A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(54)

“I was not referring to those, my lord. I meant instead your penchant for puppeteering. Goodness, how you do like to tug the strings.”

His gaze was quizzical. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean—” he began.

He did not affect innocence well. There was something a trifle too mocking about the mouth, a little too knowing in the eyes. I gave him a thin, mirthless smile.

“We are all so many marionettes to you, are we not? How you enjoy this! I know you brought me here for some purpose beyond butterflies,” I said flatly.

He lifted his glass in a toast to my décolletage. “My dearest Veronica, with assets such as those, you can hardly blame a man.”

“And,” I went on as if he had not spoken, “for a purpose other than dalliance. You could as easily have attempted a seduction in London. But you had a reason for coming here—a reason to do with Rosamund.”

He hesitated a fraction too long before replying and it was that pause which told me everything. “I cannot imagine what fevered fancy has caused you to think such a thing.”

“I saw the harpsichord.”

“Of course you did,” he returned politely. “We all did. It was sitting in the music room.”

“I mean that I saw it. Specifically, I saw the panel above the keyboard, and I recognized a familiar face.”

“My, my, Miss Speedwell,” he said after a long moment, “what sharp eyes you have.”

“The better for hunting butterflies,” I replied. “Noticing details and, more importantly, understanding their significance, makes the difference between a dilettante and a prolific in my profession. And it is an excellent likeness.”

“Do you think so?” He rubbed one hand over his chin. Unlike Stoker, his lordship did not battle constantly against an unruly beard. His jawline was but lightly shadowed, lending him a slightly roguish air. “I only sat once for the artist, but I think he did a rather good job of capturing my profile. He made Jupiter’s shoulders too heavy,” he added thoughtfully. “Mine are more elegant.” Having just had the features in question under my questing hands, I could confirm his lordship’s assessment, but I said nothing. He heaved a sigh and drained the last of his whisky.

“How long were you in love with Rosamund?” I asked gently.

“From two minutes after I first met her until . . . what is today?” he asked.

“You were married to another woman,” I pointed out in a reproachful tone.

“I was doing my duty,” he countered.

“But you still loved Rosamund?”

“One could not help it. She was simply the most enchanting woman I ever met, if present company will take no exception.”

“None taken,” I assured him. “Will you tell me about her?”

He shrugged. “What is there to tell? She was not as classically beautiful as you are, but she had your quickness, your liveliness, a joie de vivre that was utterly irresistible. I wanted her from the first.”

“Where did you meet her?”

“Here. Malcolm was hosting one of his bloody house parties and Rosamund was a guest. Mertensia and Rosamund had been inmates together at some school for acidulated females. Malcolm was rather at loose ends when his parents died and didn’t quite know what to do with his younger siblings, and so they were both packed off to school. Lucian made a success of it, but Mertensia wept the entire term. She managed to make friends with Rosamund and together they formulated a plot to get Mertensia away from the school and back home to St. Maddern’s.”

“Rather daring for schoolgirls,” I mused.

“Indeed. I think Mertensia rather felt she owed her something for it. Rosamund was in disgrace at the school for her part in the scheme, and only Malcolm’s intervention persuaded the powers that be to let her stay on after Mertensia left. I suspect he made a handsome donation to the school as well,” he said.

“Why should he?”

He shrugged. “The Romillys are dreadfully old-fashioned. Devoted to outmoded notions like loyalty and fidelity. Mertensia couldn’t bear the idea that Rosamund should suffer on her account, and as she was a scholarship pupil, Malcolm’s flinging a little money their way would be quite welcome.”

“So Mertensia came home to St. Maddern’s and Rosamund stayed on at the school?”

“She was training for a teacher.” A tiny smile played about his lips. “You cannot imagine anyone less suited for the profession.”

“Was Rosamund not clever?”

“Clever! The girl was clever as a monkey and twice as mischievous. She was too high-spirited for such a drab life. But it was the only one open to her. Her parents were dead and there was nothing on the horizon for her but genteel poverty unless she earned her crust.”

“I know the feeling,” I said.

The smile deepened. “Since making your acquaintance, I have been more than once forcefully reminded of Rosamund. It has been both a joy and a torment.”

He said nothing more for a long moment, then cleared his throat abruptly. “So, Rosamund began her profession as a teacher but found it did not suit her. She left in order to undertake private employment.”

“Was she more successful in this enterprise?”

“She was not. As I said, she was clever. Too clever to waste her youth and beauty teaching dull-witted children to lisp their ABCs. But she had a living to make. She took a series of assignments, each more unsatisfying than the last. Finally, some three years ago, she made up her mind to leave England and accepted a post in India. It was not due to start until the autumn. There was a period of some months during which she was at loose ends, with neither home nor occupation. She wrote to Mertensia, who immediately invited her to spend the summer here. It had been many years since their last meeting.”