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

took us to come about, he was gone. But we could hear him, gurgling and choking and screaming for help until there was nothing but silence—that terrible silence that was worse than all the begging in the world.”

I shuddered and he leant a strong shoulder into mine.

“No more dread stories of death on the high seas,” he promised. “Shall we make ourselves an adventure today?”

“I am surprised you men haven’t got together to go and shoot something. I thought that was what gentlemen did for fun,” I said lightly.

He laughed and the warm honey of the sound filled me to my bones.

“I thought we had established that I am no gentleman. Besides, I no longer hunt.”

“Neither do I,” I admitted with a rueful smile. “I thought my reluctance to capture live specimens was an aberration, an effect of being confined to London, but as it happens, I was no more successful in Madeira. I restricted myself to taking specimens which had died of natural causes.”

“Speaking of Madeira,” he began slowly.

I broke in, cutting him off ruthlessly. “Young Caspian is something of a devil. I forgot to tell you that he and Malcolm were having a row yesterday. Something about Caspian needing to make his own way in the world. I don’t know what the precise trouble was, but money seems to be the answer.”

I held my breath, waiting for him to retrieve the subject of Madeira, but he was content to let it lie. For the moment. He shrugged. “I suppose Caspian is asking for money which Uncle Malcolm will not supply,” Stoker guessed.

“That would be my assumption.”

Stoker rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I wonder how much of an allowance Malcolm has made to Helen and how much she shares with Caspian. He might have exceeded it on some trifle. Gambling? Women?”

“Those are the likeliest dissipations for a young gentleman,” I agreed. “Just once, I wish a fellow would ruin himself with extravagant purchases of fossils or a penchant for expensive footwear.”

Stoker snorted. “I have seen Caspian Romilly’s shoes. He is not indebted to his cobbler.”

“His mother might be,” I suggested. “Not indebted to a cobbler. But she might be a source of trouble. I have seen evidence that she drinks. Perhaps she has an unfortunate admirer, someone with whom she has been indiscreet.”

“She is still a handsome woman,” Stoker said in a pensive voice.

“More so than her sister-in-law.” The words slipped from my mouth before I could halt them.

A sudden gust of wind stirred Stoker’s hair like a lazy hand. “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, keeping his gaze averted from me as a tiny smile played about his lips. “Mertensia has her own charms.”

This observation did not trouble me in the slightest as I am not prone to such petty emotions as jealousy. A trifling irritation I could not place made my voice sharper than usual.

“As does her brother.”

“Yes,” Stoker agreed, his voice suddenly chill. “A castle tends to improve a man’s attractiveness exponentially.”

“It isn’t his castle I find attractive,” I returned with a feral smile.

Stoker thrust himself up from the shingle. “We should go back. It’s suddenly grown quite cold.”

Without waiting, he collected his boots and made his way across the shingle. Very cold indeed, I reflected.

CHAPTER

9

The rest of the day passed slowly. Every time I glanced at the clock it seemed to have stopped, the minutes ticking by like cold treacle as I tried to settle to something, anything. I had no wish to see Stoker. The tepid companionship he offered—the companionship upon which I insisted, I reminded myself coldly—seemed a small and wretched thing in the light of day. Over the months in Madeira I had persuaded myself that I must take a rational and sober course. But now, in proximity to him with a puzzle to solve, old emotions, once firmly banked, had burst once more into flame and the veritable inferno threatened to consume me. And Stoker’s easy camaraderie and casual nudity did nothing to help. I thought of how nonchalantly he had stripped himself bare in front of me, as if I were no more than one of his sailor chums. He had taken me at my word, agreeing to be the best of what we had always been, partners with no regard to our respective genders.

And yet. In spite of my declarations and good intentions, that was simply not good enough. It was as if I had taken a blade to a fine painting, slicing the canvas to shreds, and now I complained I could no longer see the picture. I sat and loathed myself in silence for a little while before taking myself firmly in hand.

I wrote again to Lady Wellie as well as to Lady Cordelia before writing up my plan for the glasswing exhibit in the vivarium. Then I rewarded myself with a few chapters of Arcadia Brown’s latest exploits with her faithful sidekick, Garvin. She was involved in solving the theft of priceless cameos from the pope’s private collection in the Vatican, and I had just come to the particularly gruesome murder of a member of the Swiss Guard when a sudden clap of thunder nearly startled me out of my skin. The storm that had risen and quelled had revived itself, bringing with it lashing rain and gusty winds. I was surprised to find that I had filled the afternoon and it was teatime, and I went in search of the others, finding them in the drawing room, with Mertensia looking miserable over the tea things.

“I’ve been forced to play Mother,” she told me through gritted teeth. “What will you have? China or India?”

“China, please.” She poured a cup of steaming amber liquid and thrust it into my hands, letting some of the tea slop into the saucer. “God, I’m a fright at this. Why must we do it . . .” She trailed off, clearly irritated at the responsibilities of hospitality. She was a prickly creature, and I was determined to make cordial