A Treacherous Curse

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  Stoker looked doubtful. “We have hardly spoken to her since the Ramsforth affair.”

  “That’s because she was away,” I said. Lady Wellie had taken her leave of Bishop’s Folly soon after the conclusion of the Ramsforth case and had returned only at the end of January. At one point she had been holidaying at her shooting box in Scotland, but for the rest of the time her whereabouts had been a mystery. Lady Wellie liked to know everything about everyone, but prying into her affairs was not encouraged.

  “No,” he corrected. “It is because you didn’t want her meddling again.”

  On that count he was not mistaken. Lady Wellie had proven herself to be an ally with the great and powerful—specifically with Sir Hugo Montgomerie, her godson and partner in protecting the royal family.

  “If we apply to Lady Wellie for information, she will only confirm to Sir Hugo that we are investigating.”

  “Good,” I said, smiling like a cream-covered cat. “Good.”

  • • •

  The next morning we followed the sounds of strenuous work and found Lady Wellie in the enormous glasshouse on the grounds of Bishop’s Folly, supervising the final arrangements of the newly installed heating system. Once a tumbledown wreck, the glasshouse had been completely refitted with fresh glazing, and I looked it over with a rush of possessive pride. Lord Rosemorran had ordered it refurbished and overhauled with an eye to creating a vivarium, a butterfly habitat where I could raise Lepidoptera to my heart’s content. The fact that he had done so at Stoker’s urging was something I should not quickly forget.

  We opened the door to the vivarium and reeled backwards. Steam billowed forth in great foggy gusts, draping rags of veiled mist over the gardens.

  “Who the devil is that?” called Lady Wellie. “Come in and shut the door before you let out all the heat.”

  We did as we were ordered, pushing through the thick atmosphere of the glasshouse to where Lady Wellie stood, hands wrapped firmly around the knob of her walking stick, staring upwards at the network of steam pipes lacing the ceiling of the structure. Standing beside her was Lord Rosemorran in an identical posture. Her walking stick was due to the extremities of old age, but his lordship’s was due to the torturous recovery from his shattered femur. It had been a bad break and he had only been on his feet again since the New Year.

  “Good afternoon, your lordship,” I said. “I am glad to see you up and around again.”

  He smiled his wistful scholar’s smile. “You are too kind, Miss Speedwell.”

  Lady Wellie gave a snort. “She only says that because she is ready to hare off to the South Pacific. You would be somewhere around Fiji right now if it were not for that leg of yours,” she added with a poke of her walking stick in the direction of his lordship’s thigh.

  “Lady Wellingtonia maligns me,” I said coolly. “Nothing could be further from the truth.” Actually, it was exactly the truth. I had deeply regretted his lordship’s accident—certainly for his sake, but far more for my own. I had been anticipating that expedition with fervor, organizing it to the last detail until Patricia the tortoise’s great lumbering body and his lordship’s slow reflexes put paid to my plans. Stoker and I had been frank with one another about our disappointment, but it was not consoling to realize Lady Wellie guessed it as well.

  Remembering we had come to ask a favor of her, I bared my teeth in a cordial smile. “Stoker,” I said, turning to him with an expression of angelic sweetness, “it’s very warm. Take off your coat.”

  Sweat had already begun to stream down his face, so he obliged. Lady Wellie never could resist a handsome man, and Stoker was one of the most attractive of her acquaintance. She did not leer—she was too well brought up for that—but she gave an appreciative little sigh as the humidity soaked through his shirt, plastering the fabric to his biceps and pectorals.

  “How go the repairs?” I asked the earl.

  He nodded. “Capital. The heating system I designed is quite effective,” he told us with a vague gesture to our surroundings. Moisture poured like rain down the insides of the windows, and a bit of cloud floated just overhead. Through the mist, a few score of men—estate workers and builders—moved here and there, clearing away building debris and bringing in the first of the potted trees which would form the botanical infrastructure of my little jungle.

  “Effective?” Lady Wellie interjected. “We shall be boiled like Christmas puddings if you cannot regulate it.”

  There was a halloa and the sound of banging on pipes from somewhere in the fog, and his lordship hurried off to confer with his men. He reappeared almost immediately. “Stoker, the valve is broken, and it happens to be in rather an inaccessible spot. I don’t suppose you could oblige?” he asked hopefully. “Only I remember you have some experience as a climber.”

  Stoker did not bother to reply. He was already moving towards the lacework of metal, stripping off his boots. He swarmed up the armature, moving loosely, hand over hand, with the ease of a large primate. The earl stood just below, rubbing his hands together. “Splendid effort!” he called by way of encouragement.

  Lady Wellie shook her head as she gazed after the earl with a fond expression. “He was ever thus, man and boy. Always tinkering, always thinking, our Rosemorran. Now, what brings you here? Fancy being roasted like a chestnut?”

  I might have pretended I was on hand simply to inspect my vivarium, but there was no point. Lady Wellie had as keen a nose for prevarication as a hound does for a vixen. I came to the point instead.

  “I have been reading of late about the Tiverton Expedition, and Stoker and I are curious about Sir Leicester Tiverton.”

  “Tiverton! Messy Lessy, the boys at Eton used to call him,” she said fondly. “He was at school with another of my nephews, on the Fothergill side, one of the duke’s boys.” Anyone else might have spoken of ducal connections boastfully; with Lady Wellie, it was a mere statement of fact. Lady Wellie was connected through blood or marriage to half the noble families in England. The Beauclerks, besides producing a line of earls, had run strongly to daughters, marrying them carefully into the cream of the aristocracy and creating a network of cousins that Lady Wellie exploited ruthlessly for favors and information. Her sister had married the Duke of Wrexham, producing five sons in seven years before quietly expiring in the Royal Enclosure at Ascot. It had been an unusually exciting day for the races, and apparently no one had noticed the dead duchess slumped in her little gilt chair until it was time to leave.

  Lady Wellie went on in a thoughtful voice. “Leicester was a younger son and not expected to inherit the baronetcy, but his elder brother died in the Crimea just before his thirtieth birthday. Poor lad, cut down in his prime, like so many others.”

  Her face took on a melancholy cast, and I wondered how many dashing young men she had known, lost before their time, thanks to the depredations of war. But Lady Wellingtonia Beauclerk was not a sentimental creature. She recalled herself and favored me with a particularly hideous smile, revealing an array of bad teeth.

  “But I daresay he would have turned out to be a pervert or a cheat at cards, so perhaps it is for the best he died young.”

  I choked a little. “Why do you say that?”

  She twitched her stooped shoulders in a semblance of a shrug. “Firstborn Tivertons have always had a streak of recklessness in the blood. It leads them into stupidity. Their father broke his neck when he was steeplechasing. Tried to hurdle a vicar.” Lady Wellie gave herself a little shake, banishing the nostalgic mood. “But you want to know about Leicester. Dashing boy, lots of bottom.” I did the arithmetic. Assuming his elder brother was not very many years older, Sir Leicester must have been courting sixty, hardly a boy. But then, Lady Wellie was old enough to be Methuselah’s wife, so I supposed anyone might seem young to her. She went on, her sharp black eyes focused upwards as she recalled what she knew.

  “He was a bit of a dar
edevil in his youth. He too fought in the Crimea, but he didn’t care much for coming straight home when it was finished. He cashiered his commission and did a bit of exploring along the Silk Road, then carried on climbing mountains in some godforsaken country I have forgot the name of. Spent the better part of a decade surrounded by heathens and donkeys. He stopped off in Egypt on his travels and that was where he seemed to find his life’s purpose. Bit by the archaeology bug, as it were,” she added with a merry twinkle. “By which I mean, he met Miss Lucie Ward, who had already made a name for herself as an Egyptologist. They married and he settled down to studying properly. She taught him history and methodology, and he provided the stamina and strength for the actual excavations. They were well suited.”

  “I understand Lady Tiverton passed away a few years ago,” I said, rolling back my cuffs as perspiration began to pearl my hairline. Lady Wellie was not the sort to be offended at the sight of a bare wrist.

  “Lucie was never going to make old bones,” she said, shaking her head. “Consumption. All the Wards have weakness in the lungs. Arresting looks with great dark eyes and very pale skin. They seem like faeries until you hear them wheeze and hack like miners,” she added with a shudder. “I made my debut with Lucie’s grandmother. She shivered so badly, I had to loan her my swansdown cape just to keep her teeth from chattering like castanets during the presentation at court.”

  She had a faraway look in her eyes, and I was just opening my mouth to speak when she pressed on, her manner brisk.

  “No, the Wards never make old bones, but Lucie had a better run than most. I was her godmother, you know.”

  “Were you indeed?”

  She flapped a hand. “I have stood as godmother to half of England, child. Everyone knew that the Duke of Wellington was my godfather, and if they couldn’t get him to sponsor their brat, they would ask me. They thought the Wellesley shine might rub off a little, I suppose. Thank heaven the Church of England is not religious. I don’t think I could have borne actually teaching them about Jesus or listening to them lisp a catechism. No, I sent along an apostle spoon to each and that was the end of it. But Lucie was a lively thing, for all her ailments. She used to send me letters from Egypt, long, chatty efforts full of interesting bits. She visited once or twice, when she came back to England. She always hoped that she had grown stronger and could stand the climate, but invariably the fogs and damp drove her back to Egypt again. She was very happy with Leicester for all his tempers and gnashes. Pity they hadn’t longer together. She left a girl behind, if I remember correctly. Leicester’s only offspring, an unfortunate-looking girl called Figgy.”

  “Figgy? No one calls a child Figgy,” I protested. “It’s indecent.”

  “She’s Iphigenia,” Lady Wellie explained, “but the name was too much for a wee mite, so she was called Figgy instead. I should have thought Prune would have suited her better. Mouth like a sour apple, that girl. However, I have not seen her in some years. She might have improved.” But Lady Wellie’s expression was doubtful. Like Mr. Darcy, if she lost her good opinion of someone, it was gone forever.

  “How old is Figgy now?”

  She shrugged again. “Thirteen? Fifteen? It’s only a guess, mind. I do not get about these days as much as I used to.”

  I looked at the bright beady eyes and tried not to laugh. Lady Wellie gave a good impression of an infirm old lady when she wished, but the truth was, she had more vigor than people a fifth her age.

  “What of the present Lady Tiverton?” I inquired.

  Her thin brows lifted. “A bit of a mésalliance, that marriage. It caused some gossip in certain circles when Leicester married her.”

  “Is there something objectionable about the lady?”

  “Nothing whatsoever,” Lady Wellie said roundly. “She is as respectable and virtuous a wife as any man could ask. She also happens to be Anglo-Egyptian.”

  “Indeed?”

  Lady Wellie nodded. “British father—a Scots merchant, if memory serves. I cannot remember much about her mother’s family except that they were native Egyptian. Such marriages are always difficult, particularly with regard to the children. They are neither fish nor fowl, one foot on dry land, one in the sea.”

  Her metaphors were appallingly mixed, but I took her meaning.

  “She seems to have done rather well for herself if she married a baronet,” I mused.

  “Oh, yes. She was very quietly brought up and given a thorough education. Scots are usually reliable about such things. When her parents died, she was obliged to take up genteel employment, and she became a sort of secretary companion to the first Lady Tiverton. She nursed Lucie quite devotedly through her final illness. I suppose it was natural that she and Leicester would turn to one another in their grief. She stayed on for some time as his amanuensis. She was reluctant to accept his proposal of marriage, which I think speaks well of her. But in the end she relented, and she has proven a good wife to him. She’s knowledgeable about Egyptology, speaks the local languages. And I’m told she has never left off wearing mourning for the lady whose place she now occupies.”

  Her expression had grown a little vague as she recalled what she had heard about the Tivertons, but suddenly her eyes sharpened. “This is more than a passing curiosity. Why the interest in Leicester Tiverton?”

  I saw no reason to lie. “We are interested in the disappearance of his expedition photographer, a man named John de Morgan.”

  Lady Wellie’s brows—wisps of sternly silver hair—rose swiftly. “Are you indeed? Well, well,” she said.

  “I know what you are thinking and the answer is no,” I told her firmly. “This will have no possible bearing on the royal family and cannot bring them embarrassment.”

  She scrutinized me for a long, careful minute. “You would be surprised at what involves them,” she said mildly. “The newspapers have made quite a fuss over this story. Some ridiculous palaver about a mummy’s curse.”

  “Palaver indeed. I don’t believe that any more than you do. But we had an interesting interview with Sir Hugo this morning,” I said, watching her closely.

  She pursed her lips. “Bloody fool. He ought not to have troubled you. Stoker’s past is his past and it ought to be buried. Just because he knew de Morgan, it has no bearing on the fellow’s disappearance.”

  I was not surprised that Lady Wellie knew of the connection, nor that she took Stoker’s side. She was, when it suited her, a stalwart champion. “I could not agree more,” I told her. “But Stoker had an unfortunate altercation with de Morgan last year. Sir Hugo is afraid if word of it got out, it would cast Stoker in the role of likeliest villain. We mean to clear his name of any suspicion,” I warned her.

  “Of course you do. Any man would do so under the circumstances, and you will go haring off with him because you’re cut from the same cloth. Ridiculous, the pair of you, always tilting at windmills. You are reckless devils,” she said sourly. She looked up to where Stoker was balanced upon a slender beam of iron some forty feet above the stone floor.

  “Hardly that,” I said, ignoring Stoker’s exploits. “As soon as the newspapers get wind of this, Stoker’s reputation will be torn to pieces once more. I am not certain he could stand that. And there is the question of my father,” I added significantly.

  She turned on me with a stern look. “Your father is an unmitigated ass at times.” She broke off, chewing furiously on her lower lip. Her gnarled hands tightened on her walking stick. “I told His Royal Highness there was nothing to fear from Stoker, that he was pure British bedrock, but did he listen? No, the stubborn goat.”

  “Why should the prince take against Stoker now?” I demanded. “We have been working partners for some months, we live in unorthodox circumstances, and we have been involved in two criminal investigations. No objections have been raised from that quarter in all this time. Why now?”

  Lady Wellie looked
uncomfortable. “When we first discussed your friendship with Stoker, I was not entirely forthright with His Royal Highness about Stoker’s past. Bertie has a profound horror of divorce. He thinks it un-English, says that it flies in the face of everything he holds dear.”

  “The story of the Templeton-Vane divorce was in every newspaper in London. How did he not know of it?” I demanded.

  She shrugged. “The respectable newspapers were more concerned with the eruption of Krakatoa than a sordid divorce case. When speaking to Bertie, I stressed Stoker’s connection to the titled Templeton-Vanes and omitted any mention of the more colorful elements of his history. I am sorry to say that this has led His Royal Highness to view me as a less-than-reliable source where Stoker is concerned,” she said with a twist of the lips. “He thinks I am overly fond of the boy and declines to take my word for Stoker’s character. He naturally now views him with a somewhat jaundiced eye.”

  “Then we must ensure that the truth about John de Morgan’s whereabouts is properly established before Stoker is implicated,” I said smoothly. “Sir Hugo indicated that the official position was that John de Morgan had disappeared of his own volition.”

  “That is the official position,” she said, watching me carefully. “But I smell something else afoot. Something is happening at Special Branch, and the situation is a bit hazy at present.”

  I gave her a narrow look. “What do you know?”

  She shook her head. “Nothing.”

  “And you would not tell me if you did,” I challenged.

  Her expression was arch. “Child, my life’s work has been to be the wet nurse of secrecy. I learnt concealment with my letters. Of course I would not tell you everything. However, I would suggest to you that if you can lay hands upon the means of clearing Stoker’s name of any possible guilt in this matter, do so. I would not like him to be a pawn in someone else’s political gamesmanship.”

  We were silent a long minute, watching the workmen wrestling the potted trees into place. Overhead, Stoker made swift work of the pipes, and with a great shudder of the iron framework, the blast of steam settled to a warm, gentle mist. A cheer went up from the workers, and Stoker began his descent.