I glanced at the enormous canvas pinafore swathing me from collar to ankles. It was an unflattering garment, to be sure, and streaked with paint, blood, dust, and the remains of a profiterole Stoker had flung at me earlier. I whisked off the offending pinafore to reveal a simple gown of red foulard. It was not a fashionable creation by any standards, but I eschewed fashion, preferring to have my working clothes tailored to my specifications rather than the latest whims of the rich and idle. Narrow skirts and an unobtrustive bustle were my only concessions to modernity.
Lady Cordelia gave a vague smile. “Very charming, I’m sure.” She paused and looked to my hair, her lips parted as if to say more, but she left us then, as swiftly as she had come.
I turned to Stoker, shoving a few errant locks into the heavy Psyche knot at my neck. With a smile of deliberate malice, I turned and—in a single liquid motion—flung the blade, lodging it firmly between the target’s eyes. “I am off to take tea at the Curiosity Club. Mind you take good care of that dummy.”
CHAPTER
2
I settled myself comfortably opposite Lady Cordelia in one of the Beauclerk town carriages, mindful of her maid, Sidonie, who watched balefully from an upstairs window of Bishop’s Folly.
“I thought Sidonie accompanied you on all your outings,” I remarked.
Lady Cordelia smoothed her black silk skirts, her expression carefully neutral. “I do not require Sidonie’s company today. She is inclined to be indiscreet at times.”
I raised a brow in interest. “The Curiosity Club requires discretion?”
Almost against her will, it seemed, Lady C. smiled. “Frequently.”
She seemed disinclined to conversation, but I felt obliged to speak. “I do not know if you have considered the ramifications of being seen with me in public,” I began.
“Why should there be ramifications?”
I suppressed a snort. “We both know that my life is an unconventional one. I might look and speak like a lady, but my choices have placed me beyond the pale of propriety. I have traveled alone. I am unmarried, I live without a chaperone, and I work for a living. These are not the actions of a lady,” I reminded her. I did not mention my more colorful peccadilloes. I had made a point of choosing my lovers carefully—no Englishmen need apply—and of entertaining them only when abroad. Thus far mere whispers of my misconduct had reached England, but one never knew when one of the dear fellows would succumb to indiscretion and Reveal All.
“Society is willfully obtuse,” she returned, setting her jaw. I recognized the gesture. We had known each other only a matter of months, but I had already learnt that Lady Cordelia possessed an unbendable will when she chose. No doubt her elevated rank would protect her from the worst of the gossip.
I settled myself more comfortably as the coachman maneuvered his way through the darkening streets. A late summer storm had rolled in, blanketing the city with lowering cloud as sheets of rain began to fall, and when we reached the Curiosity Club, the windows glowed in welcome. It was an unassuming edifice, a tall and elegant house tucked in a row of other such buildings. It appeared to be a private residence, but just beneath the bell was a small scarlet plaque bearing the name of the club and the legend ALIS VOLAT PROPRIIS. “‘She flies with her own wings,’” I translated.
Lady Cordelia smiled. “Fitting, don’t you think?”
Before she could put a hand to the door, it swung back to reveal a portress dressed in scarlet plush, her head wrapped in a shawl of gold silk.
“Lady Cordelia,” said the young woman solemnly. She was of African descent, with the innately elegant posture I had observed so often upon my travels to that continent, but her speech was London born and bred.
“Good afternoon, Hetty. This is my guest, Miss Speedwell.”
Hetty inclined her head. “Welcome to the Hippolyta Club, Miss Speedwell.” She turned back to Lady Cordelia as a page hurried forward to take our damp cloaks. She opened a thick leather book and proffered a pen to Lady Cordelia. “Florrie will have your things dried and brushed before you leave. Lady Sundridge is awaiting you in the Smoking Room.”
I gave Lady C. an inquiring glance, but she shook her head swiftly. “Later,” she murmured. So, our visit to the club had a purpose after all, I mused. Suddenly the promise of cakes and tea took on an additional spice.
The girl named Florrie whisked herself away with the brisk rustle of starched petticoats as Lady Cordelia took the pen and signed us in with a flourish. I glanced about, registering my first impression of the club. It was smaller than I had expected, intimate, and decorated with a restraint I found relaxing. The windows were draped in scarlet velvet, almost identical in hue to Hetty’s crimson plush, and the carpets were quietly patterned, tasteful things from Turkey, heavy and thick enough to muffle our footsteps. The walls were closely hung with photographs and maps, charts and memorabilia, all celebrating the accomplishments of the members. The club was fitted with gas, but a quick glimpse through the arched doorway into a large parlor revealed a fireplace in which logs were merrily crackling away. I heard the muted buzz of female conversation, punctuated here and there by excited remarks or unrestrained laughter, and I tipped my head at the sound of it.
“Debate and lively discourse are encouraged at the Curiosity Club,” Hetty told me with a smile. But in contrast to the warmth of Hetty’s welcome, Lady Cordelia’s mood seemed to have shifted. By the time she had guided me upstairs to the closed door bearing the inscription SMOKING ROOM, her usual calm had faltered and the furrow had etched itself again between her brows.
She tapped lightly, darting me an anxious look before the reply sounded, swift and peremptory. “Come.”
Lady C. opened the door upon a smallish, handsome room furnished in the same style as the hall downstairs. Framed maps hung upon the walls, books lined the shelves, and a table beneath the windows held celestial and terrestrial globes interspersed with a selection of potted orchids. A few comfortable leather chairs, like those in gentlemen’s clubs, had been installed, and one of these was occupied by a lady dressed in subdued but extremely expensive fashion. She rose slowly as we advanced, giving me a look of frank assessment.
Lady C. made the introductions. “Lady Sundridge, may I present Miss Speedwell. Veronica, this is Lady Sundridge.”
For a long moment Lady Sundridge said nothing. She merely stood in a state of composed stillness, like a figure in a tableau. But while her body was immobile, her gaze was rapacious, darting from my face to my hands and back again, as if searching for something.
As my social superior, she held the advantage. It fell to her to acknowledge me, and as long as she was content to play the mute, so was I. I returned her stare coolly, noting her fine-boned face and a tall, slender frame that she carried to elegant effect. Her hands were loaded with jewels, the facets shimmering ceaselessly in the shifting firelight.
She spoke at last. “I know the hour dictates tea, but I had in mind something more bracing.” She indicated a low table before the fire. There stood a bowl of hot punch, heavily infused with rum and spices, and I took the glass she offered. She watched me as I swallowed, nodding in approval. “You are not shy of spirits.”
“I am not shy of most things, Lady Sundridge.”
The beautiful eyes widened for an instant. “I am glad to hear it. I asked Lady Cordelia to bring you to the club so that I might have the pleasure of making your acquaintance. You are, in some circles, quite legendary.”
“And what circles might those be, my lady?”
If my forthright approach surprised her, she mastered it swiftly. She gave a dismissive little shrug. “Lepidoptery, of course. I know you trade in butterflies and publish papers very quietly, but it is not difficult to pierce the veil of anonymity if one is determined.”
“And why should you be determined? Are you a collector?”
She gave a low, throaty laugh. “Of
many things, Miss Speedwell. But not butterflies, alas.”
“But of people, I imagine.”
She spread her hands. “You astonish me. You are taking my measure,” she added. But over the course of our conversation I noticed her movements, graceful and studied, and her voice, smooth as honeyed whiskey, with the barest trace of a German accent. It occurred to me that she would be violently attractive to men—and that she was entirely aware of it.
“Why should I not? You are taking mine,” I returned pleasantly.
We were sparring, after a fashion, as swordsmen will do—prodding one’s opponent delicately to assess the vulnerabilities in the other’s defenses—but I was at a loss to understand why. Unless she suffered from some sort of professional jealousy, there was no reason for us to be at odds. And yet, Lady Sundridge was, quite obviously, sizing me up. That she was doing so in front of Lady Cordelia was even more curious, and Lady C., clearly expecting this, sat quietly sipping at her punch as her ladyship and I circled one another like cats.
“You are direct,” Lady Sundridge said at length. “That can be a liability.”
“Only to those who require artifice.”
I heard a smothered gasp and realized Lady Cordelia was choking delicately on her punch, although from my forthrightness or the strength of the rum, I could not determine.
Lady Sundridge fixed me with a stare I found difficult to characterize. Was it assessment? Disapproval? Grudging respect?
I sipped at my punch. “I must congratulate you, my lady. I am enjoying this rather more than I expected. Generally I avoid the company of ladies whenever possible.”
“You find your own sex tedious?”
“Invariably. We are educated out of common sense, curiosity, and any real merit. We are made to be decorative and worthy of display, with occasional forays into procreation and good works, but nothing more.”
“You are hard upon us,” Lady Sundridge remarked.
“I am a scientist,” I reminded her. “My hypotheses are drawn from observation.”
She nodded slowly. “Yes. You are hard upon us, but you are not wrong. Women are frequently tiresome, but not in this place. Here you will find your own kind.”
“I am only a guest here,” I said.
“Indeed,” was her sole reply.
I finished the glass of punch and placed it carefully upon the table before I spoke. “And as much as I have enjoyed this exchange, do you not think it is time that you came to the purpose of this meeting?”
Lady Sundridge’s eyes narrowed. “What purpose?”
I inclined my head graciously. “I believe you have some questions for me, Your Royal Highness.”
CHAPTER
3
The silence in the room was palpable. Then Lady Cordelia began to choke again, and surged from her chair. Lady Sundridge waved her back again with an imperious gesture.
“That is quite all right, Cordelia. We ought not to have taken Miss Speedwell for a fool. I was warned not to underestimate her. Now, I am certain you would like a glass of water to settle that cough, and I think it is time Miss Speedwell and I had a tête-à-tête.”
Instantly, Lady C. curtsied deeply and withdrew, but not before throwing me a thoughtful glance. I sat mutely, using silence against Lady Sundridge as she had so adroitly used it against me at the start of our meeting.
“You know who I am?” Lady Sundridge began.
“I know you are a daughter of Queen Victoria. I am not entirely certain which, the family resemblance amongst you and your sisters is strong.” The fact that the lady thought she could preserve her incognita was disingenuous if not absolutely naïve. They were the most photographed family in the Empire, and scarcely a day passed without one of them turning up in the newspapers. That they bore a strong likeness to one another made it all the easier to spot one in the wild.
Unexpectedly, she smiled. “Guess.”
I considered, studying the graceful bones of her face, the fineness of her tailoring, the strong hands folded prayerfully in her lap.
“Louise.”
“Full marks. How did you know?”
I shrugged. “The eldest is Crown Princess of Prussia and not likely to be in London at present. Princess Alice is dead some ten years past. Princess Helena is frequently in ill health while you seem perfectly robust, and Princess Beatrice is expecting a child next month. You are slim as a willow. Besides, there is the matter of your hands.”
“My hands?” She spread the long, tapering fingers so that the jewels upon them caught the light once more.
“I have heard that Your Royal Highness is a sculptress. Your hands, while lovely, show the marks of the chisel.”
She sat back in her chair, steepling the fingers in question under her chin. “I am impressed with you.”
“You oughtn’t be,” I told her. “It’s little more than a parlor trick for someone in my profession. Tell me, do you know why lepidopterists make a point of following birds?” I inquired.
She blinked a little at the non sequitur. “Birds?”
“Birds are the lepidopterist’s natural enemy. They feed upon caterpillars before the metamorphosis that we so desperately require in order to collect our specimens. But we have learnt to play their own game better than they. Some species of birds have been observed in the act of tracking caterpillars by looking for chewed vegetation. The lepidopterist’s motto is ‘Follow the bird, find the caterpillar.’ Subtlety and detail are all in our pursuit.”
“And are you always successful in your pursuits?” There was challenge in the princess’s voice.
“Only a fool would claim perfect success. But I am better than most.”
“I am depending upon that,” she said slowly. She sat forward. “You and I have a mutual friend in Sir Hugo Montgomerie, I am told. I trust you remember making the gentleman’s acquaintance?”
I inclined my head. Sir Hugo, head of Scotland Yard’s Special Branch, had featured rather prominently in a previous adventure in detection that Stoker and I had enjoyed.
“I do.”
“He remembers you as well. Acutely, in fact. I believe your last interview with him established that you might be willing to lend aid to the royal family should we have need of you.”
“My recollection is slightly different,” I replied with some asperity. Sir Hugo had attempted, in the common parlance, to buy me off. He had offered a substantial sum of money to me in return for my silence upon a subject which could bring the royal family considerable pain and scandal should I ever choose to reveal it publicly. The fact that my word had not been good enough for him had enraged me, and naturally I rejected the money categorically. But Sir Hugo warned me that the family might seek certain proofs of my loyalty in future, and it appeared that time was nigh.
Her Royal Highness waved a hand, diamonds glittering. “Regardless of the exact terms, I have made a study of you, Miss Speedwell. I believe I understand your character very well. In fact, I would go so far as to say that we have much in common.”
“Indeed? Well, they do say blood will tell.”
She flinched. My allusion to the secret I carried did not please her. Her lips went thin, but she smiled. Princesses were trained to be forbearing and polite, and she had learnt her lessons well.
“Miss Speedwell, if you know that I am the Princess Louise, then you will also know that I am married to John Campbell, the Marquess of Lorne, heir to the Duke of Argyll.”
“Then why the pseudonym of Lady Sundridge?”
She shrugged. “As you have discovered in your own work, anonymity has its uses. I wanted to meet you without the burden of my position coming between us, at least not at first.”
I held her gaze with my own. “Your position as princess or as my aunt?” I saw no reason to beat about the bush. I had kept my promise to Sir Hugo not to reveal my complicated parentage, but
the princess clearly knew who I was—the unrecognized daughter of her eldest brother, the Prince of Wales. That alone would have been an embarrassment to the royal family; the fact that I could be considered legitimate in some circles made me dangerous. How dangerous remained to be seen. Since I discovered the secret of my birth, we had remained in a state of armed neutrality, neither party acting against the other, but making no overtures either. The fact that one of them had made the first move gave me an advantage, and I intended to use it.
Louise’s lips thinned again. “The situation is complicated, and it is not of my making. I hope you will remember that.”
The princess clasped her hands tightly as she fell to silence, and a sudden realization struck me.
“You want my help.”
She nodded slowly. One hand crept up to play with the jewel at her wrist, a slender gold bangle set with a black enamel heart, the ebony surface marked heavily with golden initials surmounted by a coronet. She noticed the direction of my gaze and held up her wrist. I saw then that the black heart was edged in white, and the initials entwined upon the surface were L’s.
“A gift from Her Majesty upon the death of my brother Prince Leopold. He died three years ago. He was a lovely boy, my junior by five years. Unfortunately, he was sickly, even from childhood. You never saw such suffering—that poor, frail little body! But he bore it all with such sweetness. It seemed he would never be able to live as other men, but he had found real happiness. He married a German princess, you know, and they had children. It was the greatest joy of his life to become a father. He had such high hopes that he would outlive his illness. Fate, however, can be cruel. It was a terrible thing to lose him so young—only thirty. Not so many years older than you are now, Miss Speedwell.”
Oh, it was masterfully done. Without ever acknowledging my true birth, she had drawn me into the family, appealing to my pity at the loss of an uncle I would never know. I admired and resented her for it. Suddenly, I had no stomach for the games she wanted to play.
A Perilous Undertaking Page 2