A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(15)

“Mertensia,” he said with the merest hint of reproof.

“I know, Malcolm, but I was gathering rose hips and I quite lost track of time,” she protested.

“And apparently the location of your looking glass,” her sister-in-law said with a smile that did not quite take the sting from her words. “You haven’t even changed your gown!”

Mertensia Romilly looked down at her plain dress of striped cotton in apparent surprise. “So I haven’t. But I washed my hands,” she added brightly, flashing palms that were crossed with scratches and old scars but scrupulously clean.

Helen Romilly flicked a glance towards Mertensia’s untidy hair and gave a little sigh before turning to her soup—a delicious mushroom consommé served in the tiniest of dishes. Malcolm made the introductions and his sister peered at Tiberius.

“I remember you,” she said.

Tiberius inclined his head. “Miss Mertensia. Always a pleasure to renew our acquaintance.”

Then Miss Mertensia’s gaze fell properly upon Stoker for the first time. She colored heavily and I suppressed a sigh. I had seen it all before. Women, particularly those of original tastes, were invariably drawn to him. A metaphor involving moths and flames came to mind. Stoker was faultlessly kind in these situations.

“I understand you are a keen gardener,” he ventured. “I should very much like to see the gardens whilst I am here.”

She blinked at him and colored again as she made an inaudible reply. He applied himself to his soup as she turned to me.

“Do you like gardens, Miss Speedwell?” she asked, her gaze penetrating.

“Only inasmuch as they provide haven for my butterflies,” I told her. She sniffed and devoted her attention to her food with all the enthusiasm of a laborer who has toiled long and hard and earned her bread. I realized then that Miss Mertensia no doubt divided people into “garden” people—worth knowing—and “nongarden” people, who were obviously not.

Malcolm Romilly turned to me. “My sister is responsible for overseeing the extensive gardens here at the castle, as well as the glasshouses and stillrooms. She is the castle’s very own white witch,” he added with a faintly teasing smile.

Miss Mertensia rolled her eyes heavenwards as she finished off her soup. “It is not witchcraft, Malcolm. It’s medicine, only of a more traditional sort than those rubbishy fellows in Harley Street with their stethoscopes and condescending moustaches.”

Helen Romilly leant forward to catch my eye. “Malcolm tells us you are a lepidopterist. You must explore the gardens whilst you are here, Miss Speedwell. They are absolutely enchanting. Mertensia has the greenest of thumbs!”

“I shall make a point of it,” I assured her.

Miss Mertensia looked up sharply. “Go where you please; in fact, I will even show you the best places to hunt butterflies if you like. The little wretches are always eating my plants. But mind you don’t explore alone, at least not the far end of the gardens.”

If I was taken a little aback at the edge to her tone, I strove not to show it. “I shouldn’t dream of intruding, Miss Romilly.”

She gave a grunt of approval as she returned to her food, switching her empty dish of consommé with Stoker’s.

“Mertensia!” Helen Romilly exclaimed. “You have the manners of a peasant.”

“Do not distress yourself,” Stoker said lazily. “Miss Romilly is welcome to the rest of my soup.”

“What difference does it make to you?” Mertensia demanded of her sister-in-law. “My manners are no concern of yours.”

A sudden chill seemed to settle over the table. No one spoke for several long seconds, each of them punctuated by the ticking of the mantel clock. Finally, Helen Romilly cleared her throat.

“You are quite right, Mertensia. I ought not to have offered criticism where it is not welcome. I forget sometimes that we are not truly family although Caspian carries Romilly blood,” she finished with a nod towards her son.

Mertensia’s eyes narrowed and she opened her mouth, but before she could speak, her brother stirred himself.

“Mertensia,” Malcolm Romilly said in a steady, authoritative voice. “That is enough.” His sister shrugged, clearly more interested in her dinner than in sparring with her brother’s widow. Malcolm looked to his sister-in-law. “Helen, please accept my apologies. Of course you and Caspian are family. You were much loved by Lucian and he was much loved by us.” He raised his glass, the dark red wine catching the candlelight like a handful of garnets. “A toast, then. To the memory of my late brother, Lucian. And to burying the past.”

Helen Romilly gave him a sharp look, but the rest of the company merely echoed the toast and sipped. Only Malcolm Romilly did not drink. He stared into his glass as conversations began around the table amongst the dinner partners.

“Are you scrying?” I asked him in a teasing tone.

He roused himself. “I beg your pardon?”

“The old folk custom of looking into a crystal ball or a bowl of water to tell one’s future. I have never seen it done with a glass of wine, but I am certain it could be attempted.”

He gave me a curiously attractive smile. “I am glad his lordship thought to bring his brother and you, Miss Speedwell. I think with strangers amongst us, we might behave better than otherwise.”