A Curious Beginning (10 page)

I heard a groan from behind me. “Bloody hell,” he muttered.

I guessed he had just noticed the sleeping arrangements, and I turned to him with an artless air. “I suppose you could always take the chairs if you are feeling bashful.”

He eyed the upright armchairs.

“I haven't slept in a proper bed in six months. A night on those chairs might cripple me entirely.”

“Then there is no alternative, I am afraid,” I said cheerfully. “We shall have to share the bed.”

His expression was dubious. “Miss Speedwell—”

I held up a hand in a gesture of mock severity. “It is Mrs. Stoker, but you may call me Veronica. If you don't want to give away our masquerade, you must practice calling me by my nom de guerre, even when we are alone.”

“Very well.
Veronica
.” He hesitated, searching for words, mining each one slowly and with care. “I suppose I may have been a trifle precipitate in coming here. I reacted badly to the news of Max's death and the possible consequences,” he began. “I must confess I did not think the matter through as well as I ought. I realize now I have put you in an untenable position. I know you have traveled alone, but this is a very different situation for a lady. This entire charade could have devastating consequences for your reputation.”

I gave a distinctly unfeminine snort. “And this only now occurred to you? My dear Mr. Stoker, I set myself beyond the pale the moment I put myself under the baron's protection. Surely you don't think polite society would approve of such an action? Or my remaining in a gentleman's quarters at all hours without a chaperone?”

“I did not think,” he muttered.

“Then it is a very good thing you are not often called upon for the protection of ladies in distress,” I returned. “But you need have no fear upon that score in our present situation. I daresay I have more experience of the world than you.”

He gaped like a fish pulled from the water, and it was a moment before he found his tongue. “Surely you don't mean—”

“I do. And why not? The female of the species is just as prey to the passions of the flesh as the male, and with greater cause, as it is her responsibility to propagate. But I am tired and it is far too late to engage in a thorough discussion of Darwin versus Wallace, don't you think?”

I opened the windows of the caravan to let in a draft of fresh cool air, heavy with the scent of hedge roses and honeysuckle. “Ah, that is lovely!” I said, drawing in a great deep breath of it.

“It is bloody cold,” he argued, but I would not be crossed. I gave him a cool stare.

“Mr. Stoker, I am prepared to suffer only one discomfort while sleeping. You may share the bed with the windows open or you may sleep on the chairs with the windows closed. It matters not in the slightest to me.”

I reached for the top button on my coat and he licked his fingers, diving to snuff the lamp. I waited a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom, then removed my coat, jacket, shirtwaist, and skirt, folding them neatly and placing my hat tidily on top. My stockings were rolled into a bundle to fit under the crown of my hat, and my corset left under it all so as not to offend Mr. Stoker's delicate sensibilities. I slipped under the coverlet in my chemise, courteously moving to the far side. All the while I was conscious of him in the darkness, breathing softly as he heard the rustlings of my clothes coming free.

He did not relight the lamp. He undressed in the dark as I had and slid into the bed. The mattress dipped alarmingly, flinging me into him.

“Oh, for God's sake,” he muttered, shoving me back against the wall. But I had been highly amused to discover that my face had brushed against his feet. He had observed the gentlemanly expedient of lying with his head opposite my own. It was a trifle disappointing—for all his hygienic defects, he had the potential to be a deliciously attractive fellow—but it was an unthinkable breach of my rules to contemplate indulging in the pleasures of the flesh with him. He was, after all, an Englishman, and I never trifled with my own countrymen.

Unfortunately, my mind was of another opinion entirely, for I was kept wakeful by a number of interesting thoughts regarding Mr. Stoker and his physique. I amused myself for a while thinking about his musculature and his intriguing tattoos, but as this brought me no closer to peaceful repose, I distracted myself with other questions. Mr. Stoker, it seemed, was similarly afflicted. I felt him turn over more than once, shaking the entire caravan as he did so.

“Why haven't you slept in a bed in six months?” I asked.

“Because I sold it to pay for supplies,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep.

“A foolish economy. A man can hardly work to his full potential when he is robbed of proper rest,” I observed.

“And he cannot get proper rest if his bed has been seized by bailiffs because he did not work,” he retorted.

“True enough. Does this mean you will lose the commission from Lord Rosemorran? Since you failed to finish the elephant, I mean?”

He groaned. “Damn it to hell. I didn't even think of that.” He swore again.

“I am sorry to have pointed it out. Perhaps he will understand the delay if you explain to him.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “Explain what? That my mentor died and I had to abduct his murderess?”

“Now, now. I am not a murderess. Furthermore, I think you know it.”

“It did occur to me that you might have slipped out of my workshop when I was sleeping and done the deed yourself. Why are you so certain I am convinced of your innocence?”

“It would take an excessively stupid man to put himself in so vulnerable a position as yours with a woman he thinks capable of killing in cold blood,” I pointed out reasonably as I put out a fingertip to touch his calf. He jumped, shaking the caravan again. Heaven only knew what the rest of the camp must have thought—no doubt they attributed the movements of the caravan to connubial exuberance.

He exhaled heavily. “Very well. You did not kill Max. But that does not mean you are entirely free of culpability.”

It was my turn to sigh. “Your vacillations are enough to make a dervish dizzy. One moment you are willing to be reasonable, and the next you have persuaded yourself I am a villainess. But I understand your doubts. You do not know me well enough to understand that I am precisely what I appear to be. I am a lepidopterist with a penchant for handsome men and an otherwise entirely unremarkable life. What I present is no more and no less than exactly what I am. I have no protective coloration, Mr. Stoker. And you must believe me when I say I will do everything in my power to clear my name.”

He groaned again. “That is what I am afraid of.”

We were silent for a little while, and from a distance I heard the soft hooting of an owl.

“I am very sorry about the baron.”

He grunted. “Go to sleep, Veronica. And if you snore, I shall tie a bell to your neck and throw you out like a meddlesome cat.”

“I shan't snore,” I promised him, but he made no reply. Sleep had crept in, and after a little while, she came for me too.

I
awoke with a startlingly foul odor in my nostrils. It required little imagination to deduce the source. I opened my eyes to find Mr. Stoker turned on his side away from me, his feet resting on my pillow, a scant inch from my face.

I pinched his toe hard, eliciting a howl of outrage.

“What the devil was that for?” he demanded, coming instantly awake and sitting bolt upright. The bedclothes slipped to his waist, and I deliberately permitted my gaze to linger upon his bare torso, tracing a path from the anchor on one biceps to the serpent-twined staff upon the opposite forearm and everything in between. It was a delectable sight and the perfect compensation for having his malodorous feet inflicted upon me. After all, I might not intend to use him for a plaything, but I could still appreciate looking through the toy-shop window.

“Your feet. Were on my pillow,” I informed him. “Kindly move them so I may rise and complete my morning ablutions.”

“I am coming with you,” he said, throwing back the covers to reveal he had slept in his trousers. I sat up and made no attempt to cover myself, entirely aware that my chemise was thoroughly transparent in the strong morning light. He colored to the bottom of his beard and looked sharply away.

“You will not. I have put up with quite enough of your high-handed behavior, but I will draw the line precisely
here
, Mr. Stoker. I have never shared ablutions with a man, and I have no intention of beginning today. A lady ought to be able to wash herself in peace. Now, I shall take only what I require for this morning's toilette and leave the rest of my possessions in your care as a pledge of my good faith. Otherwise, I will scream this camp down and inform everyone that you have abducted me against my will.”

“They would never believe you,” he said, but his voice was shaded with doubt and I pressed home my advantage.

“But they might wonder. And in their wonder, the professor might well decide you are too much bother and turn us out. Where will you go then? You told me this was your only refuge.”

He dropped his head into his hands. “Why must you argue before I have even had my tea? So many words.”

Taking advantage of his inertia, I hopped nimbly over him and gathered up my things. I took a toothbrush, soap, and flannel, as well as a few other miscellaneous items and my clothes. I made an elaborate show of leaving behind the rest of my well-curated bag and wrapped myself in a quilt before stepping out of the caravan into the pink light of morning. It seemed impossible that so short a time had passed since my arrival in London with the baron. And equally impossible that the dear old gentleman was now dead, I reflected grimly.

A kindly fortune-teller pointed me to the necessary spot for performing my toilette—a washing tent had been erected and was mercifully empty—and when I was finished I returned to the caravan in twenty minutes, neatly attired and carrying two tin mugs of tea. But Mr. Stoker, still exhausted from his days of hard work upon the elephant mount, had fallen asleep again.

“What a wretched abductor you make,” I said softly. I might have taken up my things and been halfway to Cardiff by the time he awoke. Instead, I applied myself to my tea and a book. I took from my bag my favorite novel and was halfway through the third chapter when he awoke.

I gestured towards his mug of tea. “It has gone cold now, but you ought to drink it anyway. Strong and with plenty of sugar, just as you like it.”

He put out his hand for the tea and took a healthy swallow, then squinted at my book. “What are you reading?”

“The Unlikely Adventures of Arcadia Brown, Lady Detective. Casebook One,”
I told him.

He snorted. “Cheap literature? You surprise me. All that blather about your scientific views, and that is what you choose for entertainment?”

“Arcadia Brown is a thoroughly modern woman. She is intelligent and intrepid and shrinks from nothing,” I told him, peering over the cover to give him a severe look. “Her world is not confined by the limitations of either her sex or her society. She creates her own adventures and sees them through to the end with her faithful sidekick, Garvin. She has been my inspiration for some years now.”

He shrugged. “She sounds deadly dull.”

“Dull! My dear Mr. Stoker, clearly you have never had the unparalleled pleasure of reading one of her casebooks or you would understand the inaccuracy of that remark. One has only to follow in her footsteps for a single investigation, read a single instance of her cry of ‘Excelsior!' as she takes up her parasol and leaps into the fray to unmask a villain, read a single syllable of Garvin's stalwart devotion—”

He held up a hand. “No, thank you. I still think any mind capable of grasping the subtle differences between sexually driven and societally driven natural selection would be embarrassed at such low amusement.”

I flicked him a glance. “My interests are varied. They include natural history, lady detectives, and good hygiene,” I said with a significant lift of the brows towards his feet.

“What in seven hells does that mean?” he demanded.

“It means that if you come to bed smelling like something from a barnyard again, I will scrub you myself with rose soap and a firm hand,” I threatened.

It was enough. He fled immediately, muttering obscenities and carrying all the accoutrements needed for a proper wash. In the interim, I decided to tidy up a bit in the interests of having a suitably comfortable space in which to live. I had faults I was prepared to own, but slovenliness was not one of them. Even in the most rudimentary hut in the South Pacific I had done my best to achieve a semblance of order—not from any misplaced domesticity but simply because I found I could think better if comfort and tidiness had been achieved.

Once this was done, I decided to pay the professor a visit—or, to be strictly correct, the professor and Otto. There was no such thing as a private conversation for either of them, I reflected. I could not imagine what it must be like to go the whole of a lifetime without a single moment's privacy. The pleasures of solitude were denied them entirely, and I repressed a shudder as I approached the tent and jangled the bell outside to announce my presence.

“Enter!” I heard the familiar thread of melody that Otto had played the night before to herald my arrival.

“Ah, it is our dear Mrs. Stoker! I hope that you found everything in the caravan to your satisfaction.” The professor was holding a traveling desk on his knees, spread with ledgers and account books, both of which were marked with rather more red ink than black. Otto was tinkering with his accordion, his eyes closed.

“Yes, thank you. I was wondering if I might have a quick word about the act that Stoker and I will be performing,” I began.

The professor gave me a singularly enigmatic smile. “But of course. He will be taking the place of Rizzolo, our resident knife thrower.”

“Knife thrower?” I asked, my voice a trifle high.

“Indeed. Stoker learned the skill as a boy. I daresay it will come back to him,” he said smoothly.

“Pity me if it doesn't,” I murmured.

He threw back his head and laughed. “What a charming addition to our little family you have made. So, you did not realize your husband was an expert in the bladed arts?”

“I did not,” I temporized. “Our acquaintance has not been of long duration. I daresay there is rather a lot we have yet to learn about one another.” That much was entirely true, I thought ruefully. I managed a maidenly duck of the head as I imagined a shy new bride might give.

The professor reached out and patted my hand. “Console yourself, my dear. Stoker is one of the finest I have ever seen. He honed his skills in South America—where he added a few new ones to his repertoire,” he said, his smile now decidedly feline. “He is the most dangerous man I have ever known.” His features twisted into an expression of mocking sadness. “At least, he
was
. This was before his accident, you understand. I do hope the loss of the eye will not affect his marksmanship. His scars were still fresh the last time I saw him. Tell me, is there any sight at all left in his eye, or is it entirely gone?” He leaned forward, as if hungry to hear something to Mr. Stoker's disadvantage. The entire conversation was strange to me. I had the oddest sensation that we were fencing, but only one of us was armed. His resentment of Mr. Stoker was almost palpable, and I thought again of the brute Colosso and his warning of the evening before.

I chose to reply to the professor's question with the unvarnished truth. “He can see perfectly, but it sometimes grows fatigued and then his vision is compromised.”

The thin silver brows steepled in a concern I felt certain was feigned. “Ah, well. We must presume the worst and hope for the best, must we not? It is my motto.”

“Quite a sound one too,” I said faintly.

“My dear, you are quite pale. You do not fear acting as your husband's assistant, do you? Really, I cannot permit him to use any of my other performers in case his aim is less than true,” he told me. “But I have no doubt that love will guide his arm! He would not harm so much as a hair upon the head of his own true love,” he finished with a grand theatrical gesture.

I returned his thin smile. “Love. Of course. I must rely upon his love to protect me.”

The professor nodded. “Ah, my dear. How fortunate you are! Otto and I have never been blessed in that regard.” Otto suddenly roused himself and played a mournful little dirge. “That is enough,” the professor snapped. “I must apologize, my dear. Otto has a peculiar sense of humor.”

“Not at all,” I said.

“But we do enjoy hearing about the love stories of others,” the professor said with studied blandness. “How did you meet our dear Stoker?”

I was not prepared for this, but I had always maintained that if one were to trade in lies, it was best to keep them as simple and near to the truth as possible. “We were introduced by a mutual friend. He thought we would get on because of our shared interest in natural history.”

“Ah! Stoker's accomplishments in that field are well-known to me,” he said with a twist of the lips.

“Indeed?”

He waved a hand. “He gave us an excellent demonstration of his skills when last he was here.”

I waited for him to continue, but he did not, and Otto's melody changed to something suitably introspective.

“I quite enjoy your music,” I said truthfully to him. Otto flicked me a glance. His expression did not change, but he began to play the odd little melody with which he had saluted me, this time embroidering the tune with a few Mozartian flourishes.

“How baroque,” the professor commented dryly.

“It is a beautiful melody. I regret I am not musical. What is the piece?”

The professor shrugged. “It is of his own devising, a melody to conjure an image of you.”

“Of me? How extraordinary.”

“Not really. Otto develops such little tunes for everyone who travels with the show. It is his way of forming a connection, as it were.”

“Then I must thank you, Otto,” I said. He did not respond but merely began the tune over again, this time playing with the cadence of a military march.

“That means he wants you to go away. It is nothing personal, oh no!” he hastened to assure me, his watchful smile firmly in place again. “It is merely that he tires easily and does not care for my garrulous ways. If you leave, I will have no one to talk to and he will take a nap. Really, it's like having a lapdog attached to one at times.”

I rose, but the professor put out a smoothly manicured hand and touched my wrist. “My dear, you must accept my best wishes for a successful debut in our little show. Kindly remind your husband of what I told him last night. If he fails, he will have to leave us. I cannot keep mouths to feed that will not keep themselves.”

In spite of his silken tone, something faintly malicious glimmered in the depths of his eyes.

I lifted my chin. “Then I can promise he will. And I shall do everything in my power to ensure it.”

“Spoken like a devoted wife,” the professor said, releasing my arm.

I took my leave then, the last few notes of Otto's melody dying away as the tent flap dropped behind me.

•   •   •

I had just returned to the caravan and resumed adventuring with Arcadia Brown when Mr. Stoker burst in, soaking wet and covered in soapy lather. His hair was dripping rivulets onto the floor, and he had wrapped a bath sheet about himself like a toga. He loomed over me, drenched and panting, having obviously run all the way from the bath tent.

“You look like one of the less capable Roman emperors,” I observed. “Go back and finish the job properly.”

“I have a crow to pluck with you. It just occurred to me—”

“It just occurred to you that I was at liberty and might make my escape. Yes, I know. You are a wretched abductor, Mr. Stoker. I suggest you do not take up felonious activity as a career.”

His expression was sullen. “You will have to make allowances. It is, after all, my first abduction.” He drew the bath sheet about himself more tightly.

I put aside my book. “I am tired of this silly pretense that I am being held prisoner. Let us dispense with the absurdities.”

“It is not absurd,” he said, sounding slightly aggrieved. “I am keeping you captive until I learn the results of the inquest and discover the truth of what happened to Max.”

“You are doing no such thing. I might have stabbed you forty times with a hatpin while you slept. I could have bolted the door to the caravan and set fire to it. I could have poisoned your tea. I could have thought of a dozen ways to have killed you and carried them out before sunrise. So let us stop pretending that you are my captor or that I am staying here out of anything other than my own irrepressible curiosity.”

His nostrils flared like a bull's, and he seemed to grow even larger as he stood over me, hands flexing on his bath sheet. But when he spoke, his voice was controlled. “What do you mean ‘curiosity'?”