A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(39)

I forced my voice to lightness. “It is my usual state of affairs,” I quipped with a smile so fragile it seemed made of glass.

He went on, oblivious to my piercing anguish. “I gave it much thought last night. As ever, you know me better than anyone. You see in me what I cannot see in myself, and that is the purest form of friendship.”

“Friendship,” I said in a faint echo.

He leant forward, eager in his obvious sincerity. “Friendship. I have come to realize that you have been right to insist upon preserving that above all else. Romantic inclinations, physical impulses, those are of the moment. They do not last in the way that real companionship does.”

“Like a dog,” I said dispiritedly. So I was to be little more than Huxley to him, a dutiful companion at arms, waiting to join in his endeavors, earning a pat on the head and a marrowbone for my troubles.

“It is a new thing for me, to count a woman as my closest confidante,” he went on. “I have not always appreciated the camaraderie of the fairer sex. I have not always been willing to listen to the counsel of women, but you are so like a man sometimes that I find myself coming around.”

“I am like a man,” I repeated dully.

“Well, not in looks, obviously,” he said, still sober as a parson. “But in your manner. You are forthright and direct in conversation, playing none of the games that ladies play. You offer only the truth, however painful.”

I scrutinized him for signs of malice, but there was nothing in that open, guileless gaze except conviction. “What a martinet you make me sound,” I murmured, forcing the words past the ache in my chest.

He smiled kindly. “No, never that. More like a devoted governess at times, always willing to give a dose of medicine when needed, no matter how disagreeable.”

There was no possible response to that observation, so I made none. I merely stared at the fire and wished for a quick and painless death.

He yawned and stretched. “Lord, it’s late. I ought to let you get to sleep. But I wanted to acknowledge your remarks last night. I was in danger of making a very great fool of myself, but you pulled me back from the brink. Thank you for that.”

“Well, making a great fool of oneself is something I know a little about,” I said lightly, tasting the words as bitter as pith on my tongue.

He rose and put out his hand. “So let us shake hands upon our new understanding. Friends, boon companions, partners in work and even these ridiculous investigative pursuits you seem to attract.”

I took his hand and he shook mine with the heartiness usually reserved for one’s stalwart drinking companions.

“I am glad we understand one another at last,” he told me. “I have missed our conversations.”

“As have I,” I told him truthfully. I forced another smile as he bade me good night.

He closed the door quietly behind him as he left. I sat for a long while, staring into the flames and thinking about what a close thing it had been. I had perched on the edge of the precipice, ready to leap, only to find I had no wings at all.

“Clever Veronica,” I said wryly. “You thought to protect him from being hurt and instead you have mauled yourself.”

The fact that I had saved him from further pain was a very small consolation.



* * *



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The next morning I took a hearty breakfast alone again. According to Mrs. Trengrouse, the gentlemen had scattered to their various occupations—Malcolm to estate business, Tiberius to his correspondence, Caspian to some frivolity or other (this said with an indulgent air), and Stoker for a row around the island. I was not surprised at the last. Stoker never liked being confined indoors for too long; he had a keen appreciation of the therapeutic effects of physical exertion. I understood the inclination well.

I tamped the impulse to charge out in search of my own exercise and instead read the newspapers, relieved to find the Whitechapel killer had not struck again. But there were endless stories about the murders in gruesome detail and the ghoulish speculation turned my stomach. I flung them aside and settled instead to writing up a plan for accommodating my glasswings in the vivarium in London, but it was no use. I could not banish the cloud which had descended after my conversation with Stoker.

Determined to exorcise my prickly mood, I threw down my pen and went to change into my hunting costume, emerging from my room just as Stoker descended from his.

“Good morning,” I said cordially. “How was your sail?”

“Instructive,” he replied. His hair was ruffled and his cheeks flushed from exertion. His mood was markedly better than I had seen in some time. He hesitated, then grinned. “I’ve found something you will enjoy. Come with me.”

I needed no further encouragement. For just a moment it felt like an adventure of old, and I followed, my spirits rising with every step. He led the way through the pantries, buttery, carvery, and assorted other domestic offices, greeting the staff and startling a scullery maid busily engaged in a frantic embrace with the boot boy in the game larder.

“How dreadfully unhygienic,” I remarked as they scuttled out.

We moved on through the kitchen proper, where Stoker collected a sandwich from the cook—not one of the dainties she usually cut for tea but an enormous affair stuffed with rare roast beef and good Cheddar and spread lavishly with mustard. He gave a little moan of satisfaction as he bit into it, and she beamed at him.