An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6)(94)

“I suppose,” I said.

“Then when we emerge from this—if we do emerge—we might plan a voyage,” he suggested.

The lid of the trunk was flung back at that moment. A lantern bobbed above us, the sudden gleam blinding us after the impenetrable blackness of the trunk. I moved to shield my eyes against it, but my wrists were grasped firmly and I was hauled to my feet, disentangled from my awkward embrace with Stoker, and set unceremoniously on the deck. Stoker followed, ungently handled by a few roughly clad sailors who grinned at his state of dishabille.

The baroness held the lantern aloft, bracing herself on the shifting deck. “So, you are awake. That complicates matters, but nothing we cannot manage.”

She signaled to the sailor holding my arms, who shoved me towards the railing. Just beyond, the icy grey water rolled and heaved, peaking in foaming white ridges. It looked absolutely frigid, and I had little doubt Stoker and I would perish within a very few minutes of being flung overboard. The idea that he had been correct about our imminent demise would be of little consolation, I reflected. And I had spent our last conversation quarreling with him. It was not a memory to treasure. The least I could do was give us a chance at survival, and the first step towards that end was the purchase of time.

I dug in my heels and faced the baroness. “I want to know why,” I said, counting on the imperiousness of my tone to bring her to heel. She might be an aristocrat, but she had lived her life at the beck and call of her royal mistress, and my resemblance to that august lady seemed to play in my favor as she responded automatically. A wiser woman would have simply hurled us overboard without delay, but few people can be quite so cold-blooded, I had observed. Most folk, even those experienced in murder, required a moment to steel themselves against taking a life.

“I had no choice,” she said.

“Of course you did. One always has a choice.” My words were chosen deliberately. It has been my experience that few people care to be directly contradicted and will almost always rise to the bait when it is dangled. Give them a chance to justify their actions and you might as well settle in for a nice long chat. No one ever likes to think of themselves as the villain, so any opportunity to cast themselves as hero will be seized like a greedy child after a chocolate.

“I had no choice,” she repeated, coming closer, her breast rising and falling heavily. “The very future of my country was at stake.”

“I hardly think so,” I told her in a deliberately bored voice. “Surely you exaggerate.”

“I do not!” She stepped nearer still. “You know nothing of my troubles.”

“Because you do not really have troubles,” I told her patiently. “You merely invented some in order to justify murdering your princess.”

“How dare you! I would not harm a hair upon her head!”

“You say that, but here we are. The princess is missing, her maid has been strangled, and now you are attempting to murder two more people. How do we know you have not actually killed your princess? That is regicide, you know.” I wrinkled my nose. “Or is there another term for it when you kill a princess and not a king?”

The sailors began to shift uneasily. “You killed a princess? That is not on. You said you had to toss these two overboard because he”—the sailor holding my arms jerked his head towards Stoker—“inflicted himself barbarously upon your daughter. But she don’t seem too ill-used to me.”

“I am not,” I told him kindly. “Besides, if that story were true, why would she wish to kill me? Wouldn’t I be her beloved and greatly wronged daughter?”

The sailor next to him gave him an ungentle shove. “I told you it was a Banbury tale!”

“Also, I should like to point out, I am not a rapist,” Stoker said in tones of hectic outrage.

“That is true,” I agreed. “I can vouch for his character.”

The men looked doubtful, but one pointed to the elaborate dragon tattooed on Stoker’s pectoral muscle. “A fellow navy man,” he said, rubbing his bewhiskered chin. “Where did you get that, now?”

“After the Siege of Alexandria,” Stoker told him.

“You were there! Bill, this lad were at Alexandria, same as us,” the sailor crowed in delight. His companion gave a short nod of recognition. “What ship?”

“HMS Luna,” Stoker said.

“A fine ship she is,” the sailor told him proudly. “Thomas Corrigan, HMS Orkney. This is my mate, Billy Weaver, of the same. Munitions men, we were. And you?”

“Surgeon’s mate,” Stoker said.

Thomas Corrigan gave a soundless whistle. “Well, if that don’t beat all. A surgeon’s mate!” He narrowed his gaze at the baroness. “Ye’ve lied to us and tried to set us against this fellow and his lady. We’ll not harm a hair on his head, no matter how much you pay. He is one of our own.”

The baroness burst into a torrent of infuriated German, but the sailor merely held up his hand. “Screech like a parrot, but you’ll not change our minds.”

The baroness started forward, hands upraised, but Weaver leapt into the fray, seizing her firmly about the waist with one broadly muscled arm and pinning her arms tightly with the other.

“How dare you lay hands upon me! I will report you to the authorities,” she shrieked.