“Would you be so kind as to procure me a little ginger beer from the refreshment rooms while I wait? My aunts always said there was no sounder cure for digestive troubles.”
The jubilation he had been hard-pressed to conceal slipped a little. He did not care to let me out of his sight, but I had given him no choice. My confession of digestive upset was painfully banal—and something no lady would admit to a gentleman without urgent necessity. Every rule of custom and society dictated his response, and he did not disappoint. “Of course,” he said again. “I shall go at once and wait for you directly outside the ladies’ conveniences,” he instructed. “Do not depart from there without me.”
I gave him my assurances, and the second his back was turned as he made for the refreshment rooms, I bolted, plunging into the crowd of travelers. I took the stairs two at a time, heedless of the stares I attracted and the muttered complaints of those I jostled on my way to the platform. Mr. Stoker was there, striding about like a prowling tiger as he waited. The train stood upon the tracks, puffing out great clouds of black smoke as it began to ease forward.
“It’s about bloody time,” he burst out as he caught sight of me. “Where the devil have you been?”
I gave him a wintry smile. “I had a little difficulty with my hat. But it’s quite all right now,” I assured him as I slipped Mr. de Clare’s card into my pocket.
Mr. Stoker grasped my hand and shoved me ahead of him, tossing me lightly onto the steps of the moving train. He followed, and as I turned to glance over his shoulder, I saw Mr. de Clare emerging onto the platform, his countenance ruddy with anger and thwarted purpose. I gave him a smile but resisted the urge to wave. It would have been unseemly.
We found an empty compartment and Mr. Stoker secured the door as I arranged myself comfortably. Now that I had leisure to consider my actions, I found it interesting that I had so instinctively thrown in my lot with Mr. Stoker rather than seizing the opportunity to elude him. It would have been the work of a moment to appeal to a passing policeman for aid or to accept Mr. de Clare’s offer of assistance.
But to what end? My subconscious had understood what I finally had the chance to reason out logically: if I involved the authorities, our adventure was at an end. This impetuous flight from London would be over before it began. Clearly Mr. Stoker feared apprehension by them, for reasons I did not yet understand. His insistence upon playing a lone hand was no doubt dictated by sound purpose, and I longed to discover it. I was mindful, too, of the baron’s implicit trust in him, a trust dictated by his own long acquaintance with the fellow. Well, I was up to the task of taking care of myself, I thought stoutly, but it seemed a good deal wiser to stay the course the baron had set me upon. He had apparently known Mr. de Clare and still chosen to deliver me to Mr. Stoker.
Why then did I refuse to share with Mr. Stoker the story of my meeting with Mr. de Clare in the station? I ought to have made a clean breast of things, but it nettled me that Mr. Stoker insisted upon such high-handed secrecy. He had not even confided where we were bound, and so long as he insisted upon secrets, I felt entitled to a few of my own. Besides, I reasoned, should Mr. Stoker prove a less than satisfactory partner in adventure, I now had a viable means of escape. I could afford to trust him until he gave me cause not to, and that was a comforting thought.
CHAPTER EIGHT
“I wish I had known earlier we were embarking upon a train journey,” I mused aloud as I rummaged in my bag. “I would have brought more food. And you needn’t have bothered with first-class tickets, you know. I would have been perfectly comfortable in third. Indeed, the trains in certain remote regions of Eastern Europe make no marked distinction between the two.”
Mr. Stoker, who had been watching the lights of the city with a decided intensity, relaxed as the metropolis fell away behind us. “There is no privacy in third class,” he reminded me.
“Have we need of privacy?”
He did not reply. Silence lay between us then, heavy and unpleasant, and I thought I would run mad if it persisted for the duration of our journey. He had still declined to tell me exactly where we were bound, and the omission nettled me. My frustration demanded relief, and in my experience, men could often be goaded into speaking if one could only lay a hand upon the correct inducement. In Mr. Stoker’s case, anger might well do the trick, I surmised, and I decided to prod his temper to discover any tender spots I might use to my advantage.
“I must say, this makes an improvement, Mr. Stoker. I thought you entirely incapable of initiative, but I am very glad to see that I was wrong. I think there is every possibility of your making a thorough success of yourself if you continue on in this vein. Of course, one could wish you would turn your energies to something more profitable and wholesome than felonious abduction, but it makes a start, does it not?”
I smiled pleasantly at him, and he glowered at me from his seat opposite. I was thoroughly satisfied with how swiftly he had turned to anger, and I made a note of it for future encounters.
“I cannot make out if you are the bravest woman I have ever met or the most ludicrous,” he said in a stringent tone. “You ought to be frightened out of your mind, shrieking and swooning and sobbing upon the floor. Instead, you insult me.”
“Not at all! I meant it as a most sincere compliment,” I told him. “This act demonstrates considerable spirit and an unconventional mind, two qualities the great explorers have always united. And, more to the point, why should I be afraid? I have the consolation of a clear conscience, Mr. Stoker. I know I have in no way contributed to the baron’s misfortunes, and I do not think you believe it either. This is merely a passing fever of the brain, a momentary whim. Your reason will restore itself in due course, and we will proceed from there. In the meantime, I believe the best strategy for me to adopt is one of peaceful compliance, just as one would do with a sleepwalker or a madman.”
“You think me mad?”
“You did just abduct me,” I pointed out reasonably. “I do not know that I should not call it madness, per se, but you must own it is a bit peculiar.” I did not bother to explain that it could hardly be considered a proper abduction when I was clearly there of my own volition. I might have escaped him a dozen times, but it seemed unkind to raise the point when he thought he was doing such a masterful job of keeping me in tow.
I half expected a lecture of some sort, but he had said all he intended to say, and we fell into a sharp silence then. This time I did not attempt to rouse him from it. The hours slipped by, and the dusky purple twilight deepened to blackness. The stars emerged, shyly at first, and then winking brightly, and a lopsided, waxing moon rode above the trees as we journeyed further west into the countryside. Eventually he dozed, and I occupied myself by thinking of Mr. de Clare. Clearly he had things to tell me, but it was his misfortune that I had received such excellent instruction at the hands of my Corsican friend. An accomplished bandit, he had stressed to me the importance, at all times, of following one’s intuition, no matter what logic might dictate. I had done so at Paddington when faced with the question of accompanying Mr. de Clare, and it was not until I had the leisure of the train journey that I reasoned out why my instincts had insisted upon Mr. Stoker as my companion at the expense of Mr. de Clare. I had not been conscious of the thought at the time, but I realized, as I listened to Mr. Stoker snoring softly in time with the train wheels, that whether or not the baron had indeed sent him to retrieve me from Mr. Stoker like a parcel, Mr. de Clare had chosen his approach with care. He had not spoken to me when Mr. Stoker was at hand, but the moment we were divided, Mr. de Clare had presented himself. Had he truly been a messenger sent from the baron, he would have had no compunction about announcing his purpose to both of us.
Unless. I looked at my sleeping companion, the features drawn by a creator in a harsh mood, with no softness to spare. The nose was aggressive, the sort of nose Alexander would have looked down as he conquered the worl
d, and the cheekbones and brows matched it in sharply molded grandeur. The jaw, though shadowed by the beard, was obviously strong, and the upper lip, what was visible of it, was slender and hard. Only the gentle curve of the lower lip betrayed him as a sensualist. That lower lip told stories to which the rest of his face gave a lie, and I wondered which to believe. Taken together, this collection of features could be hero or villain, martyr or tyrant, and if Mr. de Clare believed him to be my captor, it made perfect sense that he should wait to make his approach until Mr. Stoker was absent. Had he viewed himself my deliverer from whatever menace Mr. Stoker offered? It was a chilling thought. But I remembered again my lessons in Corsica and shook my head stubbornly. I would not, could not believe that Mr. Stoker would be my doom.
It was only much later that I decided my Corsican friend had much to answer for.
• • •
We changed trains at Taunton and again at Exeter before alighting at last at Taviscombe Magna. Here we were the only passengers to leave the train, and I was not surprised there was no one to meet us. Mr. Stoker gestured impatiently. “The night air is cold here. Have you a coat? Put it on.”
I retrieved a long striped coat from my bag and buttoned it securely. He merely slung an untidy old frock coat over his shoulders, wearing it as a cloak, and as we moved into the moonlight, I smiled.
“What is so bloody funny?” he demanded.
“You. I hope we do not meet with any superstitious countryfolk. They will take you for the ghost of a disheveled highwayman.”
He muttered a curse and started off down the narrow lane that led from the village and into the countryside. The moonlight was our only means of illumination, and the going was difficult at times, the lane pitted and rough. We walked for some time without a word passing between us, but as the moon rose directly overhead, I stumbled and he put out a hand to steady me.
“Thank you.”
He hesitated. “I suppose we could rest for a moment if you require it.”
“Not at all,” I returned briskly. “The walking is sufficient exercise to keep me quite comfortable. We should be chilled through if we stopped. But you might tell me where we are bound, so as to pass the time more easily.”
“We are going to friends of mine. They are encamped nearby.”
“Encamped! Are your friends Gypsies, then?”
“They are not. They are members of a traveling show.”
I stumbled again and he swore softly. “Can you not keep your feet, woman?”
“You surprised me,” I said by way of apology. “A traveling show? I am intrigued. What sort of traveling show?”
“You will see soon enough.”
He fell to a moody silence again, but I would have none of it.
“Mr. Stoker, I understand that you are mightily put out with me, and I daresay if the circumstances were reversed, I should treat you with the same unfounded suspicion. But I would like to point out that I have been very cooperative for a victim of abduction, and the least you can do is make a little polite conversation.”
He stopped then and faced me squarely in the moonlight, his face thrown into harsh shadows. “Victim? When, for all I know, you ordered the attack upon the baron?”
I gave him a pitying look. “I know you think it possible, but you are a man of science. You have been trained not to hypothesize until you have developed all of your data, is that not true? Therefore, you must also believe it possible that I am innocent. The baron himself entrusted me to your care. Would he have done so if he believed me to be a dangerous person? Did you yourself not say his precise charge was that I was to be guarded, even at the cost of your own life?”
He said nothing for a long moment, emotions warring upon his face. “He did,” he ground out finally. “And yes, I will concede it is far likelier you are an innocent in all of this than a perpetrator. But you are the only possible connection I have to discovering what happened to Max.” His voice held a note that in another man might have sounded like a plea.
“I understand that, and whether you want to believe it or not, I am deeply sorrowed by whatever calamity has befallen him. I knew him only for the duration of our journey to London, but I believe he was a kind man and he meant to help me, although I think if he could see you now he might question his own judgment at leaving me in your care.”
His mouth opened, then snapped abruptly shut. I said nothing more. My arrow had flown true.
“I will entertain the notion of your possibly being an unwitting participant in this affair,” he said, his voice chill with anger, “but you must understand that I will nurture suspicions against you until I am persuaded otherwise.”
“So long as you give yourself the chance to be persuaded, I am content with that. And you must let me help you discover who did this terrible thing.”
“Out of the question,” he said flatly.
I strove for patience. “Mr. Stoker, I understand you must fear I will somehow turn the situation to my own advantage, but I promise you, I have every bit as powerful a motive as you for discovering the truth behind the baron’s murder. After all, sir, you are not suspected of complicity.”
To my astonishment, his features relaxed a little. Not quite a smile, but almost. “You are rather put out just now. Oh, you’re doing a damned good job of hiding it, but it rankles that I will not accept your word for the matter.”
“I am not accustomed to being doubted, Mr. Stoker. I have been accounted strange and unfeminine by many people, but my word is as good as any man’s. I find it galling that the only remedy is to try to reason with you.”
“What would you prefer? Pistols at dawn?” he mocked.
“If it would persuade you,” I replied stoutly. “Although, if I am honest, I would prefer swords.” My pursuit of the intruder at the cottage might have been fruitless, but it had given me a taste for bladed weaponry.
His gaze was piercing. “I think you actually mean that. You would be very happy to put a bullet in me just now.”
“Or to take one if it cleared my name.”
He shook his head. “The moonlight has addled your brain, Miss Speedwell. I have no intention of arming you, much less facing off in a duel.”
I did not take the opportunity to instruct him on the lethal properties of a cunningly wielded hatpin. We resumed our walk then, but I fancied there was a trifle less coldness in his manner than there had been before.
“What will you tell your friends?” I asked suddenly. “They will want to know why we have come to them.”
“You will be my newly wedded bride whose family do not approve. I will say we are in fear of being apprehended by your wicked guardian who was robbing you of your fortune and that we require a place of safety until we can secure the money for ourselves.”
“That is a plot straight from a penny dreadful. No one could possibly believe it. More to the point, you and I could hardly masquerade as a couple joined in the harmonious state of matrimony. We seem distinctly unsuited.”
He did not speak. Instead, he turned sharply on his heel and placed himself directly in front of me. It was like running straight into a mountain, I thought as I collided with him, dropping my bag and net to the road and putting out my hands to avoid a fall.
He reached into his trouser pocket and retrieved something—the item he had taken from his trunk, I realized. Before I knew what he was doing, he had taken up my left hand and stripped off my glove. He pushed something cold onto my finger.
“What is this?”
“A prop,” he replied.
I stared at the slim gold band that rested on my finger. It was bent slightly, and the gold was scratched, as if it had been hurled in a fit of temper. “How is it that you happen to have a spare wedding ring in your possession, Mr. Stoker? Are you in the habit of abducting ladies and forcing them to pose as your wife?”
He snapped in res
ponse. “That is none of your concern. Now, you will answer to the name of Mrs. Stoker whilst we are among my friends. You may address me as Stoker or husband, I care not which.”
“What about Lucifer?” I muttered under my breath.
He ignored me. “What is your Christian name?” he demanded.
“You may call me Mrs. Stoker,” I instructed him, lifting my chin. His laugh was harsh and low.
“No one who knows me would believe for a moment I would engage in such formality with a woman to whom I was married. What is your Christian name?”
“Veronica,” I said at last.
He gaped at me. “You mean like the plant veronica? The Plantaginales commonly known as speedwell? You are joking.”
“I am not,” I replied with some irritation. “My aunt Lucy was very fond of gardening.”
“So she named you as a sort of botanical joke?”
“Veronica is a very useful plant,” I pointed out. “It is also known as bird’s eye and gypsyweed and it is the largest member of the family Plantaginaceae. It makes a very fine tea for the relief of catarrh.”
“Christ, I suppose you ought to be grateful she didn’t call you Gypsyweed. Haven’t you a more familiar name? Something other children or a sweetheart called you?”
“I knew no other children, and my sweethearts, as you so vulgarly phrased it, are none of your concern.”
He lifted a brow. “Sweethearts? Plural? You are a dark horse, aren’t you?” I said nothing more, and he sighed. “Very well. For the duration of our time here, you will be my darling Veronica.” He tucked my hand into the crook of his arm, holding it there rather too firmly for comfort. “Now, put a smile on your face and gaze at me with adoration. We are here.”
All was quiet save the skittering of night creatures and the occasional call of a nightingale. The camp itself, a motley collection of tents and farm wagons and Gypsy caravans, was slumbering. Here and there a lamp glimmered like a glowworm in the darkness, but only one spot betrayed that anyone might be wakeful. It was a sizable tent, striped in red and gold and hung with Chinese lanterns that bobbed in the light breeze. Mr. Stoker kept a hand tucked under my elbow as we picked our way through the camp. Each of the tents and caravans boasted a colorful sign, but we were moving too quickly for me to take them in. At last we reached the striped tent and paused outside, long enough for me to read the banner that stretched across the front of the tent, the letters spelling out in elegant scrolls: PROFESSOR PYGOPAGUS’ TRAVELING CURIOSITY SHOW.
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