A Perilous Undertaking

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “And perhaps get ourselves killed for our trouble,” he countered, his expression implacable. “Did it never occur to you to wonder at this key just appearing out of the blue? For God’s sake, Veronica, you have a substantial intellect. Perhaps you could trouble yourself to use it occasionally. This could very well be bait to lure us out there for some nefarious purpose. We have already been threatened once, and we did not heed it. Instead we plunged into the very heart of this investigation, asking questions of those who were closest to Artemisia. Did you think that would go unnoticed? It hasn’t. This is no gift from a devoted admirer, you daft woman. This is a trap.” I wondered how much damage his dermestids could do if I turned them loose upon his bed.

  “It cannot be a trap if we anticipate that it is one,” I said coolly. “We will simply go with certain precautions.”

  He thrust his hands into his hair, leaving the long black locks in far greater disarray than usual. “Veronica. I will speak slowly and distinctly so that even you may understand. I am not taking you out to Littledown to investigate the Elysian Grotto.”

  I moved forward so that I stood toe to toe with him. His superior inches meant that I had to tip my head back to look him in the eye, but I did so, giving as good as I got. “I am going to Littledown with or without you.”

  “You cannot go without the key,” he said, reaching for me.

  I thrust the key into the depths of my décolletage. “Very well. Come and get it.”

  He hesitated, his fingertips just brushing the tops of my breasts. I caught my breath and held his gaze, daring him to move.

  “Bloody bollocking hell,” he said, dropping his hand.

  • • •

  The trip to Littledown was accomplished in silence. Stoker was seething with barely suppressed irritation, and I was a trifle too smug to smother my satisfaction entirely. I might have teased him about his reluctance to explore my bodice in the interests of retrieving the key, but one had to be careful in taunting wolves, I decided. One never knew when they might snap those sharp teeth a little too fiercely. I had changed into my butterfly-hunting clothes, a peculiar and eminently suitable ensemble of my own design. I donned a clean shirtwaist and a pair of slim trousers, tucking them securely into flat, sturdy boots laced neatly up the front. Over it all I buttoned a fitted jacket and a long skirt with concealed slits and a clever arrangement of buttons that permitted me to drape the garment according to my activities. I had not designed a configuration for pursuing murderers, but I suspected the one I used for stalking butterflies would prove adequate. I was careful to secure the key in my pocket without mentioning to Stoker where I had put it. He might cavil at thrusting his hands into my bodice, but I was certain he would not scruple to reach into my pocket should necessity demand.

  The estate was in a curious little corner of Surrey, close to the capital, but, as Sir Hugo had explained, situated in such a state of rural solitude that it might have been in the middle of Dartmoor. Stoker, with his unerring sense of direction and love of maps, had memorized the route from the station, navigating us on foot through various byways and country lanes until I began to think we were the last two people on earth. The soft whispering clicks of the crickets were punctuated by the distinctive rusty screech of a barn owl, and somewhere in the distance a fox barked. Tendrils of fog curled about our feet as we moved, shifting, ghostly fingers that seemed to point the way to Littledown. The gates of the estate were, as we had expected, closed and locked, but this was no deterrent.

  Without discussion, Stoker and I scaled the stone wall of the perimeter, each using our particular skills. His height and impressive musculature lent to a quick vault and swing up to the top, while my flexibility and slighter frame dictated a swift climb, using the cracks in the mortar and irregularities in the stone as hand- and footholds. Once atop the wall, Stoker dropped down lightly, reaching up to catch me as I launched myself. That was the true measure of his character; even at the height of his irritation he would never let me fall.

  Together we crossed the broad expanse of the lawns, once manicured and now left to grow wild, the weeds choking out the pretty grass and blanketing the pond with a thick layer of scum. It was the dark of the moon, and only the pale glow of starlight illuminated our way, giving a shimmering, spectral glow to the stone façade of the house softened by the rising wisps of mist. It was an unremarkable place, built in the style of Queen Anne, but someone had loved it once. I thought of Ottilie Ramsforth, who could not bear to stay in this house, and I thought too of Miles Ramsforth, who would die if we were not successful.

  I reached for Stoker’s hand. “I know,” he said, gripping mine in return. He gave a gusty sigh. “You were right. We have to do this.”

  He led the way, deducing the grotto would be at some remove from the house itself, tucked discreetly out of sight but not so far the guests would find it difficult to reach. We made a slow circle around the estate until we came to a gate. Stoker dropped my hand, casting around to make certain we were alone. There was no sign of the promised watchman; nothing broke the solemn silence of the night save a soft, sighing breeze that stirred the leaves and bent the tops of the weeds, scattering patches of fog in its wake.

  Content we were alone, Stoker struck a match and held it over the lock. I retrieved the key and fitted it carefully. It turned slowly, with a moan of protest. It had been months since anyone had used the gate, I realized. But whoever had been there last had left a lantern just inside, and Stoker touched the match to the wick. A warm glow of amber light filled the small rock room.

  “It is an antechamber,” he said. The narrow room tightened to a passage above which an inscription had been chiseled into the rock. “‘Ingredi, del voluptatis causa,’” he read aloud.

  “An invitation to pleasure,” I replied. “How appropriate.”

  He did not laugh. Instead he turned and fixed me with a stern look. “I am going first. I let you talk your way around me earlier, but not this time. If anything happens, you run, do you hear me? You run and you get yourself to safety.”

  “Absolutely not—” I began.

  He leaned close, his face a scant inch from mine. “I am not bargaining with you, Veronica. For once, do as I ask. Promise me.”

  “Very well. I promise,” I said, crossing my fingers behind my back.

  He did not look convinced, but he went, turning sideways to maneuver through the narrow rock passage. I followed, walking straight, my shoulders just brushing the stone walls. It was a short distance, just enough to make one feel quite removed from the outside world, but the path descended sharply, drawing us deeper and deeper into the earth. The passage debouched into a larger room; I could not see past Stoker, but I could hear the sudden echo of a much more spacious chamber. He paused a moment, raising his lantern high, and we surveyed our surroundings.

  It was empty, at least of villains. No miscreant lay in wait for us, no would-be killer set upon us. Instead, we found ourselves in a veritable bower of pleasure.

  The chamber was a natural cave, spacious and high ceilinged, and around the sides, a series of low alcoves had been carved out of the rock into makeshift divans. The purpose was not difficult to discern, but even if it had been, the decoration would have been eloquent. Everywhere one looked there were plinths and shelves devoted to the display of art—but this was no ordinary collection.

  Stoker knelt to light another lamp, and as he held it aloft I realized it was a magic lantern, the sort designed to use the light to throw shapes upon the wall, entertainment via shadow pictures, although I had never before seen one quite like this. The heat of the flame caused the pictures to spin, casting silhouettes of copulating couples around us. Upon closer inspection, I realized the images were not limited to couples. Instead they featured an array of amorous engagements, each more explicit and unlikely than the last. Stoker gaped at the images as I turned to the rest of the decorations.

 
“Good heavens! I have never seen so many penises in one place,” I blurted, heading directly for the nearest shelf. I lifted one, a smooth, thick affair made of glass, swirled and striped like a fancy sweet. “Venetian, I should guess,” I said.

  “No doubt,” Stoker remarked in a faint voice. His attention seemed to be captured by a significantly larger apparatus fashioned of wood and leather.

  “What do you think?” I asked curiously. “The lettering on the handle seems Chinese. Oh, and this one is clearly from Zanzibar. A very interesting assemblage of phalluses,” I observed. “Quite a curious collection from a sociological perspective.”

  “There is no sociology here,” Stoker corrected, his voice still tight. “These are not phalluses—at least not the sort meant for study.”

  I blinked at him. “Whatever do you mean?”

  He was blushing furiously. “They are . . . Oh God, I can’t even say the word.”

  “What word?”

  “Dil— No, I can’t. I can tell you in Greek. These are olisboi. Or if you prefer, in Spanish, consoladores.”

  “Consolers? But how could they console . . . oh. Oh!” I peered at the collection in renewed interest. “So they are not for study or ceremonial use but for practical application. How very intriguing.” I ran a finger down the glass specimen. “Delightfully smooth, although it is too cold to be inviting. I imagine one could warm it up in hot water first—or perhaps some heated oil just to make it nicely slippy. Stoker, are you quite well? You were blushing like a queen of the May a moment ago and now you’ve gone white.”

  “I was just pondering the peregrinations of my life and wondering how I came to be here. With you. And this,” he said, nodding towards the back of the room, where stood a larger-than-life-sized statue of a doubly endowed Pan servicing a pair of eager young women simultaneously.

  “He is going to get a cramp doing it that way,” I observed. I trailed around the chamber, exploring the collection. In addition to the phalluses of every description and material, there was a considerable compilation of pornography and some rather fine engravings of Amazonian warriors having their way with a group of captive youths. The walls were hung with velvet draperies and tapestries that upon first glance looked like Gobelins, until one realized they were comprehensively explicit.

  In the center of the room stood a curious bit of furniture, like nothing I had ever seen before. Upholstered in black taffeta, the piece had an odd arrangement of arms and legs, and Stoker tossed it no more than a casual glance before replying when I asked what it might be.

  “That is a siège d’amour.”

  “A seat of love? It is a chair designed to facilitate coitus?” I murmured. “Most ingenious and very comfortable, I should think.”

  I settled myself onto the siège, gripping the arms. “Oh, there are stirrups. How clever.” I raised one booted leg, but Stoker made a strangled noise somewhere between a growl and a groan.

  “Veronica. For the love of all that is holy and good, get down,” he said, in a low, tight voice unlike any I had ever heard from him before.

  I slipped off the siège. “Quite right. We are meant to be looking for clues.” We applied ourselves to searching the chamber and made quick work of it, turning over every obscene statue and peering behind every lurid tapestry. The drapery behind the statue of Pan concealed a gate of sorts, a grillwork door like the one at the front of the grotto. I summoned Stoker to try the key, but it did not budge.

  He considered the position of the door. “No doubt this leads to a passage connecting the grotto to the house.”

  “Another entrance? To what purpose?”

  He shrugged. “To spare the blushes of the host, one imagines. I suspect all the members have a key to the gate we used while this entrance is reserved solely for the club’s founder. It would provide a bit of discretion, and some security. If he hired professional entertainers of this sort,” he said arching a brow towards one of the silhouettes disporting itself on the wall, “he mightn’t want them to have access to the house itself. And a lock on the door is also a precaution against Ottilie Ramsforth discovering his hobby.”

  “Do you really think she was unaware of what he got up to down here?”

  “There is no institution like marriage to make a person blind,” he said dryly. He turned away then to continue searching the grotto.

  At length, I made my way back to the siège, paying particular attention to the bottom of the thing. I knocked against it, a hollow echo the reward for my efforts. I picked up the sturdiest phallus I could find and began to whack energetically at the base.

  “Veronica,” Stoker said in a grim tone, “in the name of seven hells, what are you doing? I asked you to leave that thing alone.”

  “And miss a clue?” I replied with a grin. I planted my feet and gave one final blow with the phallus, causing a hidden drawer in the base to spring open, bowling me backwards onto my bottom. I sat up to find Stoker examining the drawer and holding the remains of a lock in his hand.

  “You might have let me pick the lock,” Stoker remarked, but he was good enough to help me up. “Hello,” he said suddenly. “What’s this?”

  When the drawer had flown open, a book had dropped out, and Stoker retrieved it. It was bound in black morocco figured in silver. The front cover bore a filigree design to match the key, and beneath it were scrolled the words “Elysian Grotto.” Stoker flipped open the cover to a random page. It was a list of names, each with a corresponding date and a list of activities.

  “It is a ledger,” I said, stretching forward to look, gripping his arm in excitement. “A list of visitors and members of the Elysian Grottoes and what sort of mischief they got up to when they were here.”

  Stoker gave a soundless whistle. “A very dangerous book,” he observed. “If this fell into the wrong hands, marriages could be wrecked, reputations ruined. It isn’t just men in here,” he added, pointing to a woman’s signature.

  I shook my head. “The date is forty years past. I hardly think anyone would care.”

  He gestured to the top of the page. “That entertainment was presided over by Desmond Ramsforth, Miles’ father, I would wager.”

  “Find more recent entries,” I urged.

  He fanned the pages, moving further into the book. “Five years ago,” he said. “Miles presiding, and what ho! Sir Frederick Havelock was a guest.”

  Impatient, I reached out and took the book, flipping forward. The more recent entries were less impressive. Whereas in his father’s time, the club had sported viscounts and barons and the occasional earl, under Miles’ primacy, it had seldom entertained anything grander than a knight, and precious few of those. The gatherings boasted fewer people than in his father’s day, and it seemed likely the place had been more a curiosity used for Miles’ private seductions than any proper orgiastic activity.

  “Aha!” I exclaimed. “Artemisia was here, a year ago. And shortly before that, Julian Gilchrist. Curious that she did not participate in the public rituals, it seems,” I observed. “It appears she only came here privately with Miles while Gilchrist was entertained with a series of paid companions. The notation for the sums is marked next to the name of each girl hired for the night along with what she was willing to do for the money. This young woman seems to have been quite accommodating,” I mused as I ran down the list of her lurid accomplishments.

  But Stoker was not listening. His gaze was fixed upon the page in an expression of stupefaction.

  “Stoker, you’ve gone white as a virgin’s nightgown. What is it?”

  He did not reply. He merely pointed to a name I had not noticed.

  “‘The Honourable Tiberius Templeton-Vane,’” I read aloud. I rocked back. “But that isn’t—”

  “Oh, but it is,” he said with a grim smile. “The newly minted Viscount Templeton-Vane. My eldest brother.”

  CHAPTER

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sp; 13

  Stoker slammed the ledger shut. “I need some air.”

  He strode back the way we had come and it was left to me to blow out the magic lantern and follow. I did not press him. There would be plenty of time to scrutinize the ledger at our leisure once we were back at the Belvedere. Whatever implications the viscount’s name raised, Stoker would require a little time to come to grips with them.

  He locked the door behind us and pocketed the key carefully, giving a quick nod as I made a gesture towards the main house. He had a hunter’s instinct for silence, and my years of pursuing butterflies had taught me to move without detection. We crept towards the darkened dwelling, approaching a wide garden door that most likely led to a dining room or drawing room. The windows on either side must have provided an outlook upon a pretty vista down to the pond in happier days, but they were shuttered now, the house looking blindly upon its terrace and gardens. Stoker paused a moment outside the door, weighing our options, but I had already anticipated him.

  “Give me the packet of honeycomb,” I instructed.

  “How do you know I am carrying honeycomb?”

  “You are always carrying honeycomb.”

  “This is a peculiar time for a nibble,” he protested. But he handed it over without hesitation. It was very nearly empty, and I upended it, scattering the last of the sweet, sticky crumbs over the stone flags of the terrace. I unfolded the paper twist carefully and held up the side that still bore traces of the candy.

  “Lick,” I ordered.

  Guessing what I meant to do, he complied, putting his tongue to the sheet of paper until the entire surface was gummy. With infinite care, I moved to position the paper on the glass of the garden door.

  “Over one pane,” he instructed softly. “The lock would be a little higher.”