A Dangerous Collaboration (Veronica Speedwell #4)(93)

“Here I am. What is it, Mrs. Trengrouse?”

She hesitated. “’Tis probably nothing, my lord, but I found something on the western beach, outside the tunnels,” she said. “I don’t know what it means, you see, and I am afraid, so very afraid that it means the master is not returning.”

Stoker’s manner was gentle. “What did you find?”

She shook her head, the threads of silver gleaming in the lamplight. “I cannot rightly say. ’Tis like nothing I have ever seen before. But I—” Her voice broke on a sob and Stoker patted her shoulder.

“We will come,” he assured her.

We followed Mrs. Trengrouse through the house and down to the kitchens. “Where is the staff?” I asked as we made our way through the usually bustling offices.

“’Tis their suppertime,” she said. “Cocoa and bread and butter before they finish the dinner preparations.” Stoker gave an appreciative sniff of the aroma of cocoa as she led the way to the tunnels, lighting lamps for us and unlocking the gate. She collected a lantern and went first through the narrow passage; I fell into line behind Mrs. Trengrouse, who kept up a continuous patter of talk as we made our way down to the beach, the brothers walking behind.

We emerged onto the beach just as the sun sank behind the Sisters, the dark rose gold of the light turning to silvery grey. A tiny boat had been beached at the edge of the water, and Mrs. Trengrouse led the way to it, hurrying over the shingle. The waves were rising in the evening wind, lacy whitecaps forming at the crest of each breaker.

“Inside the boat,” Mrs. Trengrouse said, lifting her lantern high so we could see. “Just there.”

The Templeton-Vanes clambered into the little craft, Tiberius more slowly than Stoker. They stood, looking about for a moment before turning to Mrs. Trengrouse in perplexity.

“Now you, Miss Speedwell,” she ordered. “Into the boat.”

In one hand she still held the lantern aloft, lighting the way. And in the other, she leveled a revolver at my heart.





        CHAPTER





18


“Well, this is unexpected,” Stoker remarked with a bit of his old hauteur.

“I know,” she said, smiling thinly. “If you had expected it, sir, you’d never have come. Now, into the boat, miss. I’ll not ask again.”

I did as I was bade for the simple reason that I could see no plausible alternative. I was too far away to disarm her, as were the Templeton-Vanes. Stoker put out an arm and braced one booted foot upon the gunwale, hoisting me swiftly to stand in between them.

“What now?” he asked.

“You will row the boat to the First Sister,” she said, nodding towards the rock.

“And if we refuse, you shoot us?” he guessed.

“Beginning with Miss Speedwell,” she assured him.

“What if we row out a bit and turn back?” Tiberius inquired.

“Then I will shoot her before you reach the beach,” she promised. “Your choice is simple, my lord. You and your brother row Miss Speedwell to that rock or risk her life.”

Tiberius opened his mouth, but Stoker thrust an oar into his hands. “Shut up and row, Tiberius,” he ordered.

“I have a number of questions,” I said to Mrs. Trengrouse.

She smiled again, but it was a tremulous, anxious thing. “I imagine you do, but I am no hardened criminal, Miss Speedwell. I am not steeled to enjoy this sort of thing, and the longer you linger upon this beach, the more nervous I become,” she said, waving the revolver again.

“For Christ’s sake, sit down,” Stoker told me, tugging my skirt hard enough that I tumbled to the bottom of the boat. Without preamble he leapt from the boat and gave it a mighty shove, launching it into the water. He gave Mrs. Trengrouse a long, level look, assessing the distance between them, but she merely kept the gun fixed upon me, and he resumed his position in the boat, taking up his oar.

We were perhaps halfway to the island before we dared to speak, keeping our voices low lest they carry across the water to the villainess waiting upon the beach, watching our progress with her lantern lifted high.

“So much for your arsenal of knives,” Stoker said. His face was a mask of pain as he rowed. He had removed his coat with difficulty and a bloodstain was blossoming on the white linen of his sleeve.

“I can only presume that your bad temper is the result of the rowing pulling loose your stitches,” I told him coldly. “As it happens, I am not wearing my boots or my purple corset, and it seemed a bit excessive to strap a knife to my calf just to sit down to tea. I shall know better next time.”

“Next time,” he said in a hollow echo.

“Now, let us turn our considerable energy and intellect to the problem at hand. We might row around the island,” I suggested. “We will soon be out of distance for a decent shot and we could risk pulling for the other side of the island. We would find help there.”

“The current will carry us the wrong way,” Stoker said flatly. “And we cannot row against it all the way around the island.”

“Then what if we—”

Stoker gave a jerk of his head. “We cannot do anything other than what she has ordered,” he said. He looked down between his feet and I realized that the rising sensation of cold I had been feeling was not simply nerves. Seawater was seeping into the boat, filling the tiny hull.