A Perilous Undertaking

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “I really cannot say anything else upon the matter,” he said firmly.

  “I do love it when you are stern,” I said, putting a gloved hand to his arm.

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” Stoker muttered under his breath.

  “Ignore him,” I instructed Mornaday. “He is in a pet because he had to have a bath.”

  “His first this year?” Mornaday asked with affected innocence.

  Stoker folded his arms over his chest, affecting boredom. “Do you know what I dislike most about you, Mornaday?” he asked in a nonchalant tone. “Your utter predictability.”

  “Whilst I dislike most your complete and insufferable arrogance—” Mornaday began. I linked my arm with his, cutting him off neatly.

  “Now, now, gentlemen. If you carry on like this you’ll only end up in fisticuffs and I won’t have anyone bleeding on my new gown. Stoker, perhaps you would be good enough to wait for me on the pavement with his lordship. I would like a moment’s conversation with Mornaday.”

  Stoker eyed me for a long moment then turned on his heel, smartly making his way through the crowd. Against me, I felt Mornaday relax as the tension drained from his body.

  “I cannot begin to explain how much I do not like that man,” he told me.

  “I know,” I soothed, coaxing Mornaday to a discreet spot behind a potted palm. “And I can assure you he is equally eloquent on the subject of your defects. I expect he will spend the entire ride home cataloging them for me. But I promise I shan’t listen,” I assured him. “Now, I know you want me to be very discreet about Sir Hugo’s superior, and I swear that I shall. But it would make it so much easier to remember if I didn’t have so many questions crowding my mind about Artemisia’s death . . .” I trailed off, widening my eyes as I looked at him from under my lashes.

  “You little devil!” he said, his tone admiring. “You think to use your fiendish wiles upon me with no care for what might become of my position at Scotland Yard. You are an absolute monster,” he told me, but he was smiling as he said it.

  “Oh, don’t be difficult. Come now, I only want a little piece of information.”

  He sighed gustily. “Very well. What?”

  “I want to know if there was more to the post-mortem, any snippet that did not make it into evidence. It might be quite trivial, but if there was something, I should like to know.”

  He pursed his lips again. “It would be more than my position is worth to tell you. I don’t even like to contemplate what would happen to me if Sir Hugo found out I was talking to you tonight.” Mornaday’s expression was so woebegone that I took pity upon him and brushed a kiss to his cheek, causing his eyes to gleam brighter than ever.

  “There was something,” he murmured into my ear. “I cannot say what, and neither can the surgeons. They are too afraid of Sir Hugo. But do not stop looking.”

  “Mornaday! You utter lamb.” His hand tightened upon mine.

  “Careful now. More of that and I will send an engagement notice to the Times.” He bent his head, but I eluded his grasp, slipping away as I blew a kiss in farewell.

  • • •

  Stoker was waiting outside for me next to the viscount’s carriage. “I dismissed the Beauclerk driver. We can make our own way home after,” he told me. I looked up with a meaningful glance, and he realized I had learnt something of interest from Mornaday. “What did you winkle out of him?”

  “There was something in the post-mortem. He would not say what, but it is enough to persuade me we must keep digging.”

  He gave a short nod and handed me into his brother’s carriage, settling himself opposite us as I took the place next to his lordship.

  “Where shall we sup?” I asked him in a conversational tone as the driver sprang the horses.

  “Vane House,” he replied. “It is my London residence, and we shall not be overheard there. I think this evening will require some privacy,” he added with an oblique glance at his brother.

  The carriage eventually emerged from the press of traffic in the East End and made its way into the stultified heart of Mayfair. We approached a tall, imposing house that stood aloof, keeping lofty watch over one of the more impressive squares. His lordship must have trained his staff well, for he did not even pause upon the step. The door swung open, warm amber light spilling from the large hall within. The butler who opened the door was of the most correct sort, iron grey of hair and humorless of countenance, but his expression of perfect indifference dissolved as soon as he caught sight of Stoker.

  “Mr. Revelstoke!” he said, his voice warmed by the same genuine affection that caused him to smile broadly. “How very good to see you, sir.”

  “Collins, how have you been? The lumbago still giving you trouble?”

  “Not since I began taking your advice,” the butler told him. He glanced to me with a question in his eyes.

  His lordship handed over his hat and gloves. “Miss Speedwell, this is Collins. He has kept the Templeton-Vanes in order for more years than I have been alive. Collins, Mr. Revelstoke’s colleague, Miss Speedwell.”

  “How do you do?” I replied.

  “Welcome to Vane House, miss,” he said gravely. He turned back to the viscount. “Supper is ready, my lord. Shall I have it served?”

  “Yes, in the small dining room. But give us half an hour first. We will be in my study.” The viscount led us through the tall domed hall of white marble and down a long passage to a closed door which he threw open with a flourish.

  The room was not as lavish as I had expected given the marble grandeur of the rest of the house. It was smaller and, while the word could never truly fit, there was a coziness within those book-lined walls I had found lacking in what I had thus far seen of Vane House. A sofa covered in red plush and a pair of armchairs, leather and deeply cushioned for comfortable reading, provided the seating. The desk was an enormous oak affair—Tudor, I thought—with heavy carving and an assortment of papers scattered about in casual disarray. A singularly beautiful bust of Athena held pride of place on a plinth in front of the long windows, overlooking a genial untidiness that seemed to be a failing of the Templeton-Vane brothers.

  The viscount did not stand on ceremony. His lordship busied himself with the tantalus and gasogene, pouring out three glasses of whiskey and soda. As he handed me my drink, he leveled his grey gaze at me, and though his eyes never left my face, I realized he was taking in every detail of my appearance. When he spoke, his voice was deep as Stoker’s, but a shade less rough.

  “I must say, Miss Speedwell, you are not at all what I expected.”

  Remembering the colorful remarks made by their youngest brother, I fixed him with a smile of calculated sweetness. “I seem to have left my dreadful reputation in my other reticule.”

  It was a palpable hit. He flushed, the same deliciously rosy tint as I had observed in Stoker, and inclined his head. “I do not know what Merryweather may have said, but I can only guess. I would like to apologize for any lapse in manners on his behalf.”

  Stoker threw himself down into the nearest armchair with a gusty sigh. “I see you’ve settled into the role of head of the family,” he observed.

  His lordship gestured for me to take the other chair and waited until I had done so before seating himself. “It is my place,” he reminded Stoker. “And it would have been a damned sight easier if you had replied to any of my communications, if Miss Speedwell will pardon the expression.”

  Stoker shrugged. “I am here now.”

  His lordship’s mouth—a handsome facsimile of his brother’s—curved into a smile of self-deprecation. “I do not flatter myself that you have sought me out from any regard for my needs.”

  “No, no,” Stoker assured him. “I have come only out of regard for my own.”

  “Naturally.” The word was clipped, but there was no real coldness there. It occurred to me that
I was witness to some habitual pattern of communication between these two, and that the presence or absence of a third party would do little to alter it.

  His lordship settled himself more comfortably. He took the opportunity to glance at me again, then shifted his attention to his brother. “What do you want, Revelstoke?”

  “Information.” Stoker too settled back into his chair, crossing one ankle over his knee. “Tell me about Miles Ramsforth.”

  His lordship’s expression was carefully neutral. “What about him?”

  “What do you know about his relationship with his wife, Ottilie?” I was surprised at Stoker’s line of questioning and covered it by taking a swift sip of my drink. I had expected him to lead with the subject of the ledger, but I realized he would know exactly how best to handle his elder brother. The viscount’s composure was impressive, and it might require a good deal of work to crack it.

  The viscount shrugged. “Not much. We are, after all, only passing acquaintances. I can tell you it seems to have been a love match. No children. They travel a bit, like to go mucking about in Greece and other such places, although I think their latest pet cause is art.” He narrowed his gaze. “Is that what this is about? The murder?”

  “It is,” I told him. “We believe Miles Ramsforth may be innocent of the crime for which he is about to hang.”

  His lips compressed a moment. “I cannot imagine why it is any business of yours.”

  “We were asked to investigate,” I said. “And by whom is no business of yours,” I added with a tart edge to my voice.

  A flicker of a smile touched his mouth. “Touché, Miss Speedwell. But as I said, we are passing acquaintances. I am afraid there is nothing I can add to what you already know of Miles.”

  “Oh, I am sure you could think of something of interest if you cudgeled your memory,” Stoker said helpfully. “Like the Elysian Grotto, for example.”

  The viscount’s complexion did not alter. He did not flinch or give a start. Only the quick, fleeting drop of his eyelids betrayed the fact that Stoker’s arrow had flown true. He took a thoughtful swallow of his drink. “Elysian Grotto?” he asked in a bored tone. “What is that? A sort of club for Hellenic fanatics? You know my preference has always been for Roman art.”

  Stoker gave him a thin, feral smile, baring his teeth. “You always were a slippery bastard,” he said in a low tone. “But even you cannot talk your way around the fact that we found your name in Ramsforth’s ledger.”

  The hand around the viscount’s glass tensed. “What ledger?”

  Stoker leaned forward, about to accomplish a killing thrust, but I suspected such brutal handling would thwart our plans entirely. I flicked him a quelling glance. “My lord, Miles Ramsforth kept a ledger, a sort of guest book of those who took part in his entertainments at the grotto. Your name was there.”

  “My name.” He sat back in his chair, swirling the whiskey in the glass, watching the amber whirlpool as it caught sparks of light from the fire. “My name. Of course, I could lie and say it was written without my knowledge. After all, it isn’t my signature, is it? You would have only his word for it that I was there, and he is about to hang. Who would believe him?” He took a deep draft of the whiskey, holding it on his tongue for a long moment before swallowing. “But I think the time for prevarication has passed.” He fixed his gaze upon his brother’s face. “Go on, then. Ask what you want. I will give you the truth. Do with it what you will.”

  Stoker eyed him suspiciously, as if he could not quite believe the viscount intended to honor his word. “That is too easy, Tiberius. What are you withholding?”

  His lordship spread his hands, handsome, well-shaped hands so unlike Stoker’s. They were strong and capable-looking, but they had never turned to manual labor, never even held the reins of a horse without the protection of gloves. A signet ring gleamed upon his smallest finger, the crest of the Templeton-Vanes worn almost smooth from generations of lords who had owned it before him. “I have given my word. Is that not good enough? Shall I make it a blood oath?” he asked.

  “Do not tempt me,” Stoker said in a voice that was nearly a growl.

  I put myself forward again, pouring calming oil upon the stormy waters. “My lord, you visited the grotto, did you not? And engaged in the entertainments there?”

  He inclined his head. “I did, Miss Speedwell. And I must say that I hope whatever other revelations come out tonight, they do not offend your sensibilities.”

  “I have none to offend,” I told him frankly.

  He smiled, a slow, sensual smile that excluded Stoker completely. “I find that deliciously intriguing. And I shall make a note to ask you about that at a more convenient time. But for now, I think my brother will combust if I do not satisfy his curiosity.” He indicated Stoker with a tip of his glass. “He is fairly vibrating with it, like a hound at the start of a hunt. Go on then, little brother. Ask.”

  “Did you ever meet Artemisia there?”

  “Once,” the viscount replied promptly. “Early in her liaison with Ramsforth. He thought she might be interested in the goings-on, but as it happens, she proved uninterested. She watched for a little while and then left. I never saw her again. She was surprisingly provincial for a Bohemian,” he added.

  I licked my lips. “What sorts of ‘goings-on’?”

  The viscount’s smile deepened. “Ramsforth’s entertainments always had a Classical theme. He thought it added a fillip of excitement to the occasion. Everyone was expected to don a mask depicting a character out of Greek myth and act out the role they had been assigned.”

  “What was your part?” Stoker demanded.

  The viscount looked at me. “Apollo. On this occasion, I had my way with a willing little Daphne who wore a crown of laurel leaves, and I do not recommend it. Damned prickly,” he added.

  “And then?” I asked.

  The viscount took a deep breath and peered into the depths of his glass. “And then I engaged in some group pursuits and some rather more disciplined entertainments, the details I am not inclined to share for fear of scandalizing you.”

  “I told you, you need not worry on my account,” I told him.

  He raised his eyes to mine, tilting his head. “I was not speaking of your sensibilities, Miss Speedwell. I was worried for Revelstoke’s.”

  He said the words as calmly and passionlessly as the rest of his remarks, but there was a watchfulness in him, a coiled tension as he awaited Stoker’s reaction.

  “A group,” Stoker repeated. “You mean you engaged in an orgy.”

  “Such a vulgar word,” the viscount complained. “Weighted with all sorts of unpleasant connotations. My tastes are not limited by convention. Some of them, in fact, are less than strictly legal, although such delicacy seems puritanical in the extreme, as I suspect Miss Speedwell might agree,” he said with an appreciative glance in my direction. “But I imagine you understand why my appearance at the grotto might excite unwelcome speculation—particularly in light of my marital misfortune. There is a good deal of tittering in society about why I have never remarried. My expansive tastes are not the reason, but I see no point in deliberately stoking the fire.”

  I shrugged. “Your private life is your own, my lord.”

  His brows rose into elegant arches. “Miss Speedwell, I am delighted to find my assessment of your liberal thinking is accurate. To meet a lady of such broad-mindedness is rare indeed. Stoker, if you don’t marry Miss Speedwell, I might.”

  He tossed off the last of his whiskey as Stoker glowered at him. “Tiberius, just because you are my elder and the head of the family does not mean I won’t beat you senseless and leave Collins to sweep up the remains from the hearthrug.”

  His lordship waved a hand with lazy grace. “You always did think violence was a suitable response to any situation.” He turned to me. “The fellow is a Philistine, my dear. You can
do better.”

  “I have no intention of ‘doing’ at all, my lord,” I told him in my most commanding tone. “I am a spinster by choice. And you are quite masterfully leading us off the subject at hand—your involvement with the Elysian Grotto. Now, help us untangle the relationships, if you will, so that we can go in to supper. I smell roasted duck.”

  His lordship gave me a slow, appraising smile. “So imperious! How I should like to see you wield a riding crop.” Stoker started forward and the viscount held up a hand. “Sit, Revelstoke. I meant no offense, and I suspect Miss Speedwell took none.” Stoker shot me a glance and subsided back into his chair while his brother regarded me thoughtfully. “I am veritable clay in your hands, Miss Speedwell. Do with me as you like. Now, what else do you wish to know?”

  I had no doubt his provocative remarks were meant to raise a response, so I gave him nothing but a cool stare. “Julian Gilchrist. Do you know the fellow?”

  He nodded. “He was a particularly randy Endymion at our little folly. He had had a liaison with Artemisia of a few months’ duration, but she ended things when she fell in with Ramsforth.”

  “How did he take it?” Stoker asked.

  The viscount shrugged. “How does any man take such a thing? He was resentful, and he buried himself in the nearest bit of muslin to forget it.”

  “What about Sir Frederick Havelock? Did you see him there?”

  He tipped his head back, an expression of remembered pleasure curving his lips. “I did. A very memorable Zeus.”

  “Having his way with a pretty Leda or Danaë?” I suggested.

  “Neither. His attentions were reserved for Hera,” his lordship corrected. “Until her death, Augusta Havelock accompanied him. After she died, he continued to attend, but only as an observer, never a participant.”

  “His wife attended?” Stoker put in, his tone frankly disbelieving.

  His lordship shrugged. “Some couples find such shared endeavors heighten their connubial relationships. Sir Frederick was not the first man to bring a wife to such entertainments.”

  “Did you?” I asked.