A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(30)

“And the Romillys are a pellar family?”

He smiled ruefully, the expression warming his face to real handsomeness. “You mustn’t believe Mother Nance’s tall tales,” he teased. “The first Romilly to own the Isle came over with William the Conqueror and was given this island in return for his service. He married a Saxon maiden and built a proper castle here to maintain William’s defenses and then set about breeding a line of very dutiful descendants who have served their kings ever since. Dull and worthy people,” he finished, the smile deepening.

I protested. “Mother Nance’s story is much more engaging.”

“Ah, yes, the one where the first Romilly caught a mermaid in his net. There’s a third story, somewhere in between, that says my ancestor married the last of the pellar maidens, the youngest of the sisters who perished upon the rocks. She did not set sail with her sisters, so she alone survived, bringing pellar blood into the family.”

“A much better story,” I told him. “But you must finish it. What happened to her father, the sad old man who cursed his daughters?”

He shrugged. “The legends do not say. Perhaps he walked out into the sea and drowned himself. That has been a popular method of ending one’s misery here. Or perhaps he drank himself to death or was struck by lightning or died in his bed of comfortable old age.” He fell quiet a moment and I wondered if he were considering his missing bride and the dire fate she might have met. His eyes were shadowed, and I hastened to fill the silence.

“Or perhaps his youngest daughter avenged her sisters and helped him along,” I suggested.

He raised a brow. “My dear Miss Speedwell, what a ghoulish imagination you have!”

“It seems like a rough sort of justice. One could hardly blame her,” I argued.

His smile was sad. “No, one could hardly blame her. Well, that’s enough of me prattling on about family stories. I am quite certain I have bored you to sobs.” He hung the map back on the wall.

“Perhaps you would care to walk out a little. The rain has stopped, I think.”

He led the way out onto the terrace beyond his study, guiding me down a series of staircases until we came to a tiny stretch of beach on the western edge of the island, the same that had been marked upon the map. It was a mixture of rock and shingle and sand, liberally festooned with seaweed. Heavy drops of fog pearled our hair. “Here now, you can see the Sisters properly,” he told me, pointing in the distance. The shifting patches of mist obscured the islands on the horizon, but now and then a bit of wind would blow the edges of the cloud ragged and I could just make out the three shapes.

Malcolm gestured towards the small rowing boat beached at the water’s edge.

“The storms will come and go for a few days more. It always happens at summer’s end on the Isle, but once they clear, one of us will be happy to row you to the First Sister, if you would like. The nearest one is little better than a rock, but the views are superb and the bird life is most interesting. It makes for quite a pleasant outing with a hamper from Mrs. Trengrouse,” he added.

“I should like that,” I told him.

“I must warn you against rowing yourself,” he advised, his expression suddenly anxious. “We leave the boat about, but we really oughtn’t. The passage between here and the First Sister is deceptively calm. The currents change often, and it takes a strong rower to navigate the challenges.”

“I am a good rower, but I promise not to take a boat without permission.”

He smiled and he looked boyish suddenly and winsome. “Good. If the sea is calm enough, you can take the oars for a bit. My father always insisted on every houseguest who wanted to take a boat being given a test—if you could not row right round the island, you were forbidden from so much as getting into a boat. I am not quite so draconian. But it is good to be cautious in these waters, and I would not have you miss one of our best beauties out there,” he added with a nod towards the Sisters.

“It sounds quite tranquil.”

“It is. One would think the Isle could provide such peace, but we are a bustling little place, what with a blacksmith and cider presses and quarries. On the Sisters, one has only the gulls for company, and the occasional seal.”

“And perhaps a mermaid?”

“Perhaps. Although they have been in short supply these past centuries.”

He fell silent then and I thought of his lost bride and wondered about her fate. Had she met with mischance, falling to a murderer’s dastardly intentions? Or had she run away from a marriage she could not face? If she had left of her own accord, that raised the question of how she had made her escape. Did she take a boat, veil tossing in the wind? Had she rowed herself to one of the Sisters to meet someone? More to the point, what had driven her to abandon her bridegroom on their wedding day? It seemed impossible that this attractive man could have said or done anything to frighten or alarm her.

And yet. Had I not just witnessed a fine display of temper directed at his nephew? For all his courtly ways, Malcolm Romilly had a way with rage. Had Rosamund ever borne the brunt of it? Had he frightened her somehow?

They were questions I could not ask. I turned to Malcolm, who still stared at the Sisters. “I wonder . . .” he whispered.

“Mr. Romilly?” I prompted.

He shook himself. “Malcolm, please. I apologize for my inattention. Building castles in Spain, I’m afraid. A common failing of mine, as anyone will tell you. Now, I suspect you would like to know more about the glasswing butterflies,” he said, turning to guide me back up the staircases and into the library. He moved to the bookshelf behind his desk, running his hand down the rank of books before plunging in to retrieve a large volume bound in bottle-green kid. “Here we are. Butterflies of St. Maddern’s Isle by Euphrosyne Romilly. She was an ancestor of mine, one of the first aurelians,” he told me.