A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(45)

I murmured something indistinct into my teacup and she laughed, leaning forward to tap my knee. “Do not worry, my dear. Your secret is safe with me. Betrothed to one brother and cavorting with the other on a beach while he is disrobed! Another woman might be shocked, but I take my hat off to you,” she said.

I thought back to the flicker of movement I had detected out of the corner of my eye while we were on the western beach. “You saw us.”

“I did.”

“Would it help if I confessed that I am not, in fact, actually betrothed to Tiberius? It was a stratagem because he worried that our traveling together would offend Malcolm’s Catholic sensibilities.”

“Are you his mistress?” she inquired bluntly.

“Certainly not,” I returned. “Tiberius is a friend, nothing more. He has arranged for me to add several specimens of the Romilly Glasswing butterfly to my collection.”

“And his brother?” she asked, her eyes straying once more to Stoker.

“We work together. We are employed by the Earl of Rosemorran to establish a museum.”

“How disappointing!” she said with a smile.

I bristled. “Because I am in trade?”

She rapped my knee with her knuckles. “No, my dear. I, too, am in trade, after a fashion. No, I meant your chaste connection with the younger Templeton-Vane. I saw well enough what is under those clothes, Miss Speedwell. Permit me to observe that you are wasting an opportunity there.”

I could not help but agree. She made a compelling point.



* * *



? ? ?

At dinner that night we dutifully made our way through several courses of excellent and largely untouched food, our conversation stilted. Helen did not appear.

“Mama never likes to be in company before a visitation,” Caspian explained.

“A ‘visitation’?” I asked.

“That is what she prefers to call these encounters,” he told me. He was pale and darted several tight-lipped looks towards his uncle, but otherwise his mood was gravely courteous.

“How did your mother discover her abilities?” Tiberius queried.

Caspian shrugged. “She has always been sensitive to atmospheres. After my father died, she was inconsolable. She called upon a medium in order to speak with him but we never heard from him.”

Mertensia snorted. “You make it sound as if it were a social call.”

“In many respects, that is precisely what it is,” he insisted. “She establishes a connection with the world beyond, and if the spirit she wishes to speak with is inclined to communicate, he or she will respond. If not, Mama is given her congé.”

“Not at home to visitors,” I quipped.

His smile was warm. “Just so.”

“How fascinating,” Tiberius said, his gaze inscrutable as it rested upon the young man. “I must make a point of speaking with her on the subject.”

“I am certain she would be amenable to that,” Caspian returned.

I looked to where Malcolm sat, toying with a dish of fruited custard. I leant closer to him, pitching my voice low. “Are you quite all right? I know it is not my place to remark upon it, but you have hardly touched your food.” I did not add that his wineglass had been filled four or five times by my count.

He looked at me a long moment, seeming to focus only after an effort. “How kind of you to ask. I confess, I find this all more difficult than I had expected.”

“I can only imagine. But you needn’t carry through with it,” I pointed out. “You have only to say the word and it is finished.”

“How can it be finished until I know?” The question was anguished, and I felt a rush of pity for him. He seemed to recover himself then, for he touched my hand lightly. “You are very gracious, Veronica. Tiberius is a lucky man.”

Tiberius! I was grateful that our host had not yet discovered our deception, particularly as I had been indiscreet enough to disport myself on a beach with a wet and naked Stoker. The memory of him, striding from the waves, seawater rolling off of his body like a son of Poseidon . . .

“Veronica?” Malcolm’s voice recalled me to the present.

I smiled. “Sometimes I quite forget I am an engaged woman.”

“I am not surprised,” he said, touching my bare finger. “You wear no betrothal ring.”

“He hasn’t given me one.”

Malcolm’s expression was shocked. “Then he is derelict in his duty—no, not duty. For it would be a pleasure to put a jewel upon that hand.”

To my astonishment, I realized Malcolm Romilly, grieving bridegroom with a missing wife, was engaging in a flirtation. True, he was slightly intoxicated, but not wildly so. Still, there was something at the back of his eyes I did not like, something calculated. I eased my hand out from under his just as Mrs. Trengrouse entered.

“The clock is striking ten, sir,” she said in a toneless voice. “It is time.”

We rose slowly and made our way to the drawing room. As I passed Mrs. Trengrouse, I saw that her expression was unhappy, a trifle nervous even. I gave her a reassuring smile.

“I am certain all will be well,” I told her, sotto voce.

“From your lips to God’s ear, miss,” was the fervent reply. “I will go and order hot drinks for afterwards. Some revivifying may be in order.”