“It’s all so absurd,” I burst out. “Even if he were suspected, Stoker couldn’t possibly have done it. He has been here at Bishop’s Folly,” I pointed out. “I will swear to it.”
She gave me a pitying look. “Do you really think you would be permitted to give evidence to that effect?”
I narrowed my eyes. “But it is the truth. I am his alibi.”
She lowered her voice to a hiss. “Veronica, you are a nonentity if your father wishes it. Think. If Stoker is taken up on a murder charge, do you really think the semilegitimate daughter of the Prince of Wales would be allowed to display herself? Your very existence threatens the foundation of the monarchy. You can never take a public role.”
The heat was as oppressive as a hand over my mouth, choking out my breath. “That is absurd. If it meant saving a man’s life—”
“Remember Miles Ramsforth,” she said. “Every trace of your involvement was scrubbed from that investigation. And it would be from this as well.” I began to protest, but Lady Wellie shook her head. “Your father would hang drapes in Hades if he thought it would be good for the monarchy.” She must have seen something in my face, for her tone gentled, and she put out one yellow-nailed hand to clutch mine. It was not a consolation, but at least it was an effort. “My dear girl, your father has done his best to protect you, but never forget that in doing so, he protects himself. What he does has often been at my behest. He has listened to my guidance since the cradle, and although he likes to think he is a grown man, there are times when he still harkens to my voice.”
I pushed back. “He is lacking in both intelligence and judgment if he believes Stoker capable of killing in cold blood.”
She shook her head slowly. “Bertie has a mulish streak. He is a German, in the end, and with all the Teutonic stubbornness that implies. Usually he is biddable as a lamb, but every once in a while I have found him to be intractable. He will become utterly dogged in his pursuit of an idea. If he decides your connection with Stoker must be made to come to an end . . .” Her voice trailed off and she did not finish the sentence. She did not have to.
“All the more reason to discover what happened to John de Morgan,” I told her. “If Stoker’s name is never made public in connection with the disappearance, then my father will have no reason to act against him.”
She nodded slowly. “But best it were discreetly done. The longer it takes the newspapers to catch wind of this, the better.”
“Sir Hugo knows we are investigating,” I reminded her.
“Leave Hugo to me. I know which of his cupboards hold skeletons,” she said darkly.
“Very well. Then we are agreed. Stoker and I will find the truth, and you will keep my father at bay.”
I thrust out my hand.
“I can promise you nothing but my best efforts,” she said by way of warning. “Bertie is capricious.”
“In a fight between you and my father, I should wager upon you every time,” I told her.
She smiled her crocodile’s smile and shook my hand. “You will need to meet the parties concerned in order to get the lay of the land, as it were. I will send a letter of introduction to Sir Leicester Tiverton. That will get you in the door. What you do next is entirely up to you.”
CHAPTER
5
That afternoon, unable to settle to our various pursuits in the Belvedere—Stoker poked idly at his rhinoceros while I was inexplicably uninterested in a tray of Papilionidae from Madagascar—we decided to call upon the Tivertons armed with Lady Wellie’s letter of introduction. Together the hall boy George and I had compiled every one of The Daily Harbinger’s reports on the disappearance of John de Morgan, although I was careful not to explain my heightened interest in the Tiverton Expedition to him. We pored over the increasingly lurid tales spun by Mr. J. J. Butterworth, reading aloud the purplest of the prose.
“‘Awoken from her centuries-old slumbers, the malicious Princess Ankheset has clearly claimed another victim in the hapless de Morgan,’” George read. He was slow over his consonants, finding proper pronunciation tedious, but as I had often pointed out to him, if he wished to improve himself, he must put in the effort. It was, he had confided once, his greatest wish to become a footman.
“I don’t haff to speak proper to do that,” he had informed me loftily. “A footman only needs to be six feet and good-lookink.”
“Looking,” I had corrected, emphasizing the “g.” “And why stop at footman? You could be a butler or a publican or a shopkeeper if you mind your pronunciation. Or you could go to America and make your fortune as a politician. They don’t much mind how their officials speak,” I advised him. “The world, young George, might well be your oyster.”
“I don’t like oysters. They give me a green tummy,” he had remarked darkly. But from that day, he had been punctilious in his drive to speak correctly. I had thought to borrow a primer from the nurseries at the Folly—his lordship’s children had all learnt their letters—but George was far more attentive to his lessons if they came from the scandal sheets. The fact that he was also acquiring a thorough knowledge of the seedier side of Society troubled me not at all. The development of his moral code I left to his mother and his vicar.
He continued, reading a lengthy piece on the first Lady Tiverton, a recitation of the facts Lady Wellie had already related, ending with a brief mention of the present Lady Tiverton, who had taken up the reins of Egyptology to work in harness with her spouse. “‘It is to be wondered if the current Lady Tiverton finds herself encouraged and inspired by the spirit of the late Lady Tiverton, illuminating the path of knowledge with her own inextinguishable light.’”
“What sentimental rubbish,” I muttered. But I was as curious as J. J. Butterworth as to the character of the expedition’s leading lady.
Along with brief sketches of each of the major players of the expedition, Mr. Butterworth’s articles had provided the intelligence that they were staying at the Sudbury, a new and suitably respectable hotel on the Strand.
After George had scuttled away to his chores, Stoker and I set off on foot, preferring a brisk walk in the elements to the stuffy rigors of a cab in London traffic. The afternoon had turned foggy and damp, and the lights of the hotel glowed amber in welcome. A procession of smartly dressed people came and went, attended by hotel porters neatly attired in livery of bottle green plush trimmed in gold braid. Chilled after our walk, we waited in the lobby, tucking ourselves into a pair of wing chairs next to the fire as the letter of introduction was sent up. I had half expected the Tivertons to refuse us, but the name of Lady Wellingtonia Beauclerk opened the highest doors in the kingdom, I reminded myself with a small smile as we were shown to the suite.
The door was answered by Sir Leicester himself, beaming and full of bonhomie as he waved us inside.
“I say! This is a pleasure indeed. How long has it been since I have heard anything from Lady Wellingtonia? I rather thought she was dead,” he said, turning his bright gaze from Stoker to me. “Miss Speedwell, Mr. Templeton-Vane. Welcome. Any friend of Lady Wellie’s . . . You are just in time for tea and you must join us.”
With that he maneuvered us into the sitting room with all the bouncing enthusiasm of a border collie, darting here and there, gathering cushions and making introductions. He was not a tall man, being only of middling height and rather broader about the waist than he might have liked. But there was power still in the heavy shoulders and arms, and his eyes were bright with a lively intelligence. His hair was abundant but closely cropped and iron grey. His beard was the same, but his brows still showed dark—black slashes against the sunburnt skin of his face, set above eyes of an indeterminate color. In all, he gave an impression of great vitality. His enthusiasms would be infectious, I realized, and his energy difficult to match.
“This is my wife, Lady Tiverton,” he told us as the lady in question rose gracefully from a chair.
As Lady Wellie had suggested, she was dressed in grey, expensive and austere, the only note of color coming from the brilliant green of the winged scarab brooch pinned at her throat. Her complexion, unlike her husband’s, must have been well guarded from the fierce Egyptian sun, for it was smooth and unroughened and only slightly darker than a typical Englishwoman’s. Her hair was a rich black, parted severely and winged back from her brow, untouched by even a thread of silver, and I judged her to be her husband’s junior by at least a quarter of a century.
Her expression was one of such calm serenity in contrast to her husband’s that she might well have been a ghost. But then she smiled, a smile of such arresting sweetness that all thoughts of specters were banished. A greater change from her husband could not be imagined. If he were champagne, full of fizz threatening to escape the bottle, she was a delicate liqueur, subtle and languid. She moved to greet us, extending her hand. “Miss Speedwell. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.” Her voice was low and gentle, and I wondered if she cultivated it to calm her rumbustious spouse.
“And I yours, Lady Tiverton,” I said, shaking the pretty silken hand. My own was work-roughened from solvents and glues and various tools, but she was courteous enough not to flinch.
Suddenly, a creature darted from behind her skirts, snuffling enthusiastically at my hand, and Lady Tiverton laughed. “Please excuse Nut, Miss Speedwell. I am afraid her manners are not what they should be.”
It was a dog, but unlike any dog I had ever seen. Of medium size, with a sleek, muscular build, it had enormous batlike ears that stood perfectly upright, giving it a quizzical expression.
“Noot?” I asked, giving the name the same inflection her mistress had.
“Yes, but spelt N-u-t,” the lady told me. “She’s very like the dogs painted on Egyptian tombs, don’t you think? It seemed only fitting to give her an Egyptian name. Nut was the goddess of the stars. She attaches herself to whoever is nearest the fire or the biscuit barrel,” she warned me with a smile.
The dog thrust its head under my palm, demanding a pat, and I obliged.
Lady Tiverton clucked her tongue and the dog turned back to her, settling itself on a cushion in front of the fire.
“I hope that you will forgive the intrusion,” I began.
Lady Tiverton’s calm eyes, dark as a midnight sea, widened. “Oh, you must not apologize! My husband delights in visitors,” she explained fondly. Her gestures were languid as she resumed her place on the sofa while Sir Leicester bustled about, indicating chairs and ringing for tea, as unruly as his wife was unruffled.
She turned to Stoker. “Mr. Templeton-Vane, are you connected with the viscount of the same name?”
“My elder brother, my lady,” he told her. “Do you know him?”
She gave a little laugh. “We do not move in such exalted circles, I am afraid. We spend all of our time either in Egypt at the digs or our home in Surrey, cataloging the finds.”
“Hence the hotel,” Sir Leicester said aggrievedly. “A man ought not to live in an hotel if he can possibly avoid it,” he pronounced. “There is little domestic joy to be had when one is not under one’s own roof.”
His wife smiled. “So exacting in England, but you should see him in Egypt! Happy to live in a tent and eat his supper from a tin can.”
“We were all happy to live in tents until you came along,” said a disembodied voice. Stoker and I turned in our chairs to see the draperies parting. Concealed in the window embrasure was a girl—the famous Figgy, I presumed. She was, as Lady Wellie had suggested, fifteen or so, but wearing a thoroughly unbecoming dress of a shade of green that made her look like a bilious cat. The sleeves were puffed, the skirts ruffed, and the whole effect was unfortunate. She was dark, like her father, with strongly marked brows and a decided nose. Perched atop was a pair of spectacles, the lenses smudged and greasy.
As Stoker rose, she came forwards, a book clutched in her hand, and I could just see from the cover that it was one of H. Rider Haggard’s more spine-tingling tales.
“My stepdaughter,” Lady Tiverton murmured by way of introduction. “Iphigenia.”
Her father gave her a reproachful look. “Now, Figgy, don’t grumble. You know things have been much more comfortable since your stepmama took over the domestic arrangements.”
The girl looked scornfully at Stoker. “Why are you standing?”
“It is considered good manners to stand when a lady enters the room,” he told her gravely.
“Well, I am not a lady and I was already in the room, so it’s rather silly of you,” she said.
To his credit, Stoker grinned. “Quite right.”
“You have a patch on your eye. Are you a pirate?”
“Nothing so glamorous,” he assured her. He flipped up the patch to reveal his eye, as healthy and wholesome as the other. “I merely wear it when my eye is fatigued.”
“How did you come to get those scars?” she inquired.
“From an uncordial jaguar in Amazonia.”
Figgy’s eyes shone with interest. “Did you kill it?”
“Regrettably, yes. But I’m afraid the fellow left me no choice.”
“Did you shoot it? I would have shot it,” she said stoutly.
“I was unarmed at the time,” he replied, his lips twitching in amusement.
“You killed it with your bare hands? That is the most thrilling thing I have ever heard. Was it difficult? What did you do with the skin of it?”
Lady Tiverton interrupted with a small patient sigh. “Figgy, we were just about to have tea. I asked earlier if we might have some of those little cakes you like so much.”
“Cakes?” Figgy Tiverton rolled her eyes heavenwards. “I am not a child to be bribed with cakes.”
Her father gave a snort of laughter. “Not a lady, not a child! What are you, then, Fig?” He laughed uproariously at his own joke, and I conceived in that moment a thorough dislike of the man. Fifteen was a precarious age, and she wore it awkwardly. Having a stepmother as serenely unflappable as Lady Tiverton could not have helped matters, and her father was wholly insensitive.
But Stoker was not. He indicated his chair. “If you please, Miss Tiverton. I cannot sit until you do. My old nanny would hunt me down and whip me if I tried.”
Figgy Tiverton’s eyes rounded as she swept her gaze along the six feet of Stoker’s height and across the breadth of his shoulders. “She would have to be a very strong nanny.”
“She was,” he told her, the corners of his mouth twitching. Something in his unlikely charm thawed her a little. She did not take his chair, but settled herself on a hassock by the fire as Stoker resumed his seat. The dog Nut lifted its head and laid it squarely upon Figgy’s lap. I was glad to see at least one creature in the family liked the girl.
Tea was brought in then, and we passed a convivial quarter of an hour in drinking and eating. Sir Leicester was devoted to the cherry tarts, while Lady Tiverton toyed with a slender sandwich. From her perch in front of the fire, Figgy toasted several muffins she did not eat. Stoker discreetly helped himself to the pile, muffins drenched in butter being one of his favorite things, and I permitted myself a piece of chocolate gâteau that would have put the earl’s cook to shame. One of Lady Wellie’s protégés had been employed at the Sudbury as a pastry chef, and I made a note to send my compliments.
The conversation was general and pleasant, covering travel and butterflies and books, until we brushed the last crumbs from our lips just as the door opened.
“Have I missed tea?” A young gentleman with a comely face and dark ginger hair entered. He had Stoker’s years but not his inches, being very slightly shorter and leaner. (I had once compared Stoker’s physique to the glorious fallen angel painted by Cabanel. In contrast, this fellow was a slimly muscled Botticelli saint.) He moved with the loosely knit grace of an athlete, a fencer perhaps, and he
gazed at the assembled party with a genial expression. “I didn’t realize we were having a party,” he told Lady Tiverton in a tone of apology. “I would have worn a nicer tie.”
She gave him a motherly smile. “You look quite presentable, Patrick. Miss Speedwell, Mr. Templeton-Vane, this is Patrick Fairbrother, our expedition philologist.” She completed the introductions, and Mr. Fairbrother shook my hand, bowing slightly from the neck.
“Speedwell? I just read the most interesting piece on Saharan swallowtail butterflies, rather a new discovery, if memory serves,” he began. “I don’t suppose you are any connection to the author?”
“Yes, I wrote it,” I told him. “It was most exciting. Papilio saharae was only cataloged by Oberthür in 1879. I find the yellow-and-brown coloration most interesting, given the fact that it is endemic to North Africa.”
“Exactly! I confess, I am no expert on lepidoptery, but your description of the creature was absolute poetry,” he said. “Did you know that butterflies feature in some of the tomb decorations of the pharaohs?”
“I did not,” I admitted.
“Oh, yes! Some scholars believe the motif was used as a means of illustrating the Egyptian belief in resurrection. It is an obvious parallel with the butterfly’s own metamorphosis, is it not?”
“It is. What do other scholars believe?”
“That butterflies found their way onto the walls of the tombs simply because they are beautiful,” he told me, his eyes never leaving my face.
I realized then that he held my hand still in his, and I withdrew it gently.
He blushed, the delectable rosy shade to which ginger-haired complexions are often prone, and swiftly made his greeting to Stoker, who returned it with cool indifference. I was interested to note Figgy regarding him with a look of adolescent loathing.
A Treacherous Curse Page 6