A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(5)

Stoker grasped his lordship’s meaning before I did. “Tiberius does not mean you to hunt them,” he said quietly. “He has found you larvae. For the vivarium.”

I smothered a moan of longing. “Have you?” I demanded.

His lordship laughed, a low and throaty chuckle of pure amusement. “My dear Miss Speedwell, how you delight me. I have indeed secured permission from the current owner of St. Maddern’s Isle, Malcolm Romilly, for you to take a certain number of larvae for your collection. While not a lepidopterist himself, he is an ardent protector of every bit of flora and fauna unique to his island, and he believes that if the glasswing is to survive, there must be a population elsewhere as a sort of insurance policy.”

My mind raced with the possibilities. “What do they eat?”

The viscount shrugged. “Some shrub whose name escapes me, but Malcolm did say that you might take a number of the plants with you in order to make the transition to London as painless as possible for the little devils. Now, I am bound for St. Maddern’s Isle for a house party to which Malcolm has invited me. It seems only natural that we should combine our purposes and I should escort you to the castle.”

“What a splendid notion,” Stoker put in smoothly. “We should love to go.”

“Stoker,” the viscount said firmly, “you are not invited to the castle.”

“Castle!” I exclaimed. “Is it really so grand as that?”

His lordship favored me with one of his enigmatic smiles. “It is small, as castles go, but it is at least interesting. Lots of hidden passages and dungeons and that sort of thing.”

“What of ghosts?” I demanded archly. “I won’t go unless there is a proper ghost.”

The viscount’s eyes widened in a flash of something like alarm before he recovered himself. “I can promise you all manner of adventures,” he said.

I could scarcely breathe for excitement. Stoker gave me a long look as he drained the last of his whisky, put down his glass, and walked silently back to his buffalo.

His brother leaned closer, pitching his voice low. “Someone is not very pleased with us.”

“Someone can mind his own business,” I said fiercely. “I am going to St. Maddern’s Isle.”

“Excellent,” said Lord Templeton-Vane, his feline smile firmly in place. “Most excellent indeed.”





        CHAPTER





2


“He means to seduce you, you know,” Stoker said after the viscount had left. He was removing rotten sawdust from the badly mounted water buffalo, punctuating his words with vigorous gestures and showering the floor and himself with the smelly tendrils of moldering wood. He had stripped off his shirt as was his custom when he worked, but the nasty stuff had stuck to his tumbled black curls and to the sweat streaking the long, hard muscles of his back and arms. I paused for a moment, as I always did when Stoker was in a state of undress, to admire the view. I had given him the better part of an hour to master his temper, but it seemed it had not been enough. I adopted a tone of generally cheerful reasonability.

“Of course he does,” I agreed.

He stopped and fixed me with a disbelieving stare. “You know that?”

I sighed. “Stoker, I am twenty-six years of age. I have traveled around the world three times, and I have met scores of men, some of whom I have known far more intimately than you can imagine. I promise you, I can smell a burgeoning seduction from across the room. I am no fainting virgin,” I reminded him.

“Then why in the name of bleeding Jesus are you going with him?”

“He promised me Romilly Glasswings,” I said simply.

“And that is all it takes? Bought with a butterfly?” he said in a particularly harsh tone.

“Oooh, how nasty you can be when you are sulking,” I observed.

He turned to his buffalo, wrenching out the sawdust in great, choking clouds. The original taxidermist had thrown in whatever he could to absorb moisture—sawdust, newspaper, bits of cloth. The stuffing had made cozy nest material for all manner of rodents. Tiny bones flew through the air with horrifying regularity as Stoker worked in a frenzy. After a few moments, he stopped.

“I am not sulking. I am concerned,” he told me, his voice soft and gentle now, but the words clipped at the end, as if admitting them caused him pain.

“I can take care of myself.”

“That is what I am afraid of.”

“I will not be gone long. His lordship and I settled the details before he left—a fortnight at most.”

He nodded, his witch-black hair gleaming in the lamplight. I waited for him to rouse himself to temper again, waited for the inevitable repetitious clash of wills, but it did not come. When Stoker and I disagreed, a frequent occurrence if I am honest, it was a thing of beauty—volcanic and ferocious. I took it as a mark of the highest affection and respect that he fought with me as he would a man, and I gave him no quarter either. Our rows were legendary on the Marylebone estate, with frequent wagers amongst the staff as to which of us would prevail. (The safest bet, I need not reveal, was always upon me.)

But this time Stoker simply refused to rise to the occasion. I knew he was angry at his brother’s presumption. Any invitation or gift that had come from the viscount in the past had been met with rage on Stoker’s part. The skeletons in their cupboard of childhood troubles danced vigorously. The viscount’s overtures were intrusions, Stoker believed, encroachments on something he held dear and that belonged to him—me. Even though our relationship had not progressed past a firm friendship and perfect companionship, he resented any attempt by the viscount to win me to his side. I anticipated our quarrels on these occasions. I enjoyed them. But this time, Stoker merely worked at his buffalo, his jaw set and his gaze averted.