A Curious Beginning (27 page)

“Bosh!” I declared. “He tried to have you drowned in the Thames, in case you have forgot.”

“Only because he thought I was your abductor. And to an outsider, it would seem as if I had taken you into my power and kept you there.”

“You're forgetting the incident at Paddington Station,” I reminded him triumphantly. “I eluded him entirely of my own volition. If I had truly been your captive, why wouldn't I have seized the opportunity to go with my uncle and escape your clutches?”

“Perhaps he thinks I've mesmerized you. Perhaps he thinks I have made dire threats of violence should you attempt to go. Perhaps he thinks you've fallen prey to my considerable charms and are in love with me—to your own detriment.”

I pulled a face. “Be serious.”

“I am. We cannot know what your uncle believes the situation to be. We can only hypothesize based upon his actions. And his actions are those of a man who wishes to talk.”

“And Mornaday's are those of a man who wishes to enact a rescue,” I countered.

“We have only his word for the fact that he is with Scotland Yard,” Stoker said. “We did not ask him to present his credentials.”

“We were half drowned,” I reminded him. “It was an awkward time to insist upon formalities. Besides, if Mornaday had some nefarious purpose, why intervene at all?”

“To prevent your uncle from persuading you to leave the country.”

“Oh, that is preposterous! Mornaday is no more a villain than you are,” I said with a touch of waspishness.

“You cannot discount a theory simply because it does not suit your prejudices,” he reminded me. “That is bad science.”

“And this is not science. It is something entirely different. You still have not explained
how
Mornaday might be involved if he is not a detective from Scotland Yard. What is his purpose?”

He shrugged. “To get within his power the previously unknown daughter of the Prince of Wales.”

“How does he even know of my existence? For whom does he work?”

“Occam's razor,” he said. “The simplest explanation is the likeliest. If only a handful of people knew of your existence and most are dead, the one still alive is the most logical person to have told him.”

“My father. You believe
my father
set Mornaday on my trail? Do you think he had Max killed as well?”

“I don't know.”

His brow was furrowed and I resisted the urge to throw something at him. “You are seriously considering the possibility that the Prince of Wales, a man devoted to card games and shooting pheasants and genteel debauchery, has orchestrated a plot to murder his father's oldest friend and run me to ground?”

“His father's oldest friend,” Stoker said, repeating the words as if tasting them on his tongue. “I hadn't thought of it in quite that way, but you're right. It was Max he turned to when he needed a witness for his marriage to Lily. And no doubt Max was the one who paid money—the prince's money—into the Harbottle accounts for your keep.”

“You see? Would a man really kill the family friend who has done so much for him?” I demanded.

“I should think it would give him all the more reason,” was Stoker's reply.

I
n due course, the chill breeze off the Thames drove us down from the tower and we walked the Outer Ward, making a slow loop between the inner buildings of the Tower and its surrounding fortifications. There were visitors aplenty that day, and we threaded our way between groups chattering in German and Italian and French, guidebooks in hand as they pointed out the various attractions.

“Pity for them the Menagerie has been emptied out,” Stoker said. “It must have been quite the experience to stand in this place and hear the roaring of lions.”

“They didn't belong here,” I protested. “They should never have been brought to this country.”

He raised a brow. “You find that different from what we do as naturalists?”

“I do. We preserve the natural dignity of the animal,” I said firmly. “We study them in the name of scientific inquiry. The creatures that were kept here were simply trophies, balm to the royal sense of self-importance.”

“Yes, well, royal senses of self-importance require a lot of balming,” he reminded me. “And we still haven't finished deciding who is behind the plot against you.”

“Not the royal family, of that I am certain, in spite of your dim view of my father,” I began. “But I will concede that they have handlers, men who are highly placed and willing to turn a blind eye to a bit of bloody work if it will preserve the stability of the monarchy.”

“A courtier, then. Very likely. And how does Mornaday fit into this?”

I considered. “He might be a private detective, but he might also be precisely as he claims—an inspector with Scotland Yard. That would make him a reluctant ally to whichever puppet master pulls his strings. He claims he was tasked by his superior at Scotland Yard with monitoring our activities—perhaps even ordered to secure us. He has refused because he believes I am no threat, but his masters will not be appeased. He is torn between the conflicting claim of duty and his own instincts. In that case, he does the only possible thing: he warns us to flee. He might be rapped on the knuckles for failing in his job, but he will not be ruined. And we escape the clutches of whatever forces at Scotland Yard are working against us.”

“Not ‘whatever forces,'” Stoker corrected grimly. “There is only one division of Scotland Yard that would concern itself with royal scandal—Special Branch.”

“I thought Special Branch were formed to deal with the Irish problem.”

“Originally, yes. But they have expanded their purview over the past few years. Special Branch are discreet to the point of secrecy. If someone close to the royal family wanted something investigated on their behalf, they would go to Special Branch.”

“How convenient to have so many people to clear up one's indiscretions,” I said with a trace of bitterness. I felt a rush of cold wind. It was an atmospheric place, the Tower. The very stones seemed heavy with the memory of pain.

We fell to silence, and I amused myself watching a Tower raven strut about, preening his handsome feathers as smugly as a lord. Legend held that if the ravens left the Tower, the monarchy itself would fall, and from his demeanor, it seemed as if this fellow knew his own importance.

One of the guards strode past and the raven quorked irritably at him, scolding him in his throaty little voice. Stoker started to laugh, but I grasped his arm, digging my fingers into his muscle.

“Stoker, what if Mornaday's urging us to flee was a warning?”

“Of course it was a warning,” he said, rolling his eyes. “A rather poor one considering it came after we had already been abducted.”

“Not that,” I told him impatiently. “What if Mornaday knows of something else, some
other
danger.”

“What sort of danger?”

“If Special Branch meant to clear up this particular indiscretion, the only way to do the job thoroughly would be to eliminate me before the Irish could take me in hand. And we have given them the perfect scapegoat.”

“What on earth are you—” He broke off as the truth began to reveal itself to him. “Kill you and lay the blame for it at my door,” he said flatly.

“Exactly. They could manufacture a dozen motives. Lovers' quarrel, a falling out over money, some fever of the brain. Don't you see? It answers all of their requirements. It removes me as a threat and it eliminates the one other person who knows the truth—you. And they daren't leave you alive for a trial. They cannot risk the truth about my birth coming out in the testimony. They will have to kill you as well. A prison suicide—taking your own life in remorse or a thwarted attempt at escape. And everyone will believe it because of your reputation.”

He said nothing, but his complexion had gone very white.

“Stoker, I know you do not wish to discuss your past, but—”

“But you're quite right,” he said, his voice low and harsh. “According to public record, I am a violent man—at least if you believe what the newspapers have said about me. Half of society thinks I am mad and the other half thinks I am the devil. They could not have chosen a better villain for their melodrama.”

He faltered then, and I put a hand to his arm, rousing him from the painful reverie into which he had fallen. “What shall we do?”

“We might take Mornaday's advice and flee,” he said slowly. “We could go abroad, somewhere on the Continent, and from there make our way around the world, as far from here as possible.”

“And run for the whole of our lives? Stoker, we would never be free of them. Can you really imagine a life like that? Jumping at shadows and wondering, every moment, if it would be our last. I could not live such a farce, and I do not believe you could either.”

“Even if it saved your life?” he demanded.

I shook my head. “Not even then.”

“Veronica,” he said quietly. “Do not think that I was suggesting anything improper in urging flight. If we leave together, I will not tarnish your reputation further. I will marry you.”

I tipped my head. “Stoker, I have received seventeen marriage proposals and that is by far the most halfhearted.”

“I mean it. I will take care of you,” he said, tugging a little at his collar.

“Generally when a gentleman proposes marriage he looks rather less like he's awaiting the tumbril to carry him off to the guillotine. You may put your mind at ease. I have as little inclination to marry as you do. Nor do I intend to flee. But I believe you will be just as much a victim of this malicious plot as I will. And I cannot have that.”

I drew in a deep breath of the damp river air and blew it out slowly. “I have a little money put by in the bank. Not much,” I warned, “but it is enough to see you out of the country and well on your way. Madeira, perhaps. Or the Canary Islands. From there you can work your way to Africa and eventually Australia. Australia is full of unsuitable people—you will fit in beautifully. And just think of all the lovely animals you can stuff. You should go there for the platypus alone,” I said with considerable more brightness than I felt.

“And what do you intend to do?” he asked slowly.

“Stay and fight them, of course,” I replied.

He did not answer for a long moment, but when he did his voice was chilly with the coldest rage I had ever heard. “In spite of what society believes me capable of, I do not strike women,” he said, each word clipped and hard. “But I can tell you if anything drove me to it, it would be precisely that sort of insult to my honor.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but he went on, each word as pointed as a sword. “I am many things, Veronica Speedwell, and most of them I take no pride in, but I am still—and will ever be—a gentleman and a former sailor of Her Majesty's Navy. And the one thing a sailor does not do is desert his comrades under fire. If we stay, we go down together, and we go down fighting.”

I put out my hand. “There is no one I would rather have at my back. To the end, then.”

He grasped my hand and shook it. “To the end.”

•   •   •

Of course, as had become our habit, we quarreled over what the end should be—or at least Stoker quarreled and I carried on doing precisely as I wished.

“We must return to your workshop to set our plans in motion,” I informed him.

“What plans?”

“To flush them out,” I declared. “All of them. I am going to bring them to us, the Irish, Mornaday and his superiors, all of them.”

His voice was strangled. “Do you mean to get us killed?”

I spoke with grim finality. “No. But I mean to be free of this once and for all. And to do that, I must bring them all together at one time.”

“And how precisely do you propose to do that?”

“Why, by sending them invitations, of course. Steel yourself, Stoker. Veronica Speedwell is about to introduce herself properly.”

Stoker was every bit as tiresome about the plan as I expected. He raised objections on the grounds of my safety, his safety, common sense, and half a dozen other topics that I dispatched with a coolness that would have been a credit to any battlefield commander. If my knees trembled a little, I dared not show it to Stoker. I had little doubt he possessed a predator's sense for weakness. If he smelled it upon me, he would not stop until he had forced me to give up my plan, and that was something I could not afford. I must bring an end to this matter, once and for all, no matter the cost.

It was not until I calmly informed him that I would go without him that he capitulated with very bad grace. He brooded for the rest of the day, and it occurred to me that a man as large as Stoker in a foul mood was a formidable creature indeed. But if we were to have any sort of working partnership moving forward, he would have to learn that I could not be cowed by any display of masculine posturing. Nor could I be moved by appeals to logic, emotion, or femininity, all of which he tried, and all of which I rejected. I had discovered that, in light of his stubbornness, the most expedient way of dealing with him was simply to do as I pleased and trust he would follow. His own innate sense of chivalry as well as his natural curiosity would make certain of that.

Against Stoker's better judgment we repaired to his workshop. I had argued successfully that it was far closer to the Tower than Bishop's Folly and had the added benefit of leaving the Beauclerks entirely out of it. Our things had been left at the Folly, but at least we retained possession of the most important—the packets of information that proved my true identity. I rewrapped them together carefully, using a piece of plain brown paper from Stoker's supply to bundle them all. I tied them with a bit of butcher's twine as Stoker coaxed up the fire in his stove. Absently, I crumbled a bit of the broken sealing wax in my fingers.

“Don't,” he ordered. “It is getting on the floor and Huxley oughtn't eat it.”

I was not surprised he had turned pernickety. The specter of impending death will do that to some people. In my case, it made me rather fidgety, and I paced the room, picking up specimens and putting them down again.

“This plover is molting,” I told him.

He removed it from my grasp and brushed the feathers from my fingers. “A plover is a nonpasserine. This is a cuckooshrike. And you could have seen it is a passerine from its toes if you had cared to look.”

I pulled a face at him but left him to his wretched cuckooshrike. I never much cared for birds anyway. Instead I plucked one of his ancient newspapers at random and began to read.

We had been there only a short while when Badger arrived to look in on Huxley. “Mr. S.! I didn't look to see you back already.”

Stoker gave the boy a smile. “Neither did I. Miss Speedwell has a pair of notes she would like for you to deliver. And a shilling for your trouble. Any questions?”

The boy's eyes shone. “Nay.”

“And here is a little something more. We shall need food for tonight and tomorrow. Nothing tricky—just a few meat pies and a bit of cheese, maybe some oysters. Bring a loaf and a few bottles of beer as well.”

“Aye, Mr. S.” He tugged the brim of his cap and disappeared, taking Huxley with him for a walk. We did not speak while he was gone. Stoker worked at his elephant while I returned to his stacks of outdated newspapers, assembling everything I could find on Special Branch, Irish separatists, and the men who concerned themselves with directing the business of the court.

Badger returned in a few hours' time with a basket of food and Huxley, now thoroughly exercised. I put down a dish of fresh water and the dog drank deeply, thrusting his entire face into the bowl, then flopped down onto the floor, where he promptly went to sleep.

“Any trouble?” I asked.

“No, miss. I handed one over at the Empress of India Hotel, the other at Scotland Yard,” he told me with an avid gleam. Clearly his trip to the Yard had impressed him mightily.

“Excellent. Thank you.”

He turned to go, and Stoker put a hand to his shoulder. “Badger, thank you for your care of Huxley whilst I was away. He looks fit.”

The boy grinned. “It weren't nowt,” he assured Stoker.

“Just the same, it is appreciated.”

He hesitated then, and I saw genuine regard for the boy on his face. “Tonight, lad. Don't come here.”

Badger's brow furrowed. “Sir?”

“It may not be safe.”

Badger's pointed little chin seemed to sharpen. “I'm good in a fight if you need a fellow to stand at your back.”

Stoker turned to me with anguished eyes. I stepped forward.

“You are a stalwart companion,” I told him. “But this is something Mr. Stoker and I have to do alone.”

“All right, then,” he said, but with a grudging air.

He left then and Stoker's shoulders sagged. “Bloody hell. That about did me in. Such a small fellow for such a stout heart.”

“He will grow up to be a man like you,” I told him. “Loyal above all else.”