A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(107)
Our last afternoon, I had gone down to the village after luncheon to take my leave of Mother Nance, which entailed many tankards of cider and a few more cryptic remarks. “A long journey you’ll be taking,” she told me, winking, as she raised her tankard to mine. “Mark me well, m’dear.”
I made my way slowly up the path towards the top of St. Maddern’s, the last of the summer sunshine warm upon my back as I walked. I passed through the gate leading to the castle grounds just as Stoker appeared.
He stopped when he reached me, his eyes alight.
“Good afternoon,” I said formally. We had spent the last week in a froth of anticipation, hardly daring to be in the same room together, so violent were our longings. I had lain awake more than one night, torturing myself with frankly indecent thoughts, and I had noticed Stoker had taken to swimming in the cold Atlantic waters twice a day to dampen his ardor.
A slow smile spread over his face.
I looped my arms about his neck. “I am rather sorry to see the end of our time here,” I told him.
“I am not,” he said. “I have plans for you in London.”
“London,” I breathed, closing my eyes.
“London,” he repeated. “Where it will be just the two of us. No Tiberius, no Romillys. No murderers, no former wives, no moldering corpses. Just us.”
He bent his head to a fervent demonstration of his intentions. Just as he began to make significant progress, a little cough sounded behind us. Stoker’s teeth, strong and sharp, nipped once, hard, upon my lobe as he gave a little growl of frustration.
“What, Peter?” he demanded of the little boy who stood patiently grinning behind us, waving a piece of paper.
“Telegram for the lady,” he pronounced. Stoker fished in his pocket for a coin whilst I skimmed the lines.
“It is from Lady Wellie. The Whitechapel murderer has struck again,” I said. “She does not say what she wants with us, only that we must return immediately and that it is a matter of life and death.”
I half expected him to protest, but I should have known him better than that. Adventure roared in his blood as it did in mine, and once more we would embark together.
“So, another adventure,” he said, a slow smile spreading across his features, illuminating his face like a pagan god. “Shall we begin? Hand in hand?”
“And back to back,” I added with a grin. “The better to see our enemies.” Back to back was also how butterflies copulated, but I thought it best to save such an observation for a more intimate moment.
“Come on, then,” he directed.
I grabbed his hand and raced with him into the westering sun. “Excelsior!”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The Romilly Glasswing butterfly, Oleria romillia, is fictitious, invented for the purposes of this book but based upon a genus of clearwing butterflies first named in 1934. These brush-footed specimens are native to the Americas and, while smaller than the imaginary Romilly Glasswings, are every bit as beautiful.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
For the warmest of welcomes and the utmost support, I owe much gratitude to everyone at Penguin/Berkley with special recognition of my superb and gifted editor, Danielle Perez, as well as Craig Burke, Loren Jaggers, Claire Zion, Jeanne-Marie Hudson, Jin Yu, Jessica Mangicaro, Jennifer Snyder, Christine Ball, and Ivan Held. Huge and heartfelt thanks to the art department for their inspired work and to the sales, marketing, editorial, and PR teams who give so much. I will forever be indebted to Ellen Edwards for seeing the potential in Veronica and bringing her home.
For an exquisite copyedit and coldread, my compliments and thanks to Eileen Chetti and Jeff Campbell.
For two decades of advice, friendship, and business expertise, I am immensely grateful to my agent, Pam Hopkins.
Gratitude and much love to the people who have given me so much support and given Veronica a splendid launch: Blake Leyers, Ali Trotta, Joshilyn Jackson, Ariel Lawhon, Delilah Dawson, Rhys Bowen, Alan Bradley, Susan Elia MacNeal, Robin Carr, and Lauren Willig. Many thanks to Benjamin Dreyer, Duchess Goldblatt, and the Blanket Fort for laughter and consolation.
I am so very grateful for the practical diligence of my assistant, Jomie Wilding, and the Writerspace team for all things digital.
A very special nod of thanks to Kim Wright for telling me a chilling story and ending with the words, “I hope you use this in a book someday.”
My love and gratitude, as ever, to the most supportive family imaginable.
For everything, for always, my husband.