A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(7)
I gave an involuntary glance back at the Belvedere, where Stoker still labored. “Don’t be absurd, Lady Wellie.”
“Are you certain there is nothing you would like to share with an old woman?” she prodded, lifting her walking stick to gesture vaguely in the direction of my person.
“Absolutely not,” I returned.
She did not bridle at the sharpness of my tone. She was obviously preoccupied as she brandished a newspaper at me. I could not quite read the headlines, but the text was enormous and the story clearly lurid.
“Have you seen the newspapers? This Whitechapel murderer business is whipping up hysteria.”
“I’m afraid I have heard nothing.”
Her brows raised. “Lucky you. Prostitutes in the East End, child. Someone has been ripping them up and all of Scotland Yard has been thrown into tumult.”
I thought of our previous involvement with the Yard* and the head of Special Branch in particular. “Poor Sir Hugo,” I said lightly. “He must be keeping busy.”
She gave me a narrow look. “It is not just on Hugo to solve these atrocities,” she replied with a firmness that belied her eighty-plus years. “It is a national disgrace to have this monster stalking our streets and our police force unable to apprehend him. England ought to be better than this.”
In Lady Wellie’s estimation, the Empire was the center of the universe and England the center of the Empire. Nothing else mattered but this blessed isle. The whole of her father’s life and hers had been devoted to its service, secretly, as each had fulfilled the function of an éminence grise, the power behind the royal family, always guiding, protecting, shielding, not for love of the family themselves but for love of the land and people they governed. Her blood was red as St. George’s Cross. She was, without doubt, the most patriotic individual I had ever known, and she was not above using anyone or anything in order to serve her goals. She was ruthless and hard-edged, and when she smiled, it was a crocodile’s smile, full of guile. I quite liked her, if I am honest, but that morning I was eager to be on my way.
Her shrewd dark eyes missed nothing. “I know you want to be off. I’ll not keep you. But tell me where you mean to be in case I should like to write to you.”
I rattled off the castle’s address, watching as she pursed her lips. “Malcolm Romilly’s place. I knew his grandfather. Waltzed with him at Victoria’s coronation ball. He trod on my toes, but he was a very good kisser. Quite a skillful tongue,” she said with a dreamy look.
I smiled in spite of myself and pressed her hand. “Good day, Lady Wellie.”
She lifted a withered hand. “Godspeed, child.”
* * *
? ? ?
His lordship and I had arranged to meet at Waterloo Station, and I very nearly missed him in the teeming throng of travelers that balmy late September morning. The platforms were heaving with people of every description, starched nannies with their screaming charges, turbaned gentlemen making their way with courtly elegance past nut sellers, and pale, thin girls selling the last of the summer flowers, bawling out their wares in harsh cries to make themselves heard above the plump matrons offering meat pies for the journey. Through them all strode City men of business in their pinstriped rectitude, discreetly ogling the aristocratic ladies gliding past without glancing to the left or right, little dogs and ladies’ maids trotting in their wake.
The viscount found me at last. “Miss Speedwell,” he said, coming to my side with long strides that earned the admiration of more than one passing lady. “I was beginning to despair of ever finding you in this melee. Come, I have secured our compartment and the porter will see to your bags.”
A very upright porter with the posture of a broom handle took my bag from my hand and gave me a searching look. “Shall I wait for the lady’s maid, my lord?” he asked the viscount.
Lord Templeton-Vane waved him off. “Miss Speedwell is a modern lady. She does not travel with a maid.”
If his lordship had told the man I intended to travel stark naked with a pumpkin on my head, he could not have looked more appalled. He swallowed hard and gave a half bow that was both respectful and condescending. “Very good, my lord.”
“And I will carry my own bag, thank you,” I said, retrieving my carpetbag with a gesture that brooked no argument.
He gave a little sniff—offended either at my intransigence or the fact that he would see no tip from me—before drawing himself up to his full height and turning to the viscount. “In that case I will bid you a happy journey, my lord. The hamper and your small case are in the compartment and your larger bags are marked for Pencarron and stowed in the luggage van. Good day, sir,” he finished with a hopeful look at the viscount. His lordship obliged him with a substantial coin and the fellow gave me a dismissive look as he strode away.
The viscount turned to me. “My dear Miss Speedwell, two minutes in and already you are causing a scandal. Whatever shall I do with you?”
I did not trouble myself to reply. He offered his arm and we were soon comfortably established in our private compartment. As the train drew from the station in great gusts of steam, he settled back against his seat, regarding me thoughtfully. “I suppose I ought to have considered better the impropriety of our traveling together,” he said.
I shrugged. “I am no stranger to impropriety. It troubles me not in the slightest,” I assured him. “After all, I work for a living. I am hardly a lady.”