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

graceful, deft fingers and the nimblest tongue of any man I had ever met—experiencing them only made me deeply aware of Stoker and the thwarted embraces we had shared.

Stoker. The thought of him propelled me to instinctive action. With no little measure of regret, I removed my hands from the viscount’s person and placed them flat upon his chest, giving him a small shove.

At least it was supposed to be a small shove. He ended up flat on his back on the hearthrug, contemplating the ceiling. When he had recovered his breath, he folded his hands over his lean stomach and regarded the coffered ceiling thoughtfully. “You need only have asked me to stop, Veronica. I have never yet taken a lover against his or her will, and I certainly wouldn’t begin with you.”

I reached a hand to help him up. “I am sorry. I suppose I was rather more forceful than I intended.”

He smoothed his dressing gown back into place, tying the knot of the belt where I had yanked it loose in a moment of reckless abandon. “Still, that was rather nearer the mark than I expected. Two minutes more and I wager you wouldn’t have been able to stop yourself.”

He poured out a measure of whisky and handed it to me, taking another for himself.

“Two seconds more and I wouldn’t have,” I admitted. I sipped deeply at the whisky to calm my jangled nerves and persuade my insistent lust to quiet itself.

He eyed the bed, then turned, regretfully I think, to the chairs in front of the fireplace. He settled himself, crossing one long leg over the other. “I suspect I have my brother to blame for this,” he ventured.

I took the other chair, propping my feet upon the still-warm hearth. “There are no significant developments in that quarter,” I told him.

“But there never will be if you and I become better friends, is that it?”

“Something like that.”

He smiled, a curiously kind curving of the lips that was devoid of his usual mockery. “You walk with hope, Veronica. God, how I envy you that. Life is a brutal business when one has nothing left to hope for.”

He rolled his glass between his palms, staring into the amber depths of the whisky.

“Do not try to engage my pity,” I warned him. “You are handsome, wealthy, privileged beyond belief, and you have hobbies to amuse and engage you.”

He arched one brow in my direction. “Music and art are poor substitutes for love, my dear.”

“I was not referring to those, my lord. I meant instead your penchant for puppeteering. Goodness, how you do like to tug the strings.”

His gaze was quizzical. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean—” he began.

He did not affect innocence well. There was something a trifle too mocking about the mouth, a little too knowing in the eyes. I gave him a thin, mirthless smile.

“We are all so many marionettes to you, are we not? How you enjoy this! I know you brought me here for some purpose beyond butterflies,” I said flatly.

He lifted his glass in a toast to my décolletage. “My dearest Veronica, with assets such as those, you can hardly blame a man.”

“And,” I went on as if he had not spoken, “for a purpose other than dalliance. You could as easily have attempted a seduction in London. But you had a reason for coming here—a reason to do with Rosamund.”

He hesitated a fraction too long before replying and it was that pause which told me everything. “I cannot imagine what fevered fancy has caused you to think such a thing.”

“I saw the harpsichord.”

“Of course you did,” he returned politely. “We all did. It was sitting in the music room.”

“I mean that I saw it. Specifically, I saw the panel above the keyboard, and I recognized a familiar face.”

“My, my, Miss Speedwell,” he said after a long moment, “what sharp eyes you have.”

“The better for hunting butterflies,” I replied. “Noticing details and, more importantly, understanding their significance, makes the difference between a dilettante and a prolific in my profession. And it is an excellent likeness.”

“Do you think so?” He rubbed one hand over his chin. Unlike Stoker, his lordship did not battle constantly against an unruly beard. His jawline was but lightly shadowed, lending him a slightly roguish air. “I only sat once for the artist, but I think he did a rather good job of capturing my profile. He made Jupiter’s shoulders too heavy,” he added thoughtfully. “Mine are more elegant.” Having just had the features in question under my questing hands, I could confirm his lordship’s assessment, but I said nothing. He heaved a sigh and drained the last of his whisky.

“How long were you in love with Rosamund?” I asked gently.

“From two minutes after I first met her until . . . what is today?” he asked.

“You were married to another woman,” I pointed out in a reproachful tone.

“I was doing my duty,” he countered.

“But you still loved Rosamund?”

“One could not help it. She was simply the most enchanting woman I ever met, if present company will take no exception.”

“None taken,” I assured him. “Will you tell me about her?”

He shrugged. “What is there to tell? She was not as classically beautiful as you are, but she had your quickness, your liveliness, a joie de vivre that was utterly irresistible. I wanted her from the first.”

“Where did you meet her?”

“Here. Malcolm was hosting one of his bloody house parties and Rosamund was a guest. Mertensia and Rosamund had been inmates together at some school for acidulated females. Malcolm was rather at loose ends when his parents died and didn’t quite know what to do with his younger siblings, and so they were both packed off to school. Lucian made a success of it, but Mertensia wept the entire term. She managed to make friends with Rosamund and together they formulated a plot to get Mertensia away from the school and back home to St. Maddern’s.”

“Rather daring for schoolgirls,” I mused.

“Indeed. I think