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

a tantrum or sorrowful confession would carry the day. I put a hand to his arm, and to my astonishment, he burst into tears, burying his head on my shoulder so heavily that I nearly staggered under the weight of it. I patted him as I looked to Stoker, who threw up his hands in mystification.

“Caspian,” I began, but this only caused him to sob more loudly. He carried on in this fashion for some minutes as I continued to pat his back and make soothing noises in his direction. Stoker went on sinking billiard balls and rolling his eyes at this display of emotion until Caspian stuttered to a stop, winding down like a clockwork toy.

“I do most sincerely apologize, Miss Speedwell,” he managed. “I do not know what came over me.”

“You are clearly in great distress,” I consoled. “Perhaps it would help to unburden yourself.”

He nodded, gulping a few times as he scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “You are very kind. Yes. I think it might.”

He half turned his back on Stoker, who moved steadily through the game, hitting and sinking and retrieving the balls over and over again, as if he feared interrupting the pattern might cause Caspian to recall his presence and stem the flow of his confidences.

The lamplight fell half across Caspian’s features, highlighting the noble brow and handsome nose. He looked like a prince from a tragic play, steeling himself to commit some act of self-destruction.

“Do you know anything of my father? You might have heard that he was talented and much loved. The truth is, he was a sad disappointment to his family. But not to us, my mother and me. He was a second son, superfluous in every way. He left St. Maddern’s to make his own fortune. He met my mother in London and decided to marry, although he had precious little to offer. You see, my grandfather made it clear that everything would be left to my uncle Malcolm. Nothing of the estate is entailed, but the Romillys have always aped the customs of the great and good. Primogeniture is the habit here, and my father always knew he could not look to the Isle to sustain us.”

“He sounds a unique and interesting man,” I said softly.

The large brown eyes, soft as a spaniel’s, warmed with gratitude. “He was! The Romillys run to melancholia, you know. But not Papa. He was merry as a grig, always ready with a joke or a tease. He used to turn every situation, no matter how desperate, to something of a game. Even the times the creditors came and took our furniture away, he used to make us pretend we were castaways on a desert island and had to build our lives anew in the jungle. It was magical,” he said, his voice dreamy.

It sounded frankly dreadful to me. There were few things in life more tiresome than a man who would not shoulder his responsibilities, and whilst I appreciated an optimistic spirit more than most, a man who played at crocodiles and tree houses instead of securing steady employment would have met with a sturdy kicking were I his wife.

I forced myself to smile. “How resourceful,” I said.

“He was,” Caspian assured me. “And he brought me up always to believe that I must follow my own north star, that I must never surrender to base ambition but listen to the dictates of my heart.”

“And what does your heart tell you to do, Caspian?”

“I mean to go on the stage,” he said with such gravity that I only smothered a laugh with the greatest of effort. I covered it with a cough, and he put a solicitous hand to my shoulder.

“Are you quite well, Miss Speedwell? Shall I pour you a glass of water?”

“Thank you, no. I was simply overwhelmed by the force of your passion, Caspian. You are clearly well suited to your chosen profession.”

He preened but did not remove his hand. “Do you really think so? I feel it, here,” he said, thumping his chest hard with his closed fist. “This is the seat of an actor’s life, here in his breast,” he added, taking my hand and placing it flat upon his waistcoat. I could feel the thump of his heartbeat beneath his clothes, steady and quick.

“I am overcome with emotion sometimes,” he added. “My passions run quite near to the surface, you understand. It must be so, if one is to access them and share them with an audience.”

“Quite right,” I murmured as I discreetly withdrew my hand. Stoker had not made so much as a sound, but I could sense his feelings as clearly as if he had climbed atop the green baize table and shouted them.

Caspian was shaking his head mournfully. “It is difficult to entertain one’s dreams without the support of one’s family.”

“Does your mother not approve?”

A gentle smile touched his lips. “Well, Mama would approve anything I wanted, I believe. But she is nervous of the insecurity of the life of a player. There is so little that may be relied upon from one year to the next. This matters not at all to me,” he hastened to assure me, “but Mama wants a guarantee that I will not starve. That is why she insisted we come here,” he told me, pitching his voice quite low. “She wanted to secure Uncle Malcolm’s interest.”

“His interest?”

“In my well-being. As it stands, Uncle Malcolm is a traditionalist, just like my grandfather. Mertensia may be his sister, but I believe he will leave St. Maddern’s and all its encumbrances to me as the only male in the direct line. We both, Mama and I, thought it high time that he make a separate allowance to me as his heir beyond what he gives to Mama.”

I thought of the raised voices, the passionate plea and the cool dismissal, and of Caspian’s certainty he would inherit. “And Malcolm refused?”

Resentment darkened his eyes. “It is not unusual, you