A Perilous Undertaking (Veronica Speedwell, #2)

by Deanna Raybourn

I would earnestly warn you against trying to find out the reason for and explanation of everything . . . To try and find out the reason for everything is very dangerous and leads to nothing but disappointment and dissatisfaction, unsettling your mind and in the end making you miserable. —QUEEN VICTORIA TO HER GRANDDAUGHTER, PRINCESS VICTORIA OF HESSE, 22 AUGUST 1883

Men, I had often observed, were never happier than when they believed they were imparting wisdom.

But then, in my experience, gentlemen are champion sulkers so long as one doesn’t call the behavior by that name.

ALIS VOLAT PROPRIIS. “‘She flies with her own wings,’” I translated.

We are educated out of common sense, curiosity, and any real merit. We are made to be decorative and worthy of display, with occasional forays into procreation and good works, but nothing more.”

I had kept my promise to Sir Hugo not to reveal my complicated parentage, but the princess clearly knew who I was—the unrecognized daughter of her eldest brother, the Prince of Wales. That alone would have been an embarrassment to the royal family; the fact that I could be considered legitimate in some circles made me dangerous. How dangerous remained to be seen. Since I discovered the secret of my birth, we had remained in a state of armed neutrality, neither party acting against the other, but making no overtures either. The fact that one of them had made the first move gave me an advantage, and I intended to use it.

Miles Ramsforth was accused of murdering his mistress, an artist by the name of Artemisia.” “Your friend?” I hazarded. Her lips trembled, but she brought the show of emotion under control immediately. “Yes. She was a brilliant painter, and Mr. Ramsforth engaged her to create a mural at his home, Littledown, in Surrey. They were already acquainted before the commission, but during the time she spent at his home, they became lovers, and in due course, Artemisia conceived his child. She was four or five months gone when she finished the mural.”

“To unveil the piece, Mr. Ramsforth hosted an entertainment at Littledown to which many people in the artistic community, including me, were invited. During the party, Artemisia was murdered. Mr. Ramsforth discovered her, and unfortunately for him, he was found in his bedchamber with her dead body in his arms,

his clothes soaked in her blood. She had been dead a very little time—perhaps half an hour. He could provide no alibi, and that fact, coupled with Artemisia’s pregnancy, suggested to the police that he must have taken her life.” “For what reason?” I asked, curious in spite of myself. “Mr. Ramsforth is married,” she returned coldly. “The police believe he wanted to rid himself of her and her child before his wife discovered the state of affairs. His defense was naturally hampered by his inability ...

Artemisia Gentileschi?” “I am not.” She shrugged. “Few people are, and more is the pity. She was a painter of the Italian Baroque school. She often chose women for the subjects of her paintings—Judith, Bathsheba, Delilah. Her paintings are unflinching and powerful. My Artemisia aspired to the same, so she took the name.”

Sir Frederick Havelock?” There was hardly a soul in England who didn’t. He was the most accomplished artist of the age, lionized for his exquisite compositions and lavish and unexpected use of color. He had founded a new school of art, one that was decidedly English and distinctly modern, with influences of Aestheticism and Neoclassicism. He was notoriously bad-tempered and reclusive, preferring the company of a handful of chosen acolytes who lived with him in the Holland Park mansion of his own design. Seldom seen in public, he had matured from the enfant terrible who once tried to drown Dante Gabriel Rossetti to an eccentric legend bent on creating his own utopia.

“Artemisia was one of Sir Frederick’s protégées. She lived at Havelock House and she met Miles Ramsforth at one of Sir Frederick’s entertainments. The gentlemen are brothers-in-law, and Miles has always relied upon Sir Frederick to provide him with introductions to artists to whom he might offer patronage.” “How exactly are the gentlemen connected?” “Sir Frederick was married to Augusta Troyon, who died some years ago. Miles is married to her

younger sister, Ottilie. They are still quite close to Sir Frederick, even after Augusta Havelock’s death.” “And it is because of his marriage to this Ottilie that the police believe Miles was driven to kill Artemisia?” She waved an impatient hand. “And that is where they have the wrong of it! Ottilie and Miles have a very sensible arrangement. Theirs is a friendship, a partnership of sorts. They married because Miles had an estate falling down about his ears and a bloodline that stretches back eight hundred years. Ottilie brought him a biscuit-manufacturing fortune that her uncle made. They have used her money and his connections to rebuild Littledown and travel the world, collecting art and antiquities. They have had a very pleasant life together, and Ottilie Ramsforth is far too reasonable a person to care about the occasional peccadillo in her husband’s private life.”