An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell, #6)

by Deanna Raybourn

Stoker, I cannot say that I care much for your goat. He is leering at me.” Stoker grunted by way of reply.

The fact that our relationship, once an elevated meeting of the minds, had evolved to include a rapturous commingling of our persons did not preclude him from taking umbrage when I criticized his work. He was nothing if not exacting in his practice of the taxidermical arts.

Stoker was never happier than when imparting information, whether one asked for it or not. This, I had observed frequently upon my travels, is common in the male of the species.

Between sleuthing out murderers, cataloging the Rosemorran Collection, and allowing ourselves to experience the rumbustious pleasures of the flesh, we had had little time to spare for hobbies.

“The indignities of age,” she said, sketching a vague gesture. “And if you think those are regrettable, you ought to see what has become of my bosom.” “Grandmama,” the younger woman said, but she was grinning outright and I smiled. “Gravity comes for us all in the end,” I remarked. The older woman gave a bark of laughter as she eyed my own décolletage. “Mind you enjoy those whilst you can. Make the most of them before they make their descent.”

“I would have enjoyed speaking with her longer,” I said truthfully. “I mean to be a tremendously outrageous old woman in due course and I might learn a thing or two from her.”

There will always be men who rally to the cause of another man in his moment of disgrace simply because they fear their own so deeply.”

“It sounds as if that last night here, she was fey.” My expression must have betrayed my bemusement for he went on. “It is an old Scots word, it means a sort of hectic happiness that cannot last. It usually presages a disaster.”

“Show me.” He did, bending near enough for me to smell the delectable scent of honey drops on his breath as he explained.

A sympathetic reader will understand that I regarded Stoker’s subsequent explanation as so much background noise as I examined the rope.

“Perhaps it became tangled on the climb and she had to cut it free,” he said, his eyes glinting with possible triumph. “No, I think you were quite correct the first time,” I said cheerfully. “This is a case of murder.” “I reject this,” Stoker said in a tone that bordered on desperation. “Stoker, as you well know, murders happen,” I told him. “But why must they happen to us?” I patted his shoulder kindly. “Because Fate knows we will always rise to the occasion, for we are the servants of Justice.” “Even servants have the occasional month off,” he said in some bitterness.

When guides removed her banners to call her accomplishments into question, she had begun to climb with photographic equipment, hauling the heavy camera to the summit in order to prove her success. I thought of the collection of photographs hung along the stairs of the Curiosity Club, silent testimony to one woman’s determination to prove her worth. “I wish we had met again, Alice,” I murmured as I paged through the newspaper to find the conclusion of the piece. “I think we would have got on rather well.”

“Lady C. has the tidiest penmanship I have ever seen, but this looks as if it were written by an inebriated moose.”

I stepped closer, lifting my face to his as I applied a caress to a specific and wholly enthralling portion of his anatomy to assess its readiness. “Veronica!” He grasped my wrists, putting me firmly away. “This is hardly the time or place,” he began. I moved forward again, pressing my hips to his. “That is rather the point,” I murmured. “We will be discovered,” he protested. “Will we?” I breathed, trailing a kiss from his earlobe down his neck. “How very dangerous.” “Veronica.” This time it was a groan and he did not push me aside. Instead he buried his hands in my hair, kissing me as thoroughly as he did everything, which is to say, expertly and with exquisite attention to detail. I was just reaching for the hem of my petticoat when he gave a maidenly gasp and thrust me away. “Veronica, what has got into you? That is quite enough,” he said, straightening his disordered garments.

Whew...fire! Also....haha...Stoker's delicate sensibilities.

Between her departure and that of Tiberius, I felt abandoned by my friends, a state of affairs I would not have credited only a year before. I was accustomed to living my life as unfettered as one of my beloved butterflies, and these new bonds of attachment brought with them not only connection and warmth but a dreadful sensation of loss when my companions were not present.

For now that I had joined myself in affection to Stoker, I could no longer run from myself as I had once so blithely done. I must, instead, sit and face my demons.

We were in the throes of a relationship that was perilously new. Neither of us was accomplished at such things, and I found myself suddenly resisting the compromise and cooperation that were the obvious cornerstones of such endeavors. Was I always to be biting my tongue, squelching my most intrepid impulses in the name of keeping the peace? Was he? It was a chilling thought and one I rebelled against instantly.

From it dangled a single sovereign coin, pierced to make a sort of charm of it. That coin had passed between us and back again as we had exchanged winnings on the wagers of our investigations. As a joke, Stoker had had the thing adapted to hang from his watch chain, a gesture of arrogance, I decided, as it meant he never intended I should win again.

It was only in a moment of tender intimacy that he had admitted to wearing it because it was the one possession he had that I had also owned, and in the darkest days, when he dared not hope I would return his love, it was his consolation.

It was a terrifying thought. Hearthsides and cradles held no charms for me. I was unfettered as the east wind, I reminded myself. And the sooner Stoker realized I had no interest in darning shirts and stirring cook pots, the better off we would both be.

I turned to Stoker, whose eyes gleamed catlike in the dark. He said nothing, but the growl he emitted was eloquent as any love poem. What followed has no bearing on this narrative, but I will note that the rhythmic movement of a carriage at a brisk trot is most conducive to certain pleasures,

Whilst Stoker’s preference was for a lengthy and languorous coupling accompanied by comfortable beds and extensive recitations of poetry, he could always be relied upon for applying himself with diligence and dexterity to a more vigorous interlude.

“You are not among the good that has happened to me. You are the best of all that I have known. You are what I searched for when I left that house and wandered this earth, boy and man. You are the part of myself I never thought to find because I did not even dare to dream you existed. You are all that I want and more than I deserve, and I will go to my grave thanking a god in whom I do not believe for bringing me to you.”

You are in the grip of a very strong delusion if you think you did all of this in order to help Alice Baker-Greene or the Alpenwalders.” “To what other motive would you impute my actions?” I asked icily. “I could hardly be driven by remuneration considering we will not be paid for our efforts. It is not public adulation since our actions must remain private. So, fame and fortune are not my aims. What drives me then?” “Ennui.” “Ennui?” I laughed aloud. “You think I am bored?” “I think you are afraid of becoming so,” he corrected. “You have your work, which you enjoy but which offers no real sport now that you have curtailed your field expeditions. You no longer travel the globe in search of specimens, meeting new acquaintances and testing yourself against the most demanding of circumstances. Those are confining conditions to one who has been accustomed to the most liberal of freedoms.” Confusion settled over me, and I could not reply as he went on. “But most of all, I think you are afraid of becoming bored with me.”

“Perhaps you will not become bored with me,” he amended. “But you could well become bored of who you are when you are with me.” “Who am I when I am with you?” I whispered into his shoulder. “A domesticated creature,” he replied. “One who fears her wings have been clipped. You’ve no liking for cages, Veronica. And I think you fear that in allowing yourself to love freely, you will find one of your own making.”

“You are grown sentimental,” I said lightly. “It must be the romantic in you. Next minute you will be quoting Keats at me.” His mouth, warm and supple and infinitely skilled, curved into a smile. “‘You are always new; The last of your kisses was ever the sweetest.’”

“Will you change your mind about marriage?” “Never,” I told him. I paused, wondering if I would have to give voice to my feelings, if I could give voice to them. But it seemed he understood much of what was in my heart. “Neither will I,” he replied. “And even if I did, I would not do that to you. Veronica, I have no need to pin those wings of yours to a card and put a label to you—Mrs. Revelstoke Templeton-Vane. You are, and always will be, Veronica Speedwell. And I could never wish you different than you are. Now, let us go back to London where we belong.”

He leant near to my ear, his lips brushing my lobe. “‘I will imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a heathen,’” he murmured. “God bless John Keats,” I replied fervently.