea. “We were as different as chalk and cheese. Malcolm was a better oarsman, I was a more skilled rider. He liked maths, I preferred poetry, preferably the erotic sort. I was an enthusiastic adherent of Ovid,” he added with a vague attempt at a leer. “And my temperament was more in hand than his. Malcolm had a temper, rather a ferocious one.”

“Indeed? He seems rather mild,” I replied. Apart from the scene with Caspian, I amended silently.

Tiberius’ eyes widened. “His temper is the reason he was sent down from school,” he told me with obvious relish. “He choked a boy, bigger