A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(50)
“Yes, his lordship is very attractive,” I agreed.
“And jealous of what belongs to him I should think,” she added, her expression perfectly neutral.
I realized then that Stoker and I had indeed been seen together upon the little shingle of beach, him brazenly unclothed and me entirely unconcerned.
Before I could speak, she leant close and I smelt the sharp spiciness of good lavender on her clothes and the merest hint of brandy upon her breath. “It isn’t my place, miss. God knows it isn’t,” she said fervently. She gripped my arm suddenly, and all semblance of the gentle housekeeper was gone. Her eyes were pleading, tears dampening the lashes. “But if you don’t wish to marry his lordship, break it off. Miss Rosamund didn’t and look where it has got us.”
“You think she ought to have broken her betrothal?”
“Aye,” she said, her fingers tightening on my arm. “If she had her doubts, she might just have left him, might have saved him years of misery and wondering what became of her. Why could she not have called off the wedding?” she demanded. “She might have saved him so much torment if only she had taken her courage in her own two hands and refused to go through with it.”
“Then you think she ran away,” I ventured. She blinked furiously, seeming to recollect herself. She dropped my arm and took a handkerchief from her pocket. She wiped her eyes and blew her nose lavishly.
“What else could it be, miss?”
I did not like to speak of murder to Mrs. Trengrouse. It was all so sordid and out of keeping with her tidy ways. In her world, mess and disorder were things to be mended. I knew from my own careful taxonomies that there was a tranquility to be found in order. My solace was the pinning of specimens and the lettering of Latin labels—not so very different to the starching of sheets and the roasting of ducks. To defile the housekeeper’s serenity seemed somehow unkind and so I temporized.
“I am sure she had her reasons,” I told her. “For marrying Mr. Malcolm and for leaving.”
Mrs. Trengrouse’s expression was doubtful. “Perhaps it is as you say, miss.”
She dried her eyes again and pocketed her handkerchief, her manner once more brisk.
“I shall not ask your pardon for my intemperate speech,” she said formally, her Cornish accent smoothing into something more mannered. “But I would never have unburdened myself to a guest were the situation not so—”
I would have touched her arm once more, but it was clear the moment for such intimacy was past. “Think nothing of it, Mrs. Trengrouse. People often forget that staff are as deeply affected by the goings-on in a house as the family themselves.”
She paused, then nodded slowly, the candlelight sparkling off the silver threads in her dark hair. “Most people never think of such a thing. You are a most singular person, Miss Speedwell.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Trengrouse. I shall take that as a compliment.”
* * *
? ? ?
They say that curiosity killed the cat, but I am no cringing feline. I waited until the castle slept, the only sound the roaring of the wind about the tower, then rose and put on a dressing gown. I omitted to wear slippers, preferring chilled feet to the noise of soles scraping upon the stones. I stepped out onto the landing of the turret stair, groping carefully rather than lighting a candle and risk alerting Tiberius—or anyone else—to my presence. There was no sound from Stoker’s room above, and no light shone down the stairs. I put my foot to the first step and ran headlong into a broad chest. Strong arms came about me, and a hand clamped over my mouth.
Warm breath that smelt of peppermint humbugs stirred the air next to my ear and there was the softest brush of lips as he whispered.
“Not a sound. Tiberius is wakeful.”
I gave a nod and Stoker withdrew his hand from my mouth but his arms were still firmly clasped about my person. “I presume you mean to investigate the music room?”
I nodded again and the arms relaxed as the lips brushed my ear again. “Then I am coming with you.”
It was just as well that I should not speak. The unexpected proximity of him had set off a most interesting and violent reaction within me. I felt warm—very warm indeed—where his body made contact with mine, and unbearably cold where we did not touch. I attributed the sensation to the chill of the stone stair upon which I stood and the thinness of my night attire.
With a purposeful gesture, I pushed him away, fancying I detected a glint of something like amusement in his expression. It must have been a trick of the fitful moonlight slanting through the open arrow slit of the tower, I decided, following him silently down the winding stair. We crept past Tiberius’ closed door, and I paused, detecting no sound from within.
At the foot, a nightlight burned in a glass chimney set upon a stone plinth, casting feeble light towards the end of the wide passage. Keeping to the shadows, we made our way to the music room, slipping like wraiths through the half-closed door. Stoker shut it softly behind us as a precaution before lighting a single candle from one of the music stands. The sudden flare of light nearly blinded me, but I bent hastily to the task at hand. I inspected the harpsichord thoroughly, from its lacquered case to the strings that formed its innards, running my hands over the ivory and black keys, careful to draw no sound from them.
“What precisely are you looking for?” Stoker inquired. He had made no move to help me, merely stood with his back to the door, arms folded over his chest as he watched me.