CHAPTER SEVEN
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.