A Perilous Undertaking (Veronica Speedwell, #2)

by Deanna Raybourn

I found it entertaining that such a hardened man of the world could have gained so much experience as scientist, explorer, natural historian, naval surgeon, and taxidermist and still let himself be nettled by a woman half his size.

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.

I understand that you believe you have something to prove to them, but you don’t. You are worth a thousand of them, Veronica.

“If you are expecting me to brandish a pistol and go haring off with you, crying ‘Excelsior!,’ you will be waiting until the crack of doom,” he warned.

“I said you look like Patricia! His lordship’s tortoise!” she shouted back. Now that she had said it, I could not stop seeing the resemblance. I half expected Mr. Baring-Ponsonby to take offense, but he merely shrugged and applied himself to his salmon mayonnaise.

“Are you in the habit of receiving threatening missives from strangers?” “I wouldn’t call it a habit,”

“I haven’t given anyone reason to want to kill me.” “Are you quite certain? Think carefully. I am convinced we could compile a list,”

“I can think of no finer beginning to an investigation than being threatened with bodily injury,”

Stoker’s expression was rapt. “Forget what I said,” he murmured. “There’s genius at work here. Wild dogs couldn’t drag me out of this investigation.”

When a gentleman of excellent breeding and perfect vowels assumes the guise of a ruffian, women are frequently reduced to a state of helpless infatuation.

“What ho! An educated female. Now that is an interesting creature.” “As is the artistic male,” I replied.

“When one is as old as I am, it is amusing to shock people, but you do not seem perturbed by anything. I shall call you the Unflappable Miss Speedwell.”

“Whatever you do, be careful. Murder is a dangerous business, sweet Veronica. And shadows are all around.”

“Do you believe in ghosts?” His expression was grim. “With the life I have led, I cannot afford to.”

“One of these days, that tongue is going to cut someone, Veronica.” “I sincerely hope so.”

“And royalty are immune from homicidal tendencies? Study your history, Stoker. I think you will discover that is how most of them became royal in the first place.”

He said something mercifully muffled by the sawdust of the Bactrian, but I caught enough to know he did credit to the reputation of naval men for fluency in the art of the profane.

“Stoker, have we engaged in any felonious activity recently? Have we robbed a bank? Kidnapped a countess?”

“If you wanted her to leave this alone, you should have ordered her to investigate. And then offered to pay her.”

He rummaged absently in his pockets for something sweet. He turned up a twist of peppermint humbugs, tearing open the packet and crunching happily into one. The sharp, cool scent blended with the aromas of sweating horse and rotting vegetables and unwashed Londoners. Over it all hung the dank green smell of the Thames, and I felt a sudden rush of affection for this city I had adopted as my own.

“I say, miss, are you talking to a turtle?” inquired a polite voice from behind me. I straightened to find a young clergyman, hat in hand, wearing an expression of polite wariness. “No, I am not. I am, in fact, speaking to a tortoise,” I corrected.

“Stoker, just because an eyeball does not cause me to swoon and reach for my vinaigrette does not mean I want to examine it whilst I am trying to enjoy my drink,” I told him.

“I have no doubt you will make a fine Perseus,” I said with mock solemnity. “I cannot wait to see your pretty winged sandals.” In one fluid motion he swept up the eyeball and threw it at me.

Seeing Sir Rupert so deeply in his cups, I realized it would be taking the most unfair advantage of the situation to question him about Lord Templeton-Vane’s connection with the Elysian Grotto. Naturally, I wasted no time in doing so.

“As I said, child, I have always liked the notion of granting wishes. Now, off to the ball with you, Cinderella. I have ordered the town carriage for your use tonight, but I am afraid we haven’t any mice for footmen. You will simply have to make do with the ordinary kind.”

At the last second, I opened a little pasteboard box and retrieved a small grey velvet mouse. Chester had been with me as long as I could remember, my companion through all of my adventures. “Perhaps Cinderella will have a mouse after all,” I murmured, dropping him into my reticule.

“Yes, but you usually aren’t …” He trailed off, his gaze resting upon the exposed flesh of my décolletage. “Well, I have to keep them covered or else you lose the power of speech,” I said blandly. He gave a start and dragged his gaze upwards, his mouth working furiously. “I do apologize,” he said in a hoarse voice. “But the soul is lost in pleasant smotherings.”

I held my hand just over his, almost but not quite touching it. I knew that he had seen things, had done things, in Brazil that haunted him still. We did not speak of them, but Stoker, more than anyone I had ever known, walked with ghosts. “Will you talk about it?” “Someday,” he told me. “I have never spoken of it. But someday I might, and if I do, you may be certain it will be with you.”

“Templeton-Vane?” Mornaday asked. “You must be Stoker’s brother. Where is your tame wolf, Miss Speedwell?” “Behind you,” Stoker put in coolly.

“And you are not following Miss Speedwell and me upon Sir Hugo’s orders?” Stoker demanded. “Certainly not!” I turned to Stoker. “You see, he is telling the truth. Look at how he waggles his eyebrows for emphasis.”

“I do love it when you are stern,” I said, putting a gloved hand to his arm. “Oh, for God’s sake,” Stoker muttered under his breath. “Ignore him,” I instructed Mornaday. “He is in a pet because he had to have a bath.” “His first this year?” Mornaday asked with affected innocence.

“Miss Speedwell, I am delighted to find my assessment of your liberal thinking is accurate. To meet a lady of such broad-mindedness is rare indeed. Stoker, if you don’t marry Miss Speedwell, I might.”

“You look like a ghost bride,” Stoker told me as his gaze swept from the crown of my head to the sweeping hem. “The nearest to a bride I intend ever to come,” I retorted.

“Desmond? Who in the seven devils is Desmond?” “Our cat,” I said promptly. “Dashed under the wheels of a milk wagon.” “Poor flat Desmond,”

“That tasted like Satan’s shoe leather,” he said, still gagging a little. “Serves you right for being such a cowardy-cowardy custard,”

It seemed as if summer, before she gave herself up entirely to the cooler charms of autumn, was determined to have one last hectic dance.

“Save your breath to cool your porridge, Sir Hugo,” I told him. “We know what you are going to say, and we have no interest in hearing it.”

“She is arrogant and difficult and, my God, but she always thinks she is right.” Stoker gave me a measured look from hatpin to hem and then smiled. “I cannot imagine what you mean.” He was still smiling when I pushed him off the curb.

“When I most had need of you, you did not leave me. Whatever this thing is that makes us different, this thing that makes quicksilver of us when the rest of the world is mud, it binds us. To break that would be to fly in the face of nature.”