A Treacherous Curse
Page 31
She rose. “You think you are clever, Miss Speedwell. You think you are so much smarter than I am. But I will tell you something you ought to know. You have befriended a dangerous man. Revelstoke has killed a man. Think about that. He has taken those useful talented hands of his and used them to crush the life out of someone. That should make the marrow in your bones run cold. How can you stand to be near him now that you know he has taken a life?” she demanded, her eyes cruel in her triumph.
I moved closer to her, giving her a slow smile, a tiger’s smile. “Because, Mrs. de Morgan, I have taken two.”
• • •
The day after Caroline de Morgan’s visit, I went into the glasshouse to find that my luna moths had emerged. They had broken free from their dark little prisons, pushing forth on damp silken wings. As I watched in rapt wonder, they spread them slowly, drying them as they flapped back and forth. They were pale green with long, elegant hind wings and markings like eyes that seemed to watch me as I studied them. They were large, each exceeding the length of my hand. One by one they rose from their branches, testing themselves as they lifted into the warm, humid air of the glasshouse, attempting their freedom for the first time. Each silken wing was edged in cerise, and the antennae were frilled and golden, frivolous little embellishments that danced above their bodies.
“They’ve eclosed,” Stoker observed, coming to stand behind me. I nodded, marveling as the last moth flitted off in amorous pursuit of a mate.
“I received word this morning. John de Morgan’s child was born last night, well before its time. A girl,” he said quietly. “That, no doubt, came as a nasty shock to her mother.”
“And Caroline? How is she?”
“Well enough, although the child may not survive.”
“If she does, I am glad she is a girl. Her mother will have no claim upon the de Morgan money,” I said with a touch of asperity.
“No. She will have to leave off her machinations for now. As soon as they are able, they mean to move to the country.”
I turned, but his face gave nothing away. Did it pain him to speak of her? Still he did not say her name, had never willingly said it in front of me.
And suddenly the words I had never planned to speak fell from my lips.
“Why do you never say her name? I have only once heard you speak the word ‘Caroline.’ Does she torment you so much?”
His expression was one of astonishment. Then he smiled. “No. I do not say it because I never called her that except upon one occasion—on our wedding night, just before she refused me her bed. I kissed her and called her by her given name. It was, I believed then, the happiest moment of my life, one perfect golden moment before it all went to hell.”
I turned away. That was what it meant, then, the invoking of her name when he was drugged and half-delirious and his mouth was on mine. He was remembering not the woman who had come before, but the promise of happiness he had glimpsed once and never thought to know again.
I cleared my throat and brushed aside a stray leaf. He stood in front of me, very close. He reached out, putting a fingertip to the pendant at my throat. “A handsome little butterfly. I don’t remember seeing this before.”
“It is new,” I told him. There would be time enough to explain. He went on, still touching the lapis butterfly, his knuckles just grazing the skin of my chest.
“The case has been put to rest now. John is buried, and whatever was left of my reputation has been salvaged,” he said, his voice oddly soft. “Thank you for that. You fight harder for me than you would ever do for yourself. Why?”
“Because there is no power on earth that could make me abandon our friendship. There is no deed you could confess so dark that it would make me forsake you. You said of us once that we were quicksilver and the rest of the world mud. We are alike, shaped by Nature in the same mold, and whatever that signifies, it means that to spurn each other would be to spit in the face of whatever deity has seen fit to bring us together. We are the same, and to leave you would be to leave myself. Make of that what you will.”
I turned away to watch my lunas rising and swooping amidst the iron lacework overhead.
Hunting butterflies requires an oblique approach. If one charges them directly, they flit away, mapping a mazy, elusive path until they disappear from sight with a final flap of jeweled, defiant wings. But if one is cunning and careful, it is possible to approach them so subtly they do not realize you are upon them until the net descends. The trick is to move with them, parallel but not intersecting, guiding them gently to a suitable landing spot where they can be captured without injury. The timing is all. Hurry them and they will bolt. Dawdle and they will dart away after some tasty sip of nectar. It requires patience, skill, and resolve—qualities I had in abundance and which Stoker would give me ample opportunity to exercise.
I turned back to him, words that I thought never to say to any man rising to my lips.
At that moment a voice hailed us from just beyond the little grove of hornbeams. I closed my mouth and stepped away.
“Miss Speedwell? I received your message. Have the little devils finally emerged?” It was the viscount, with impeccable manners and deplorable timing.
“Good morning, my lord,” I called brightly. “Stoker and I are just admiring them now.”
“Oh, is my brother with you?” the viscount asked, pushing his way through the foliage.
“Yes,” Stoker told him, coming to stand behind me, his hand grazing my waist. “I am.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It is an honor and pleasure to be able to share my gratitude to the following:
For welcoming Veronica with open arms and giving her a truly fine home, the lovely people at Berkley with special recognition of Craig Burke, Loren Jaggers, Claire Zion, Sarah Blumenstock, Roxanne Jones, Sara-Jayne Poletti, and Kara Welsh. Tremendous thanks to the art department for their inspired work and to the sales, marketing, editorial, and publicity teams. I will forever be indebted to Ellen Edwards for seeing the potential in Veronica.
For polishing Veronica with such tact and consideration, my truly superb copy editor, Penina Lopez.
For nearly twenty years of guidance, business acumen, advice, and friendship, my agent, Pam Hopkins.
For friendship, support, and many kindnesses, Blake Leyers, Benjamin Dreyer, Ali Trotta, Joshilyn Jackson, Ariel Lawhon, Delilah Dawson, Rhys Bowen, Alan Bradley, Duchess Goldblatt, Helen Ellis, Susan Elia MacNeal, Lauren Willig, Nathan Dunbar, Stephanie Graves, Holly Faur, and Carin Thumm.
For all the heavy lifting of the practical work, the team at Writerspace and my assistant, Jomie Wilding.
For taking Veronica to their hearts and sharing their enthusiasm, booksellers, reviewers, bloggers, and readers.
For love, patience, and willingness to run errands, my family.
For everything, for always, my husband.
* A Curious Beginning
* A Perilous Undertaking
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