A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(9)

He released my finger and sat back with a slow, deliberate smile. “Delicious. As I suspected it would be,” he told me. And I knew he did not mean the crumb.



* * *



? ? ?

For the rest of the journey—and make no mistake, to travel from London to the tip of Cornwall takes hours—the viscount behaved with almost perfect decorum. He still made the odd remark that might have been construed as inappropriate by Society’s standards, but nothing that imperiled my virtue, slight as it was. And he did not touch me again. Instead he applied himself to my comfort, insisting upon opening the window when the compartment grew stuffy and asking intelligent and penetrating questions about lepidoptery. I was no fool. I was familiar enough with the machinations of men to know when I was being catechized simply so that a gentleman might appear to marvel at my accomplishments, thereby endearing himself to me. But Tiberius was more skilled than most. I almost believed that he was sincerely impressed with the breadth of my knowledge.

Almost. To test him, I spent the better part of an hour describing the Gypsy moth in exhaustive detail. If I am honest, which I have sworn to be within these pages, I will admit that I embroidered most of the facts and invented some out of whole cloth. Throughout my recitation, he kept his expression attentive and even offered thoughtful comments from time to time.

“You don’t say,” he remarked at one point. “The Gypsy moth has a furry tail and feeds solely on Madagascar lizards. How frightfully interesting.”

“No, it isn’t,” I corrected. “Because I made it up. Lymantria dispar do not have furry tails, nor do they eat lizards. No moth does. I was merely testing your ability to pretend to be interested. It is a prodigious skill, my lord. You lasted fifty-seven minutes.”

He looked aggrieved, then smiled. “You were supposed to call me Tiberius,” he reminded me.

“And you have no need for this pretense. Why play at being interested in moths, of all things?” I asked.

“I am not interested in moths,” he admitted. “But I am interested in you.”

“That,” I told him without a blush, “is entirely apparent.”

“Good.”

He sat forward, hands resting upon his knees. They were good hands, like Stoker’s, beautifully shaped, although Tiberius’ were unstained by chemicals and glues and the various other nasty things that habitually fouled Stoker’s. These hands were strong and clean, the nails trimmed and the moons stark white.

“You have never done a day’s work with those hands,” I told him.

“No, but I’ve done many a night’s,” he said, reaching one out to cup my cheek.

“My lord,” I began.

“Tiberius,” he reminded me, leaning forward still further until his name was a breath across my lips. I was just trying to make up my mind whether to let him kiss me—the viscount was after all a very handsome man—or to give him a polite shove, when the train jerked to a stop, flinging him backwards onto his seat.

“Oh, look. We’ve arrived in Exeter,” I said brightly.





        CHAPTER





3


After changing trains at Exeter, we carried on to Padstow, where we changed yet again, the trip requiring a further leg on a smaller railway to Pencarron and then a transfer to a quaint little quay full of fishing boats bobbing at anchor. They were brightly painted, as were the houses clustered on the hillside that rose sharply above the curved arm of the shore.

The sea air was bracing and fresh, and Tiberius, with no sign of resentment at his thwarted attempts at lovemaking, drew in a breath and let it out in an exultant sigh. “There is nothing like sea air to mend what ails you,” he pronounced.

“I did not know you were fond of the sea,” I told him as we made our way from the tiny station down to the waiting boats.

“Indeed I am. A naval career is one of the things I envied Stoker bitterly.”

“The fact that you envied him anything at all would come as the most appalling shock to him,” I returned.

His mouth twisted into a wry expression. “I envy him more than any other man I have ever known,” he said.

“Tiberius,” drawled a familiar voice, “how very touching. I did not realize how much you cared.”

I whirled to find Stoker lounging idly, one leg crossed over the other at the ankle, his arms folded.

“How on earth—”

“There was an express from Exeter,” he told me. “Tiberius ought to have taken it, but I suppose he was too enchanted with your company to want to shorten the experience.”

“How is it,” I demanded, “that we did not see you on the train from London?”

“I traveled third class,” he told us with a grin as a porter came trundling up with an assortment of smart shagreen cases stamped with the viscount’s initials.

Tiberius’ mouth thinned. “How very predictable of you, Revelstoke.”

He seldom used Stoker’s proper name, and it was a measure of his displeasure that he did so.

Stoker shrugged and picked up his single piece of baggage, a small battered naval chest. I turned to Tiberius. “Will Stoker’s arrival present difficulties with your host?”

“I doubt it, since I expected this very course of action on his part,” was the smooth reply.