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

exceedingly handsome man, unlike anyone she has likely ever met in the whole of her sheltered existence. You share her interests and you are courteous. I am no mathematician, but that particular equation adds up to a naïve young woman being halfway to falling in love with you.”

He flushed scarlet to his ears and muttered something inaudible before clearing his throat. “Do you really think so?” he asked, his expression frankly appalled. “I was only attempting to be kind.”

“I know you were,” I said, a trifle more gently. “I am not certain if you are aware, but you have an effect upon women.”

“Not all women,” he corrected.

I could not rise to the bait, I told myself fiercely. If I were to admit the depth of my feelings for him, I risked the ruination of the dearest thing in the world to me—his friendship. It was a small and pale shadow of what I wanted from him, but it would have to suffice. Having made a point of refusing anything more, I could not now demand it as my due. I had made this particularly cold bed and it was my lot to lie in it. Alone.

Instead I primmed my mouth, taking a schoolmistressy tone. “Mind that you do not attract her more than you can possibly help,” I instructed.

He seemed sincerely puzzled by the direction. “How in the name of seven hells do I do that?”

“Let her carry her own basket,” I told him impatiently. “And for the love of almighty Jesus, button your shirt!”

His hands went guiltily to his collar, which—never tidy at the best of times—had come undone, baring a long column of beautifully muscled throat. “I had trouble this morning,” he confessed. “My arm has stiffened and doesn’t want to reach that high.”

“Oh, let me,” I ordered. I wrenched the collar tight and pinned it with ruthless efficiency. “There, at least you are decent for the company of respectable women,” I pronounced.

I made the mistake of glancing up into his face then. A smile played about his lips, and his eyes were bright with amusement. “Veronica,” he murmured.

I stepped back so sharply I nearly lost my balance. “She is coming,” I told him. “Try to be less adorable.”

To his credit, he did try. He could not leave off his gentlemanly instincts long enough to let her carry her own basket, but he worked neatly around this.

“I am afraid the injury in my arm is playing up,” he said smoothly, “but Veronica is hale as a horse. She will be only too happy to carry your basket.” He thrust the object into my arms and set off with Mertensia, leaving me to come behind, laden like a donkey. The basket clinked ominously and Mertensia looked around in some irritation.

“Mind you are careful with that,” she warned. “Some of the bottles contain remedies that are quite out of season.”

I pulled a face and set myself to keeping up with them, not an easy task given that Stoker was determined to make quick work of the outing. He was destined to be thwarted by his hostess’s strategy of keeping him at her side for the whole of the excursion. Mertensia attempted to dally at every possible landmark, pointing out every shrub and outcropping along the path, to which Stoker made artful replies. Unable to bring himself to be rude to her by means of short responses, he instead took the opportunity to give her lengthy lectures of such catastrophic dullness that only a saint could have possibly endured them with patience. I caught snatches of phrases here and there as I caught them up, bits of impenetrable Latin delivered with the somber air of a Welsh parson.

Mertensia’s eyes glazed over as he extolled the virtues of the rock formations beneath our feet. “Really?” I heard her ask. “I had no idea. I am afraid I do not know much at all about rocks,” she said somewhat desperately.

“Oh, are you talking of rocks?” I asked, widening my eyes and setting down the basket for a moment. “I do enjoy a good discussion of rocks.”

“Pity we’ve just finished it, then,” Stoker told me. He eyed the basket with an unholy sort of enjoyment. “Come on, then, Veronica. Don’t dally. Miss Mertensia has calls to pay.” He turned and strode off and only the rocks heard the names that I called him as I trotted after.

In spite of the earliness of the hour, the local folk were all up and about their business. We made several stops in the village so that Mertensia could dispense her remedies, tonics, embrocations, and balms of every variety. The local folk were cordial to us and deferential to Mertensia, accepting her instructions and her preparations with equal respect. She was sure of herself, I noted, missing all traces of her customary awkwardness when she inquired about a child’s cough or an old woman’s rheumatism. In caring for the islanders, she came out of herself, relaxing enough to discuss the various ailments with Stoker in his capacity as a former naval surgeon. He gave a little quiet advice from time to time, to which she listened with interest, and I found myself excluded, taking the role of observer.

When we reached the last of the cottages, Mertensia preceded us inside to make a private examination of an elderly patient whilst Stoker and I waited.

“Do you ever miss it?” I asked.

“Miss what?” He rummaged in his pocket for a paper twist of peppermint humbugs, popping one into his mouth and crunching hard. The fact that his teeth were even and white and uncracked from such abuses was proof that Mother Nature played favorites.

“Practicing medicine. You trained as a surgeon, and I have seen you play the part several times. You are good at it.”

He shrugged. “I am good at many things I no longer do.”

I thought of the scores of women he had bedded during the period of enthusiastic debauchery that had preceded the self-imposed chastity of his last few