A Curious Beginning (Veronica Speedwell, #1)

by Deanna Raybourn

“You are not what I expected,” he ventured at last, but his tone was not unkind and his eyes shone warmly. I nodded. “I seldom am. I have tried, I assure you. I have been brought up to do good works and to conduct myself with propriety and decorum, and yet I am forever doing the unexpected. Something always gives me away for what I really am.” “And what are you, child?” “A woman in search of adventure,” I said gravely.

My only jewelry was the small case compass pinned to my jacket, a present from Aunt Lucy to commemorate my first expedition—“So you will always find your way, child,” she had told me, her eyes bright with unshed tears as I left home for the first time.

“Every arrival in London is the beginning of a new story.”

“Miss Speedwell, I have hiked the length of the Amazon River. I have been accosted by native tribes and shot twice. I have nearly met my death by quicksand, snakebite, poisoned arrows, and one particularly fiendish jaguar. And I have never, until this moment, been quite so surprised by anything as I am by you.”

“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.”

“I have a crow to pluck with you. It just occurred to me—” “It just occurred to you that I was at liberty and might make my escape. Yes, I know. You are a wretched abductor, Mr. Stoker. I suggest you do not take up felonious activity as a career.”

“But you surprise me. I should have thought you would prefer autumn.” “Oh, you have the right of it—I do love the ‘mists and mellow fruitfulness,’ but I can summon enthusiasm enough for any season. As much as I want the rest of the world, there is some part of me so rooted in this island, I cannot shake the pull of it. For all the glories I have seen, the mountains and the seas and the horizon itself, stretching to the furthest reaches of the eye, there is nothing to touch an English morning in spring.”

“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.”

I gave it to him because, in my experience, it is far better to tell a man what he wants to hear and then do as you please than attempt to reason with him.

“What ails you, Stoker? Cat got your tongue?” He stroked his chin thoughtfully as he stared at the revolver. “I was merely thinking that it may have been a very grave mistake to introduce you to Lady C. If the pair of you ever put your minds to it, you could probably topple governments together.” I smiled as I pocketed the weapon. “One thing at a time, dear Stoker. One thing at a time.”

“What are you doing?” “I am going into the study first. If he is haunting the place, you shan’t want to see that. I shall get rid of him.” “How? By menacing him with your hatpin?”

“That is a tale straight from one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s thrillers, Stoker. I expected better from you.” “It is a perfectly logical hypothesis,” he returned. “Now, do shut up and stop interrupting whilst I’m being interesting. Where did I leave off?”

I surveyed the line of tiny, precise stitches and shrugged, wincing only slightly. “I shall consider it a badge of honor, a souvenir of our adventures when I am in my dotage and no one believes I once pursued a murderer.”

It had been nearly twenty-five years, but Lily Ashbourne’s beauty was undimmed so long as that photograph existed to give truth to it.

“I shall not ask about your devils, Stoker.” He gave a shrug and poured more of the liquor for himself. “They have been my closest companions for five years now. We’re old friends, the devils and me.”

“It must have been difficult to make friends.” “I wish you and I had met as children,” I told him suddenly. “I don’t. You would have dragged me behind the nearest hedgerow and had your way with me before I sprouted hairs on my chin.”

He blinked several times, as if trying to recall something. “Rosemorran? Oh yes. That’s me. I say, have we met?” “I am afraid not. My name is Veronica Speedwell, and I am trespassing.”

“BOLOXST,” I read aloud. “But what does it mean? It sounds like a rude word.” “I highly doubt your aunt would have given you a key with a variation of ‘bollocks’ on it. A surname, perhaps? Did you ever meet anyone of their acquaintance with that name?”

“Have you been to Ireland? The climate is appalling. Nothing but mist.” “What is your objection to mist?” I regarded him with the same disdain with which I had beheld my first Turkish toilet. “It is gloomy. Butterflies like the sun. Ireland is for the moth people.” “You are a lepidopterist,” he said repressively. “You are not supposed to discriminate against moths.” “I am entitled to my prejudices,”

“I have this day been abducted, nearly drowned, and stabbed a man with a hatpin. I am unsinkable, Stoker. Do your worst.”

“You just admitted I am a scientist rather than a dilettante who chases pretty things with wings.” “You do chase pretty things with wings,” he returned. “You do not like the poor hairy moths.”

“O, the perfidy of men.” “What have I done?” he protested. “Nothing at present, but you are the only representative of your sex I have at hand to abuse. Take your lumps for your brothers.”

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.

“And what do you intend to do?” he asked slowly. “Stay and fight them, of course,” I replied.

“I accused you of being rash when you fled London after the baron’s death, but I am no better. I have risked both our lives in this and I had no right to bring you any further into this fight.” “I have been in it,” he reminded me. “From the first. And I will be there at the last. Whatever happens.”

“What do you think the odds are that we will survive this meeting?” The lump from my throat was gone, and my voice no longer trembled. He considered this a moment. “One in five,” he pronounced. My heart plunged to my feet. “And still you are willing to bet on us?” His smile was dazzling. “Any man who bets against us is a fool.”

He looked appealingly at Stoker. “Can you not exercise some influence in this?” Stoker shrugged. “I could sooner influence the sun to set in the east, Sir Hugo. She is entirely her own woman.”

“I think you are braver than any man I have ever known.”

A thousand adventures lay before us, and I could not wait to begin them. As the excellent Arcadia Brown, Lady Detective, so often proclaimed, “Excelsior!”