A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(28)

Helen Romilly thrust herself onto her elbows, giving me a long, level look. “You have done very well for yourself,” she said with a slow wink. “A viscount! And a wealthy one! So many fellows with titles these days haven’t tuppence to rub together. But you have done very well,” she repeated, her head nodding like an overblown peony upon the stem. She roused, weaving a little as she leant near to me, her tone confiding. “Heed my advice, my dear. Get him to the altar at once. A woman cannot survive in this world without the help of a man.” She narrowed her eyes at me, blinking hard. “You’re a very handsome girl, beautiful, in fact. But it will not last, and you are getting older by the day, my dear. Older by the day.”

With that she collapsed back onto the bed, and Mrs. Trengrouse tucked in the coverlet around her as she tossed fretfully, raising her hands in front of her face.

“My poor Caspian,” she muttered as she stared dully at her hands. “What will become of him?”

Mrs. Trengrouse made consoling noises but Helen would not be settled.

Helen struggled to sit up in the bed. “Hecate,” she began.

“I will send Daisy to find the cat,” the housekeeper promised her.

She seemed satisfied at this and collapsed against the pillows, snoring gently before Mrs. Trengrouse even finished tucking in the coverlet around her. She flicked a knowing glance towards the washstand and collected a small bottle there.

“Hair wash?” I asked, reading the label as we left the room.

“Gin,” she corrected. She slipped the bottle into her pocket. “She has always liked a bit of a soother, she has. Bless her. She loved Mr. Lucian. It was a terrible blow when he died.”

“He sounds an interesting fellow,” I suggested.

She beamed. “Oh, what larks he got up to! Always merry as a grig, playing a tune or painting a picture. He went to London to make his fortune, did our Mr. Lucian. We thought he might become a famous actor like that Mr. Irving, but he never did get the right parts. And the pictures he painted were never quite good enough. The story of his life, I fear,” she said with a rueful smile. “Never quite good enough. The disappointments were difficult and they took their toll. Well,” she finished with a brisk gesture, “I must get on and set Daisy to finding that cat. Thank you for your trouble just now, miss. I know you will not speak of it.”

She gave me a hopeful look, and I hastened to reassure her that I would not share with anyone that I had seen Helen Romilly sprawled upon the floor. “Certainly not. A lady’s private peccadilloes are her own business.”

“Bless you, miss,” Mrs. Trengrouse said as she bustled away.

I had very nearly reached the closed door of the library when I heard raised voices, one young and clearly upset, the other more sober and restrained but brooking no interruptions.

“But you must!” the younger cried. It took little imagination to conclude the speaker was Caspian.

His uncle responded flatly. “Must? I must do nothing. I cannot believe you would approach me in this fashion. I will not fund such an endeavor. You must look to yourself for the money.”

“But I have not the means,” came the anguished response. There was a pause and when he spoke again, it was in a pleading tone of such despair, a stone might have been moved to pity. “I am begging, Uncle Malcolm. For Mama’s sake.”

“I am not persuaded,” Malcolm Romilly replied with a coldness I would not have thought him capable of.

“Then you can go straight to hell,” Caspian told him, biting off each word. I heard the scrape of chair legs and the slamming of the chair against the floor as he must have thrust himself to his feet. I had just enough time to move a few feet down the corridor and pretend to be deeply immersed in the study of a painting when Caspian emerged, his color high and his hands clasping and unclasping furiously.

He brushed past, taking no notice of me in his rage, and I crept to the open door. Malcolm Romilly was righting the chair—or at least attempting to. It had been broken in Caspian’s fit of temper, and his uncle stared down at the pieces ruefully. He glanced up then.

“Ah, Miss Speedwell. Please come in.” A tiny smile, half-embarrassed, touched his mouth. “You must have heard something of my nephew’s departure, I gather.”

“It would have been difficult not to,” I admitted. “I do not mean to pry.”

He took up the pieces of the chair and put them behind the door. “It is hardly prying when Caspian was shouting fit to shake the rafters. I have not seen my nephew in some years, and I am sorry to say I detect no improvement in his character. Caspian can be . . . difficult. He wants settling down.” He gestured. “Do come in, Miss Speedwell,” he urged.

It was an impressive room, lined with bookshelves and furnished with several groupings of comfortable armchairs as well as a handsome mahogany desk and a pair of high Stuart armchairs covered in ruby velvet that had been gently nibbled by moths. “Family treasures from the days of Queen Anne,” he told me. “The fabric has long since been discontinued and I could not bear to re-cover them.” The whole room had the same shabbily contented air as those chairs. The maps hanging upon the wall were foxed; the bindings of the books were so well-worn, the gilt titles were rubbed down to the leather. But an air of serenity hung over the place, and the view from the windows was incomparable.