CHAPTER NINE #2
He left us a few weeks ago, and the crowds since then have not been what they ought to be.”
Stoker hesitated only a heartbeat.
“Fine.”
The professor’s eyes narrowed, and for the first time, I detected cruelty in the set of his mouth.
“Are you certain?
Perhaps your vision is impaired now.”
“I will do the act.
For Christ’s sake, I taught Rizzolo.”
“Too true!
Too true.
Of course, I cannot permit you to include any of my regular performers in the act,” he added with an air of silky menace.
“Far too dangerous.”
“Fine,” Stoker said, biting off the word sharply.
His fingers flexed over mine.
The professor stroked his chin.
“I expect your devoted bride would be only too happy to provide you with a partner.”
He flicked his inscrutable gaze to me, and I drew myself up to my full height.
I did not grasp the full measure of his insinuations, but I knew my loyalties must lie with Stoker.
“Whatever my husband asks of me, I will be only too happy to do,” I said stoutly.
The professor’s expression shifted to one of delight.
“I am pleased to hear you say so,” he told me.
“As to accommodations, you and your bride may have Rizzolo’s old caravan for your private use.”
I opened my mouth to remonstrate, but Stoker tightened his grip on my hand, nearly crushing the bones, and I cursed myself for a fool.
Of course we would share accommodations.
That was what married people did, I reminded myself firmly.
“Thank you, Professor,” Stoker said.
The professor turned his charming smile upon me.
“And now, I am certain you would like to retire with your bride.
You have had a long journey.”
The words were gracious, but there was dismissal in the tone.
It seemed to suit Stoker, for he gave a jerk of his head and nudged me out of the tent as I was still attempting to make my farewells.
“Pity we didn’t stay longer.
I quite fancied one of those cream cakes,” I said wistfully.
“We have not had a proper meal in quite some time.”
“There are only a few hours left until breakfast.
You will have to make do until then,” he replied irritably.
“Stoker!”
We whirled at the voice behind us.
It was Colosso, following us on silent feet through the shadows of the camp.
Beside me I felt Mr. Stoker tense, and with an instinct I am not certain he even realized, he took half a step forward, putting himself between me and the enormous fellow.
“Colosso,” he returned coldly.
The other man came forward, and it was like watching the progress of a mountain.
He moved slowly and with inexorable purpose, stopping only when he was toe to toe with Stoker, forcing him to bend his head back to look him in the eye.
“Do you mark what I promised you the last time?”
Colosso demanded.
Somehow, even with his neck crooked at that impossible angle, staring up at this force of nature, Mr. Stoker managed to sound bored.
“Something about fileting out my spine to play like a fiddle.”
Colosso’s gaze narrowed.
“You think I forgot?”
“Well, it is possible.
I imagine the air is rather thin up there,” Mr. Stoker replied.
I stifled a laugh, for the expression on the giant’s face was purest venom.
“It is no joke to be the enemy of Colosso,” he said.
He leaned forward swiftly, forcing Mr. Stoker even further backward.
“There will come a reckoning.”
“Unless you mean to suffocate me with your halitosis, kindly step back and let me on my way,” Mr. Stoker stated flatly.
Colosso smiled then, a gruesome thing, for the corners of his mouth turned down as he grinned, and several of his teeth were broken to the root.
He put one stiff finger squarely into Mr. Stoker’s chest.
“The reckoning is coming.
And soon.”
He turned and moved away, slipping silently back into the shadows with a noiselessness that was frankly unnerving in so enormous a man.
“What the devil was that about?”
I demanded.
Mr. Stoker slid a hand under my arm and propelled me forward.
“Nothing.
But let’s go before he changes his mind and decides to have my liver on toast for his breakfast, shall we?”
He said nothing more until we reached the empty caravan.
It stood at the end of the encampment, a little forlorn, for it was dark and unwelcoming.
But Mr. Stoker soon lit the lamps and gestured for me to precede him, up the narrow stairs and into the bow-topped little wagon.
It was as comfortably fitted as any ship’s cabin, and I was quite pleased.
The furnishings were rather meager, but it was clean and tidy.
A table that could fold out had been latched to one wall, and a pair of small, cozy armchairs were pushed against a tiny stove whose hearth was cold to the touch.
Against the back wall, a wide bed had been fitted, and to my relief, I saw it was spread with almost clean linen.
And it was with enormous interest that I realized it did not have a twin.
I heard a groan from behind me.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered.
I guessed he had just noticed the sleeping arrangements, and I turned to him with an artless air.
“I suppose you could always take the chairs if you are feeling bashful.”
He eyed the upright armchairs.
“I haven’t slept in a proper bed in six months.
A night on those chairs might cripple me entirely.”
“Then there is no alternative, I am afraid,” I said cheerfully.
“We shall have to share the bed.”
His expression was dubious.
“Miss Speedwell—”
I held up a hand in a gesture of mock severity.
“It is Mrs. Stoker, but you may call me Veronica.
If you don’t want to give away our masquerade, you must practice calling me by my nom de guerre, even when we are alone.”
“Very well.
Veronica
.”
He hesitated, searching for words, mining each one slowly and with care.
“I suppose I may have been a trifle precipitate in coming here.
I reacted badly to the news of Max’s death and the possible consequences,” he began.
“I must confess I did not think the matter through as well as I ought.
I realize now I have put you in an untenable position.
I know you have traveled alone, but this is a very different situation for a lady.
This entire charade could have devastating consequences for your reputation.”
I gave a distinctly unfeminine snort.
“And this only now occurred to you?
My dear Mr. Stoker, I set myself beyond the pale the moment I put myself under the baron’s protection.
Surely you don’t think polite society would approve of such an action?
Or my remaining in a gentleman’s quarters at all hours without a chaperone?”
“I did not think,” he muttered.
“Then it is a very good thing you are not often called upon for the protection of ladies in distress,” I returned.
“But you need have no fear upon that score in our present situation.
I daresay I have more experience of the world than you.”
He gaped like a fish pulled from the water, and it was a moment before he found his tongue.
“Surely you don’t mean—”
“I do.
And why not?
The female of the species is just as prey to the passions of the flesh as the male, and with greater cause, as it is her responsibility to propagate.
But I am tired and it is far too late to engage in a thorough discussion of Darwin versus Wallace, don’t you think?”
I opened the windows of the caravan to let in a draft of fresh cool air, heavy with the scent of hedge roses and honeysuckle.
“Ah, that is lovely!”
I said, drawing in a great deep breath of it.
“It is bloody cold,” he argued, but I would not be crossed.
I gave him a cool stare.
“Mr. Stoker, I am prepared to suffer only one discomfort while sleeping.
You may share the bed with the windows open or you may sleep on the chairs with the windows closed.
It matters not in the slightest to me.”
I reached for the top button on my coat and he licked his fingers, diving to snuff the lamp.
I waited a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom, then removed my coat, jacket, shirtwaist, and skirt, folding them neatly and placing my hat tidily on top.
My stockings were rolled into a bundle to fit under the crown of my hat, and my corset left under it all so as not to offend Mr. Stoker’s delicate sensibilities.
I slipped under the coverlet in my chemise, courteously moving to the far side.
All the while I was conscious of him in the darkness, breathing softly as he heard the rustlings of my clothes coming free.
He did not relight the lamp.
He undressed in the dark as I had and slid into the bed.
The mattress dipped alarmingly, flinging me into him.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” he muttered, shoving me back against the wall.
But I had been highly amused to discover that my face had brushed against his feet.
He had observed the gentlemanly expedient of lying with his head opposite my own.
It was a trifle disappointing—for all his hygienic defects, he had the potential to be a deliciously attractive fellow—but it was an unthinkable breach of my rules to contemplate indulging in the pleasures of the flesh with him.
He was, after all, an Englishman, and I never trifled with my own countrymen.
Unfortunately, my mind was of another opinion entirely, for I was kept wakeful by a number of interesting thoughts regarding Mr. Stoker and his physique.
I amused myself for a while thinking about his musculature and his intriguing tattoos, but as this brought me no closer to peaceful repose, I distracted myself with other questions.
Mr. Stoker, it seemed, was similarly afflicted.
I felt him turn over more than once, shaking the entire caravan as he did so.
“Why haven’t you slept in a bed in six months?”
I asked.
“Because I sold it to pay for supplies,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep.
“A foolish economy.
A man can hardly work to his full potential when he is robbed of proper rest,” I observed.
“And he cannot get proper rest if his bed has been seized by bailiffs because he did not work,” he retorted.
“True enough.
Does this mean you will lose the commission from Lord Rosemorran?
Since you failed to finish the elephant, I mean?”
He groaned.
“Damn it to hell.
I didn’t even think of that.”
He swore again.
“I am sorry to have pointed it out.
Perhaps he will understand the delay if you explain to him.”
He gave a bitter laugh.
“Explain what?
That my mentor died and I had to abduct his murderess?”
“Now, now.
I am not a murderess.
Furthermore, I think you know it.”
“It did occur to me that you might have slipped out of my workshop when I was sleeping and done the deed yourself.
Why are you so certain I am convinced of your innocence?”
“It would take an excessively stupid man to put himself in so vulnerable a position as yours with a woman he thinks capable of killing in cold blood,” I pointed out reasonably as I put out a fingertip to touch his calf.
He jumped, shaking the caravan again.
Heaven only knew what the rest of the camp must have thought—no doubt they attributed the movements of the caravan to connubial exuberance.
He exhaled heavily.
“Very well.
You did not kill Max.
But that does not mean you are entirely free of culpability.”
It was my turn to sigh.
“Your vacillations are enough to make a dervish dizzy.
One moment you are willing to be reasonable, and the next you have persuaded yourself I am a villainess.
But I understand your doubts.
You do not know me well enough to understand that I am precisely what I appear to be.
I am a lepidopterist with a penchant for handsome men and an otherwise entirely unremarkable life.
What I present is no more and no less than exactly what I am.
I have no protective coloration, Mr. Stoker.
And you must believe me when I say I will do everything in my power to clear my name.”
He groaned again.
“That is what I am afraid of.”
We were silent for a little while, and from a distance I heard the soft hooting of an owl.
“I am very sorry about the baron.”
He grunted.
“Go to sleep, Veronica.
And if you snore, I shall tie a bell to your neck and throw you out like a meddlesome cat.”
“I shan’t snore,” I promised him, but he made no reply.
Sleep had crept in, and after a little while, she came for me too.