CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
S
toker was in such a filthy temper when he returned that I felt rather sorry for the Beauclerks for inflicting him upon them.
He said scarcely a dozen words at dinner, restricting himself to complimenting Lady Cordelia on the lamb and Lord Rosemorran on the acquisition of a rather fine pelt of a Himalayan bear.
It was left to the Beauclerks and to me to carry the flag of civility, and we managed quite nicely.
We settled onto the subject of travel, and his lordship was most interested to find I had been to Switzerland, a country of particular interest to him.
“And how did you find Switzerland, Miss Speedwell?”
he asked as we started in on some elegant fish roulades.
“Very pleasant, so long as one is able to overlook the preponderance of goiter,” I replied.
That led to a thoroughly engrossing discussion on the efficacy of the Chinese methods of dealing with goiter, the Boxer Rebellion, opium addiction, the problem of crime in the East End, and the difficulty of finding a cook who could produce a really good blancmange.
Through our conversational meanderings, I also learned that Lady Cordelia claimed membership in the Hippolyta Club, founded to celebrate the achievements of remarkable women.
I had long been intrigued by its reputation for accepting the most distinguished members, whose intelligence was equaled only by their accomplishments.
Some of the less respectful society wags had christened it the Curiosity Club on the basis that its members were constantly sticking in their noses where ladies’ noses ought not to be, but the members had adopted the epithet as a badge of honor.
For her part, Lady Cordelia had been nominated on the strength of a paper she had written upon the subject of hyperintegers, mathematics being her particular passion.
Scarcely able to multiply beyond the twelves myself, I was immensely impressed, and I turned to Lord Rosemorran, inviting him to share my respect.
“Oh yes, Cordelia and her numbers.
Very useful for keeping the estate accounts,” he said with a fond look.
I looked back at Lady Cordelia, who was quietly dissecting her lamb into tiny pieces.
It was the rankest chauvinism that he reduced her intellectual accomplishments to columns in a ledger, but I realized from her placid looks that Lady Cordelia must be well accustomed to his benign neglect, and I sighed for her.
She gave me a small, conspiratorial smile, and I found myself liking her very much indeed.
For his part, Lord Rosemorran was keen to display his newest treasure, a stuffed Eurasian eagle owl he had purchased at auction.
“Belonged to Voltaire.
Was it Voltaire?”
he asked, rummaging in his pocket for the card with the specimen’s description.
“Ah well.
It makes little difference now he’s mine.
I mean to call him Tacitus.”
He nudged me in the ribs with his elbow.
“D’ye mark the joke?
Rather good one that, calling a stuffed owl Tacitus.”
He was still chuckling when we took our leave, and while Stoker tarried a moment to discuss the new trophy with his lordship, Lady Cordelia walked me through the morning room to make the acquaintance of her lovebirds, Crates and Hipparchia.
They had the freedom of an enormous cage of wrought iron, some ten feet in length, but they cuddled close together on a single perch, rather like their namesakes.
I said as much to Lady Cordelia and she smiled her gentle Madonna’s smile.
“They are devoted to one another,” she said.
She was dressed, as ever, in deepest black, and as she spoke, she twisted a ring upon her finger.
It was a mourning ring set with a single lock of hair the color of a russet apple.
She saw my glance and squared her shoulders, concealing her hands in the folds of her skirts.
“How go your investigative efforts, Miss Speedwell?”
“We are moving forward,” I told her.
“There was a development today, in fact, during the course of which I am sorry to say that I lost your revolver.
You must allow me to replace it.”
She shook her head.
“Do not trouble yourself.
I only hope it proved useful.”
“Indeed it did.”
“Good,” she said.
“You must let me know if you require further protection of firearms.
His lordship has quite a collection.”
“For the love of God, do not encourage her,” Stoker instructed as he strode up to join us.
“I am not encouraging,” she said calmly.
“I am abetting.”
She turned to me.
“You are striking a blow for all of us with your adventures, Miss Speedwell.
I hope you know that.”
I thought of her then, her brilliant mathematician’s mind wasted upon grocers’ bills and linen counts, and I pressed her hand in return.
“I will do my best not to let down the side, Lady Cordelia.”
· · ·
When Stoker and I returned to the snug in the Belvedere, I poured us each a stiff measure of whiskey, but when I attempted to introduce the subject of the latest developments in our adventure, he held up a repressive hand.
“No.”
“No?”
“Not tonight.
As you noted earlier, we have been the victims of a thwarted abduction, swum halfway across the Thames, received cryptic revelations from Mornaday, and I cannot speak for you, but my head throbs.
I am going to drink this and then go to bed, where I intend to sleep at least twelve hours.
We have all of tomorrow to bat theories around like so many shuttlecocks.
Until then, I am my own man.”
With that pronouncement, he took his glass and stalked off to the sofa, where he arranged himself with some difficulty, his long legs half-hanging over the arm.
“All right,” I agreed amiably.
“We shall not speak of the murder or any of its attendant questions.”
We were silent awhile, companionably so.
Stoker read a journal of zoology while I occupied myself with my own mammalian studies.
I had become aware of an annoyingly insistent biological demand, which I had initially attributed to the excitement of our recent adventures.
The urge for physical congress is closely linked to that of survival, I reasoned, and we had been fleeing from danger.
It had also been, I thought sadly, far too long since my last erotic indulgence.
I began to count backward on my fingers to my last journey, but the task soon proved depressing.
To say that I longed for a little male companionship would be an understatement so extreme as to be criminal.
I fairly vibrated with need, and I knew from experience that my body’s demands would only grow more urgent unless they were slaked.
And while Stoker might be a little lacking in finesse, I had little doubt he could employ his admirably nimble hands and well-proportioned frame to great effect.
He also had the advantage of proximity, I reflected.
Too great a proximity.
He was a fellow countryman, and therefore entirely out of bounds to me, I reminded myself with mingled disappointment and relief.
I would have appreciated the satisfaction of a carnal paroxysm—in my experience, they bring a sparkle to the eye as well as brightness to the complexion and a spring to the step—but using Stoker to achieve that end was a means I could not begin to contemplate.
Tumbling in the sheets with a man was one thing; facing him the next morning over the toast rack was another matter entirely.
Still, I found myself curious about how he managed his own physiological needs.
He had shown himself immensely responsive—even against his will—to Salome’s efforts.
And during our brief embrace in the shadows, he had given every indication of an extremely passionate nature held firmly in check.
I pondered the question for some time before my curiosity got the better of me.
“It occurs to me, Stoker, I have made no secret of the fact that I am accustomed to a certain amount of regular and health-giving exercise of the intimate variety whilst abroad,” I began.
“And I think I must arrange a trip abroad soon if my health is not to suffer the consequences.
It has been too long.”
I tipped my head as I looked him over from tousled hair to scuffed boots.
“How long has it been for you?”
He turned a shocked face to me.
“That is bloody well none of your business!”
I shrugged.
“Why?
We are both scientists.
I see no reason we cannot speak frankly of biological things.
I find myself quite often distracted by such thoughts, and I merely wondered how you managed.
Is there a technique you find effective in managing your urges?”
He raised his hands as if to ward off evil.
“Stop.
Now.
I beg you.”
I blinked.
“You mean you do not wish to talk about it?”
“That is precisely what I mean.”
I gave him a repressive look.
“Oh, come now, Stoker.
Don’t be coy.
Tell me.
How long has it been for you?”
To my astonishment, he blushed.
“It has been some time, years in fact—” He ground to a stop.
“How very extraordinary,” I murmured.
“Is it?
A gentleman is supposed to hold himself to a certain standard,” he reminded me coldly.
“And yet you go to such lengths to pretend you do not deserve the title in other respects, it is curious you should cling so tightly to your scruples in this.”
“It is not when you consider—” He broke off.
“When I consider what?”
I prodded gently.
He said nothing for a long moment, and when he spoke, it was with a seriousness of purpose that would not be gainsaid.
“I have my reasons,” he told me.
“And I must beg you to respect them.”
He hesitated and went on in a rough voice.
“I have not always conducted myself as a gentleman; that much is true.
But I am set upon a different path now.
I no longer believe that degrading myself with slatterns and tavern wenches is appropriate.”
I very nearly laughed, but his expression was so earnest, I could not.
Instead I sat up.
“Slatterns and tavern wenches?
That’s a curious sort of company to keep.”
“Brazil is a curious place.”
“Brazil?
You have not lain with a woman since
Brazil?
Stoker, that was years ago.”
“And?”
he demanded.
“You must engage in horizontal refreshment.
It isn’t healthy to congest oneself like that.”
“I am not congested,” he retorted.
“Really?
That brings me back to my question.