A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(11)

“If you get tired, I’ll push from the back side, shall I?” Stoker asked nastily.

“Do shut up,” I muttered as we pressed on.

Iron lanterns had been set at periodic intervals in the stone and someone had lit them; they glowed like small golden stars against the vast black reaches of the cliffside, pointing the way ahead. We climbed for what seemed hours, ever further, ever higher, until at last we reached the top and the last step led us to a stout stone wall fitted with a high archway.

I glanced upwards as we passed through. “Is that a portcullis?” I asked over my shoulder.

But it was not Tiberius’ voice which replied. “It is indeed, dear lady.”

The archway led us into a courtyard thick with shadows, illuminated by starlight and torchlight and the glimmer of dozens of golden windows set within the black walls. A broad door had been thrown back upon its hinges, letting more light spill over the paving stones. Standing just before it, silhouetted against the warm glow, was a figure of a man. He stepped nearer, letting the light fall upon his face.

It must have once been an almost handsome face, I judged. The features were regular and agreeably arranged, and his physique was that of a common country squire, heavily muscled in shoulder and thigh. He looked the sort of gentleman England had made a speciality of producing, stalwart, principled, and with an air of dutiful determination about him, the kind of man who would have been in the first charge at Agincourt. But a second look showed eyes that were a little sunken, as if from sleepless nights, and there were deep lines incised from nose to chin that looked as if they had been drawn on with an unkind hand. If this had not persuaded me that he was troubled, a single glance at his hands would have done so. His fingernails were bitten to the quick, a slender thread of scarlet marking the end of each.

But his smile was gracious as he threw open his arms expansively. “Welcome to the Isle. You must be Miss Speedwell. I am your host, Malcolm Romilly.”

“How do you do?” I asked, shaking his hand gently.

“And you, sir, must be Revelstoke Templeton-Vane,” he said, moving forward to shake Stoker’s hand.

“Stoker, please,” he urged his host. Stoker answered to his surname as seldom as possible.

Malcolm Romilly turned to the viscount at last. “Tiberius. It has been a long time.”

“Indeed,” Tiberius replied coolly. “I hope you are keeping well.”

Mr. Romilly gave a small and mirthless laugh. “Not as well as you, it seems. I am delighted to make the acquaintance of your fiancée.” The words were cordial but there was an undercurrent of something inexplicable swirling beneath.

Behind me, I felt Stoker stiffen like a pointer at the remark, but Malcolm Romilly was already speaking again, urging us in the door. “Come inside, won’t you? There’s a storm brewing and we have rooms prepared for all of you.”

Stoker fell in step behind me. “Fiancée?” he murmured in my ear. “We shall speak of this later.”

“There is nothing to discuss,” I told him, still mightily put out that he had taken it upon himself to come to Cornwall. I had been anticipating a few weeks to straighten my disordered feelings and instead he was there, inches from me, causing every nerve to tingle and my thoughts to leap about in a most unsettling manner.

To my surprise, Stoker let the matter drop then and we followed our host into the great hall of the castle. It was exactly what one hoped a castle would be. The vast stone hall was furnished with an enormous fireplace—the sort for roasting half an ox or an annoying child—at one end and a minstrels’ gallery at the other. The ceiling was vaulted and ribbed in an elaborate Gothic pattern of lozenges, each painted in hues of scarlet or blue, surrounding the heraldic mermaid emblem of the Romilly family. Along the stone walls hung the usual assortment of weapons and armor and other trinkets of warfare that interested me not at all. There was even a tapestry of great antiquity, faded and gently nibbled by moths. When I squinted, I could just make out that it seemed to depict a scene of mermaids luring sailors to their doom.

“I know it all seems a bit Gothic these days,” Malcolm Romilly explained with an apologetic little bob of the head. “But the great hall is the pride of the Romillys and we cannot bear to change it. The rest of the castle is far more comfortable, I promise,” he assured me.

I smiled. “I am accustomed to living rough when required. I hardly think a castle would challenge that.”

There was a silken murmur of soft, padded feet upon the stone as a black cat slipped into the room. “Hecate, come back,” chastened the lady following the cat. She was holding her skirts in both hands, moving swiftly to retrieve her pet. Somewhere on the dark side of thirty-five, she was dressed expensively in a gown of austere black satin. The fabric shimmered in the light, heightening the pastel rose of her cheeks, and I noticed her eyes were an unusual pale blue-grey. She was an attractive woman, but her greatest asset was her voice. It was low and melodious as she scolded her cat, sweeping the animal into her arms. It settled down comfortably, preening a little as she cradled it.

“Malcolm, I simply cannot find Mertensia. She knows that you were expecting guests and she is not here to welcome them,” she protested.

Mr. Romilly gave her a wan smile. “You fuss too much, Helen. Mertensia will be in the gardens, I have no doubt.” He turned to us. “You must forgive my sister. Mertensia is a tireless plantswoman, and her gardens here are renowned. If she is not elbow-deep in the soil, she is brewing up concoctions in her stillroom or coaxing bulbs to flower out of season.”