For now I was content to sit upon my branch and restore myself. Besides, I considered, for all we knew, the baron’s murderer had already been apprehended. Even now he might be sitting in jail, awaiting justice. And if that were the case, it would serve us nothing to form a plan. No, far better to make our way quietly along with the traveling show for a few days while we let the police do their necessary work. In a larger town, it would be a small matter to secure a newspaper and see what new developments had arisen. If the miscreant had been taken, Mr. Stoker and I would have nothing further to fear, and we could return to London and thence go our separate ways. Satisfied with my reflections, I closed my eyes and turned my face to the sun. If I had known it was to be my last truly peaceful moment for some time to come, I should have made a point of enjoying it more.
• • •
The journey was a pleasant one, and by afternoon we were comfortably ensconced in a river meadow, the caravans and tents arranged much as they had been before. A number of grooms I had not yet met busied themselves unhitching the horses and securing them in a makeshift paddock a little distance away. Soon, cooking fires were kindled and chairs and tables appeared and the campsite took on its customary air of pleasant busyness.
In contrast to my excellent mood, Mr. Stoker had sunk into a gloom from which he seemed determined not to stir. We quarreled loudly about leaving the windows of the caravan open, a fight that seemed far more about him taking advantage of the opportunity to shout than any real opinion on the state of the windows. I shouted back because I enjoyed the exercise, and in the end I threw my flask of aguardiente at him and told him to marinate in the stuff if it would sweeten his temper. I left him sulking in the caravan and took my net to pursue what winged prey I might find in the river meadow. I seldom hunted properly in England as my clients all preferred more exotic species, but the chase kept my skills sharply honed, and I prepared for this expedition as carefully as for any other. I fished out a selection of minuten—the tiny headless entomological pins used for display—and worked them into my cuffs. It was a clever trick I had learned to keep them upon my person and save the trouble of carrying a box. It also served to discourage unwanted suitors from attempting to hold my hand—a not uncommon occurrence upon my travels. I slipped a small jar for common specimens into my pocket, but anything exotic demanded something more exacting.
The lush red roses of my hat had been specially ordered and were lined with cork, the perfect repository for such specimens. Any truly rare finds could be swiftly dispatched with a careful pinch to the thorax and then pinned to the roses, out of the way and in no danger of damage from a jar or box. It was my own technique and one I had not seen duplicated anywhere except by a rather eccentric fellow from Belgium who appeared one day on a meadow path in the Rocky Mountains with a cloud of Hoary Commas—Polygonia gracilis with its splendid escalloped orange wings—quivering upon his sola topee. He looked like a madman, but I realized instantly that as a woman I could employ the habit to much better effect. My ensemble was completed with the addition of my compass, the one piece of equipment essential to any explorer. I made a note of the direction of north and picked up my net.
No sooner had I stepped from the caravan than I nearly collided with the attractive groom, Mornaday. He extended a hand full of fruit.
“Pear, missus?” he asked with a bob of the head. “I was collecting fruit for the horses. They do like a bit of a treat. The pears are only a little green. Will you have one?”
I thanked him and took it, more to be polite than out of any real desire to eat it. I bit into it and was surprised to find it ripe, the juices bursting forth from the snowy flesh and over my hands.
“Ah, you’ve a good one there!” he said with a chuckle. He brandished a striped handkerchief and I took it gratefully, laughing as the juice dripped from my chin. “That’s better,” he said, glancing at my butterfly net. “I say, missus, if you’re after butterflies, I saw a blue one, a Morpho, I think it’s called. Just down this way. I can show you, if you like.”
Taking my arm, he guided me down the riverbank quite some distance, through a watery meadow and to a secluded little copse, singing all the while. He had a very pleasant tenor, and his rendition of “Early One Morning” would not have disgraced the public stage. When we at last reached the clearing, I turned to him with an air of expectation.
“How very kind of you to guide me. A Morpho, you say?”
He gave me a broad smile. “It were bright blue, with black teardrops at the bottom of its wings,” he said promptly.
“I am afraid that is no Morpho, Mornaday. You have just described Papilio ulysses, a Blue Swallowtail indigenous to Australasia. Hardly to be found in Devonshire. Which leads me to conclude you did not see a Blue Swallowtail in this copse.”
He opened his mouth and I held up a hand. “Nor did you see a Morpho, my dear fellow. The Morpho habitat is strictly limited to Central and South America.” While he continued to gape, I gave him an extended lecture upon the species differences between the two most common Morphos, menelaus and peleides, and the Blue Swallowtail, Papilio ulysses. For good measure I discoursed at length upon instars and imagos, enjoying every moment of his glassy-eyed incomprehension. After half an hour or so, I took pity upon him and concluded my remarks. “And that brings me to the obvious question, Mornaday. Why did you create a pretext to see me alone?”
He hesitated, then grinned, and when he spoke, his voice was somehow more cultured than it had been before. The accent was smoother, and his vocabulary was no longer quite so limited, and his air of diffidence melted away under a more authoritative mien.
“I beg your pardon, Mrs. Stoker. I ought to have realized that such methods would not deceive an expert lepidopterist.”
“But how did you know I was an expert? I might be the most casual hobbyist.”
He nodded towards the net. “My father was a collector. I know an expensive ring net when I see one.”
“That still does not explain your purpose in bringing me here.”
He stepped closer and I saw that the brown eyes were flecked with gold and amber. “Does a fellow need a reason when the lady in question is so enchanting?”
He had pitched his voice low and husky, and he had to stand quite near to me in order to be audible, by design, I suspected. I shook my head. “No, Mornaday. It will not do. You have seen Mr. Stoker. He is a large fellow. He throws knives with astounding accuracy. You would not dare bring me here for mere flirtation.”
He hesitated, then reached forward suddenly to take my hand. “I brought you here because I was afraid for you.”
“Afraid for me? My dear fellow, whatever for?”
His expression was grave, the flirtatious note quite absent now from his delivery. He was as sincere and plainspoken as a parson. “As you say, Mr. Stoker is a large fellow and he throws knives. That quarrel sounded dangerous.”
“If you heard that, then you know I gave just as good as I got. Rest easy, my gallant. I can assure you I am utterly safe with him. He would sooner cut off his own arm than harm a hair of my head.”
“Can you be certain of that? I understand you have known him only a short while. Such limited acquaintance can be deceiving.”
I sighed. “You are correct, of course. One may be entirely mistaken in one’s assessment of a character if it is taken too quickly. But that goes for the ordinary person, Mornaday. And I am no ordinary person. I have traveled the world and made extensive acquaintance from the tip of South America to the Swiss Alps. I am thoroughly skilled at taking the measure of a man quickly. And I can tell you that I am content to remain in his care.”
The narrow gaze did not soften. “It is a strange life for a lady, this traveling show. Are you certain he does not coerce you to be here? You have chosen it of your own free will?”
“As much as anyone chooses anything,” I promised him.
“How
long have you been acquainted?” he asked.
“Long enough,” I returned tartly. This was an interrogation, not a seduction, I reflected with no little irritation. I had no intention of succumbing to his blandishments, but it was a trifle insulting that he had not made a better job of offering any. “Your concern is very kind, but I think this discussion is at an end.”
He sketched a slight bow. “Forgive me if I have been indiscreet. But it is important that you know you may rely upon me should you ever have need of a friend. Remember that.”
I smiled. “Very kind indeed. Now if you will hand me that butterfly net, I mean to be off. I think I spy a Lasiommata lurking beyond that stream and I mean to have it.”
• • •
Fresh with purpose, I returned from an hour in the meadow with a pair of pretty captives in a jar. They were nothing special, and certainly not worth the trouble of killing, but appealing nonetheless. I carried them back only to admire them. I would set them free, entirely unharmed, after a few hours.
Mr. Stoker was pacing in front of the caravan when I arrived. “Aren’t they lovely?” I asked, brandishing the jar. “I saw a lovely Lasiommata, but it eluded me, and I had to settle for these two as compensation. This is merely a common Vanessa atalanta, but I do think it charming. And here is Gonepteryx rhamni. I quite prefer the common name of Brimstone butterfly, don’t you?”
“Where in the name of the oozing wounds of Christ have you been?” he demanded.
“In the meadow, as you can plainly see.”
He took me firmly by the elbow and thrust me up the stairs and into the caravan. There he pushed me into one of the armchairs and positioned himself directly in front of me.
“You are not to do that again,” he said severely. “I was half out of my mind. If you mean to go off, you must tell me.”
I considered this a moment, then shook my head. “I do not think so,” I said politely.
“What the bloody hell do you mean you don’t think so? I just gave you an order.”
I smothered the urge to laugh. It would have been very rude, and I had little doubt it would have inflamed his temper even further. I adopted a deliberately soothing tone.
“I am sorry you were worried, Mr. Stoker, but I am quite capable of looking after myself in a meadow. I went hunting for butterflies. You do recall that I am a lepidopterist?”
“Yes,” he ground out between clenched teeth. “But you must not go haring off on your own. It is not safe.”
“How absurd you are! Not safe indeed. What could be safer than a meadow? Do you know what you will find in a meadow? Cows. There are cows in a meadow. Cows and wildflowers and butterflies.”
He dropped his head into his hands. “You are the most impossible woman I have ever known,” he said, his voice muffled.
“Am I? I cannot think why. I am entirely reasonable and thoroughly logical.”
“That is what makes you impossible.” He lifted his head. “Very well. I will appeal to your sense of logic. If I do not know you are gone and where you are bound, how will I know if you are in distress?”
“Should I be in distress? In a meadow? You mean if the cows organize some sort of attack? I have extensive experience with cows. They almost never do that.”
“Forget the bloody cows,” he said, clearly making an effort to hold on to his temper. “The baron was killed, murdered in cold blood, or have you forgot that?”
“Of course I haven’t. But that has nothing to do with my going off on a butterfly hunt.”
“It has everything to do with it!” he roared back.
“Heavens, you’re a stubborn man! No wonder no woman will live with you.” As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I wished them back. His gaze fell to the slender gold band upon my left hand and he rose without a word and left the caravan, slamming the door hard behind him.
I slid the ring from my finger and held it to the light. It had not been worn for long, I realized, for the gold was still bright and the edges unworn, although it had been badly damaged at one time. An inscription had been engraved inside, and I turned it to the light to read it. For C.M. from R.T.-V. Sept. 1882. I did not know the identity of C.M., but it required little imagination to determine that the tender bridegroom had been Revelstoke Templeton-Vane, and that in September of 1882 he had taken a wife. The question was, what had he done with her?
I looked at the inscription again. No poetry, then, I thought, and for some reason, I was surprised. A man who loved the Romantic poets ought to have fairly covered the thing in verse. But there were only the initials, inscribed coldly into the gold, and nothing more. I slipped the ring back onto my finger and took up my reading, applying myself once more to the adventures of Arcadia Brown, Lady Detective, but my attention wandered. I had the beginning of a violent headache, and the vague feeling of a storm gathering. There were no clouds to be seen, and I was not often given to fancies, but I put a hand into my pocket and drew out my little velvet mouse and held him tightly in my palm as I waited for what was to come.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Mr. Stoker nursed his resentment for the better part of that day, for I did not see him again until it was time for us to perform. That is not to say that I did not hear him. Shortly before we were to begin the act, I made my way to the tent, slipping through the shadowy areas behind, where few of the paying customers ventured. One had to be quite careful here, as the ropes and tent pegs were difficult to see, so I was picking my way slowly when I heard my name in conversation. It was Salome speaking, and I soon realized to whom.
“Why did you marry Veronica? Is she with child?” The voice was teasing, and the reply was brutal and swift.
“God, no!” Too late, he must have remembered that we were supposed to be devotedly in love, for he hastened to repair the damage. “That is to say, it is far too soon for that sort of thing. I would like some time with my bride all to myself before I have to share her with a child.”
Salome laughed, a velvety, seductive sound, and I knew instinctively that she would be standing quite close to him in the darkness.
“Oh, Stoker, why do you think you can deceive me? After what we have been together? Tell me the truth now. Do you really prefer her to me?”
I heard the rustle of fabric and a decidedly masculine gasp. “That’s really quite an inappropriate question under the circumstances, don’t you think? You oughtn’t—that is, I am a married man, Salome.”
“Are you? You don’t seem married to me.” After this came more rustling and another groan.
“Leave me be, Salome. I am quite devoted to Veronica,” he said, his voice strangled.
“I don’t believe that,” she murmured. “Tell me why you like her. Tell me why you married her.”
There was a moment of imperfect silence between them, for I heard still more rustling and then, quite abruptly, a ragged growl and another laugh from Salome, this one sharp and unpleasant.
“You think you can push me aside? You think you can forget me? For her?” Salome caught her breath suddenly. “Let go of my arm. You’re hurting me.”
“And I will do a good deal more if you try any more of your sly tricks, either on me or on Veronica. You’re not to go near her, do you understand me?”
“A little late for you to suddenly play the protective husband, don’t you think? Why did you do it? Tell me why you married her.”
“I mean it, Salome, and if you think I don’t, I beg you to give me the chance to prove it. Leave her be. And me as well.”
He must have stalked off then, for she cursed as she came around the corner. She brought herself up with an exaggerated start when she saw me.
“Oh, Veronica! I did not know you were there.”
“Really, somehow I think otherwise.”
She gave me an appraising look followed by a shrug. “I was the first woman to know him. You will under
stand why I am curious about you. We are very different.” She stepped nearer. “How did you meet him? What do you speak of together?”
I tipped my head. “Such interesting questions. But really, you ought to ask Stoker if you want them answered. Oh, but I am forgetting. You already did.”
With that she flicked her hair and walked away, swinging her hips as she moved. Out of the shadows I saw a figure sidle up to her, and I was interested to recognize the form of the flirtatious groom, Mornaday. Having halfheartedly tried his luck with me and found it wanting, he had no doubt decided to cast his line in likelier waters, I reflected. I wished him joy of her, but it did seem a trifle much that we should now share two men.
I proceeded on to the tent and found Mr. Stoker pacing by the back flap.
“Finally! Where in the name of hell have you been?”
“Eavesdropping,” I said with deliberate sweetness.
He stopped and stared at me. “What—”
I reached up and applied my handkerchief to his face, scrubbing vigorously. “You have lip rouge on your mouth.”
He had the grace to blush. “Yes, well, that was—”
“That was none of my business, but you look quite ludicrous. Quite ludicrous indeed. If you mean to exchange favors with Salome, I would only ask that you attempt a little discretion. We must give the appearance of content married life if the masquerade is to be credible, must we not?”
He snatched the handkerchief out of my hand. “Give me that! You’ve rubbed my skin raw.”
I gave him a look of mock contrition. “Oh, I do apologize. It is such a garish shade, it is quite difficult to remove.”
He scrubbed at his own face. “Better?”
“Yes, although there is some on your collar. And you might want to attend to the top button on your trousers.”
He muttered a curse, but I gave him a brilliant smile. “It sounds like a very full house tonight.”
“Veronica, about Salome—”
I placed a hand on his sleeve. “Really, Mr. Stoker, you needn’t bother. I assure you she does not trouble me in the least. If you decide to pay a call upon her, I shan’t wait up. I will just leave the bolt on the caravan door undone. You can let yourself in—only do be quiet getting into bed, won’t you? I am quite tired this evening and would so hate to be awakened.”
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