A Curious Beginning (7 page)

“In that case, why not simply go to the authorities—” I began.

“No! That is not a possibility,” he thundered, his features suffused with rage.

I adopted a patient tone of the sort nurses use with very small boys or deranged men. “I understand your distress, Mr. Stoker—”

“I do not think you do,” he cut in swiftly. “But you will. Now, sit down and be quiet until Badger returns.” He pushed me towards the sofa and I sat heavily.

“Mr. Stoker—” I began, rising to my feet.

He loomed over me as I pressed back against the sofa, bracing his arms on either side of my shoulders. “If you think I will not bind you hand and foot like a pig on a spit, I beg you—I
beg
you—to try me.”

I subsided into silence, my bag on the floor at my feet, butterfly net resting atop. He resumed his pacing, and I sat with my hands folded, counting his steps. Clearly there was no arguing with him, seized as he was by his sentiments, and I decided to wait for a more propitious time.
You did long for a fresh adventure,
I reminded myself. And perhaps this was the beginning of one, I supposed, for I did not believe myself to be in any material danger from Mr. Stoker, no matter how filthy his temper. I relied upon my instincts, excellent as they were and sharply honed by years of travel among uncertain folk. Not everyone was content to let explorers traipse about their property in the pursuit of butterflies, and my excursions had brought me among some quite uncivil characters. A certain bandit chief in Corsica came to mind. But I had eluded his attempts either to murder me or make me his wife, and we had parted on excellent terms. In fact, he had even been gracious enough to give me a series of lessons on how to defend myself with some skill. I was entirely convinced I could enjoy similar success with Mr. Stoker. Besides, he clearly had very little experience in menacing women. He had not even thought to confiscate my hatpin.

So I resolved myself to be cooperative, and for several minutes Mr. Stoker busied himself about the workshop, rummaging through various boxes and tins to scrape together the remaining coins that comprised his modest treasury. He ruffled the pages of several books and a few banknotes of very small denominations fluttered free. He pocketed the money, then doused the lamps and the fire in the stove, leaving only one slender candle to banish the gloom. He slipped a knife into a leather sheath depending from a lanyard that he looped about his neck, buttoning it securely under his shirt. I might have raised an objection, but again came that instinctive certainty that no matter how angry, no matter how enraged he became, his fury—even armed—would never be directed in any meaningful way at me. I resumed counting as he walked. I had just reached six hundred and eighty-two when Badger returned, brandishing a pair of telegrams.

“I have them, Mr. S.!” Badger thrust the papers into Mr. Stoker's hand, and he read them over swiftly.

“Good lad.” He handed over another palmful of coins. “There's a good fellow. I know I can rely upon you.”

“Yes, sir, Mr. S.! And I will take care of Huxley, never fear.” The boy coaxed the bulldog out from under the sofa and tied a bit of string to his collar for a lead. Mr. Stoker took up a slouchy, low-crowned hat, which he jammed upon his head before hefting his bag. He turned and gestured sharply to me.

“Come on, then.”

I made a point of pausing to scratch the dog behind the ears before we left. It was better for Mr. Stoker to comprehend fully that I was no one's captive but my own.

M
r. Stoker chose not to share the details of where we were bound, and I knew better than to ask. Although I had remarked upon his loss, he was not yet grieving for the baron, I reflected. That would come later, after the finality of death sat with him during some long moment of quiet contemplation. Then, and only then, would it become real to him. For the present, Mr. Stoker was a man of action, propelled by his fear and his rage, moving ever forward and towing me ruthlessly in his wake. I saw no point in giving any impression other than peaceful compliance, so I purposefully took up my bag and net and accompanied him through the darkening streets. He walked swiftly, with the smooth-hipped, rolling gait of a man who has spent a great deal of time on horseback or at sea. He walked with his hand clamped to my arm, but he needn't have bothered. I had no thoughts of escape. The puzzle of the baron's untimely death was too intriguing to be ignored. And if, as Mr. Stoker assumed, there was anything I could possibly do to shed light upon the subject, I now realized it was my duty to do so. It had further occurred to me that in losing the baron, I had lost the one remaining connection to my mother. In finding the answers to his end, I might well find the answers to my beginning, although it would be the rankest of bad manners to admit so selfish a motive to Mr. Stoker in his time of bereavement.

I trotted on obediently, turning down this street and then that, following Mr. Stoker's guiding hand until we reached the looming enormity of Paddington Station. With its spacious arches and exuberant iron lacework, Mr. Brunel's pride and joy had persuaded me that in spite of their reputation for stodginess, engineers were in possession of truly flamboyant imaginations.

But Mr. Stoker had no eyes for this marvel of modern engineering. Instead he ducked into a shadowy corner and studied a timetable intently, peering up at the station clock as he made his calculations.

“Surely that was a circuitous route,” I ventured, half expecting him to ignore me.

“A necessity. I wanted to make certain we were not followed.”

Before I could ask him to elaborate, he nodded towards the ticket counter. “We have a quarter of an hour before our train leaves. Come along.”

I did not move and he turned back, his expression darkening. I forestalled him. “You may purchase the tickets. I will avail myself of the ladies' accommodations while you do so.”

He opened his mouth—to swear at me, I had no doubt—but I lifted a hand to silence him. “I have no intention of eluding you, even though you must see now how absurd it is to attempt to abduct a lady in a public place.” I nodded towards the portly figure of a bobby striding into the station. To my astonishment, Mr. Stoker lifted the timetable as he pulled the brim of his hat lower, shielding his face.

Clearly he had no wish to attract the attention of the constabulary, and I pressed my advantage. “Now, my dearest possession is my butterfly net,” I told him. “It is the foundation of my profession and my most beloved tool. I will give it to you as a pledge that I will meet you on the platform before the train leaves.”

He made a strangled sound, but I was already shoving the net into his hands. I walked briskly away, leaving him to secure the tickets. The lavatory was some distance, past the bookstall and confectionary stand, and I felt my stomach give a hungry little lurch as I strode past the refreshment rooms and the wafting scent of roast beef. I completed my errand quickly, emerging with clean hands and smoothed skirts. I was just tweaking my cuffs into place when a gentleman fell into step beside me. I was not unaccustomed to such approaches, and in my experience, a frosty look of gravest hauteur is the best method of discouragement.

But as I turned to give him my most withering glance, I faltered. The gentleman was a stranger to me; of that I was certain. Yet he regarded me with an expression akin to that of Moses beholding the Promised Land. I hesitated a mere second, and in that second, he had his opportunity. He took my elbow and whirled me to a stop behind the tobacconist's stand.

“Sir!” I protested, and instantly he dropped his hand.

“You must forgive my importunate approach, Miss Speedwell,” he said, giving a swift glance around us. The milling travelers passed us by without a second look, and he stared at me, his gaze avid as it roved my face. “A thousand apologies. I had no wish to startle you,” he said, his voice low and earnest and beautifully modulated. He was perhaps a few years above forty, well dressed, and smelling faintly of green spices. No grey yet threaded his black hair, and I wondered for a moment if he had resorted to boot black to retain an impression of youth.

But no. There might be a line or two at the corners of his eyes, and his jaw might have softened a touch beyond first youth, but his mouth curved into a smile of such dazzling charm, I knew this was a fellow who would retain his appeal well into old age.

“You have the advantage of me, sir,” I replied coolly.

“Again, I can only ask your forgiveness,” he said, but I marked he did not correct the omission. He raised his hands, sketching the outline of my form as he took me in from hat to hem. “Are you quite all right? I could scarcely breathe for thinking you might have been involved in this horrible business of murder.”

“What do you know of it?” I demanded.

He shook his glossy head. “I only know the gallant old fellow did not deserve to die in such a terrible fashion. But you are here and unharmed, and that is all that matters now. It was clever of you to elude that ruffian,” he added, no doubt referring to Mr. Stoker.

“The baron's death is nothing to do with me,” I returned sharply. In spite of Mr. Stoker's suspicions to the contrary, I refused to countenance the notion that I was in any way connected with that foul deed, and I resented this gentleman for suggesting it. “Sir, you are speaking in riddles,” I informed him.

He spread his hands, giving me another of his charming smiles. “Of course I am! I am half out of my mind with relief after so many frantic hours of worry about you. But you are safe now. I have come to take charge of you. The baron meant to deliver you into my care. That is why he brought you to London,” he said simply.

I scrutinized his face, the handsome, even features, the guileless expression, and I did a rapid calculation. It was possible, just barely possible, that this fellow was my father if he had enjoyed a
very
indiscreet youth. There was something familiar in the sculpture of his bones that made me wonder if he might be. And I could not blame him for his reticence. Surely no gentleman would own such a truth in the mayhem of a London train station.

But something about his smile troubled me. Although he wielded it with practiced charm, it did not touch his eyes. And while he professed relief and joy at finding me, his gaze darted about us as his finger went to his collar. It was a minute thing, that tug upon his collar, but it was enough. He had delivered his lines with the smoothness of one who has often rehearsed, yet his own unconscious gesture had betrayed him.

“If you know my name,” I told him evenly, “then you must know I am a natural historian.”

“There is all the time in the world for us to become acquainted,” he promised. “But we must go now.”

He put his hand to my elbow, but I ignored the prompt.

“It is a pity you are not also a student of natural history,” I said. “If you had read Duchenne's or Darwin's works on facial expressions, you would be a much better liar.”

His eyes widened and his mouth fell open as a dark tide of red anger rose in his cheeks.

“There!” I said in some triumph. “Now you have it. Your expression accurately conveys your feelings—unlike a moment ago when you were lying. Your eyes gave you away then. And I feel I ought to make it quite clear that I do not appreciate being detained by men who ply me with falsehoods,” I finished.

Instantly, my companion was contrite. “It seems I must ask your apology once more, Miss Speedwell,” he said simply. “I have been too swift and I have frightened you, and I shall never forgive myself.” He reached into his coat and withdrew a card case. It was a flashy thing, gold and set at each corner with gems so large I could only assume they were paste. He extracted a card and presented it to me. Unlike the baron's, this was of thin cardstock, the flimsiness of the paper betraying an attempt at economy.

“Edmund de Clare,” I read aloud. Penciled beneath his name was the address of his lodgings in London—the Empress of India Hotel, a respectable but not fashionable establishment. He doffed his hat and swept me a theatrical bow.

“Your servant, Miss Speedwell.”

“To what purpose, Mr. de Clare?” I asked.

“To the purpose of assisting you at what can only be a most difficult time. I understand your confusion,” he pressed. “A young lady, alone in the world, without friend or family to offer succor. But I am here, ready and willing to offer my services and take on the mantle of protector so recently relinquished by the baron.”

It was a pretty speech; I must credit him that. And a woman who had not learned self-preservation at the hands of a Corsican bandit might well have succumbed to his blandishments. But I was made of sterner stuff.

“How very kind of you, Mr. de Clare,” I said, giving him a smile that would never have fooled Messrs. Duchenne or Darwin. “But I have business I must conclude before I place myself entirely in your care.”

He did a masterful job of concealing his frustration, but the little tic at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “My dear child, there is simply no time to spare!” he said, bringing his face close to mine, the scent of green spices heavier now, filling my nostrils. “Even now the peril approaches.” He would have put a hand to my wrist, but I turned slightly to elude him.

“The peril?”

“From more than one source,” he said grimly. “I do not wish to alarm you, Miss Speedwell, but the man you are with is no proper person to have the care of a lady. In fact, I must warn you that you are in the gravest danger from him.”

“Indeed? Whatever has he done?” I asked, widening my eyes. I could fairly smell the frustration wafting from him.

“Things I cannot bring myself to speak of in your presence,” he returned shortly. “But you are not safe with him, no matter what you believe. Now, will you come with me?”

I tipped my head and considered. “Very well,” I told him.

The mask of concern dropped and I saw an instant of naked triumph in his eyes. “I am glad to hear it,” he told me, and I did not doubt his sincerity. Whatever his ultimate purpose with me, he was thoroughly desperate to separate me from Mr. Stoker.

Just then I caught sight of a placard in the refreshment rooms advertising ham sandwiches, and my mind whipped back to the little scene between Mr. Stoker and his errand boy as he divested himself of the remains of the ham. A devilish stratagem proposed itself to me, and I accepted.

“A moment, sir, if you please. I find I am in need of the ladies' accommodation again,” I told Mr. de Clare, lowering my lashes modestly. “A touch of alimentary distress,” I murmured.

“Of course, of course,” he said, his tone now soothing. Clearly nothing would be too much trouble for me now that I had capitulated.

“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.