A Dangerous Collaboration (A Veronica Speedwell Mystery) Deanna Raybourn (books to read for self improvement .TXT) 📖

was highly irregular to gossip with the servants, I reminded myself, but I had never stood on ceremony, far preferring to establish myself on a friendly footing with those around me, whatever their station. We chattered on while she finished my hair, arranging it so cleverly that not a single pin could be seen. Then she helped me into my gown, giving the bustle a brisk shake so that the folds settled into elegant swags.

“There you are, miss,” she told me. “Fine as a pheasant.” She gave me a broad wink as she left, and I realized that my time on St. Maddern’s Isle might be a good deal more diverting than I had even anticipated.

•   •   •

The gong sounded shortly after I finished dressing and I made my way carefully down the stairs, holding my skirts well above my ankles so that I would not trip. It was a measure of Tiberius’ newfound distraction that he made no comment about the sight of them as I reached the bottom, where he waited. He always looked splendid in the black-and-white severity of evening clothes, and he had brushed his dark chestnut hair until it gleamed. But a tiny dot of crimson just below his ear showed that he had cut himself shaving, a curious development given that his lordship was usually as fastidious as a cat.

“Shall we wait for Stoker?” I ventured.

“Stoker has gone ahead,” his lordship replied, clipping the words.

He led me through a series of rooms and passages in the labyrinthine castle, and I realized that he knew his way comfortably around. He was indeed no stranger to this place, I reflected. He paused outside a closed door, and as he hesitated, he reached for my hand.

“Tiberius?”

He said nothing, merely turned his head, his grey eyes glittering feverishly, his hand grasping mine with the strength of a drowning man. He opened the door to the drawing room, where a quartet of people had already assembled. Malcolm Romilly was deep in conversation with Stoker, the pair of them poring over what appeared to be a barometer of some antiquity. Helen Romilly rose from her perch on a sofa, dislodging an irritated Hecate the cat and towing in her wake an exceedingly young man with almost startling good looks. He wore an expression of acute boredom.

“My lord, Miss Speedwell, may I present my son, Caspian Romilly? Caspian, say hello to Lord Templeton-Vane and his fiancée.” This was no boy; Caspian Romilly was eighteen at the very least and perfectly aware of his arresting appearance. He had his mother’s eyes and rosebud lips, but his stern brow and excellent nose were clearly the stuff of Romillys.

He greeted us with an inaudible voice and a marked lack of enthusiasm, but just then his mother’s cat took a decided swipe at the hem of my gown, and she clucked her tongue. “Caspian, darling, do please take her in hand.”

He gave an elaborate sigh and rolled his eyes but did as she asked, gathering up the sullen animal with surprising gentleness and coaxing her out the door.

“Such a lovely boy,” his mother murmured. “Quite a way with animals. He’s terribly sensitive.”

“He wants whipping,” Tiberius murmured into my ear as Helen Romilly turned away at her brother-in-law’s approach. He and Stoker had left off their discussion in order to join us, and I saw Helen Romilly’s gaze rest a moment too long upon Stoker. It was always a surprise to see him in evening clothes since he wore them so well, his careless good looks and deep ebony hair setting off the severe black and white. The garments were indifferently tailored, but he would suit a burlap sack, I thought, and Helen Romilly seemed to agree.

For his part, Malcolm Romilly looked pale and tense in his evening clothes, but they were well tailored and his stickpin was of heavy gold, set with an unusual stone.

“I see you are admiring my carnelian,” he told me. “We are rich in such gems here upon the island. The rocks are heavy with seams of carnelian, jasper, agate. Semiprecious, of course, but worth the effort just the same. If you would like a souvenir of your travels, you must visit the jeweler in the village. He has an assortment of our local gems.”

“Is the island large enough to support a jeweler? I had no idea,” I told him. “I confess, I was dreadfully unaware St. Maddern’s Isle even existed before his lordship mentioned it.”

Malcolm Romilly gave me a singularly sweet smile, as sad as it was genuine, as he poured out small glasses of wine for the company. “We have been in seclusion, Miss Speedwell. You are the first guests we have invited in three years.”

“Lucky for us,” Stoker said as he took a glass.

“Have you been here before, Mr. Templeton-Vane?” Helen Romilly asked Stoker as she accepted a glass of wine from her brother-in-law.

“I have not had that pleasure, Mrs. Romilly,” Stoker told her. “I was always deeply envious of my brother when he returned from one of his holidays here. I can only count myself fortunate to be included in this one.” He lifted his glass towards his host and sipped.

She gave a hard little laugh. “I shall be interested to hear your impressions of the place. It always seems a curious dream when one is here. I am never entirely certain I haven’t been away with the faeries when I return to the mainland.”

“Surely you mean the piskies, Helen,” Malcolm Romilly corrected with a smile. “After all, we are part of Cornwall.”

Her look at him was level and long. “Just as you say, Malcolm.”

There were odd currents of tension in the room, swirling and eddying about us, and before I could determine what it all meant, Mrs. Trengrouse appeared in the doorway.

“Dinner is served.”

CHAPTER

4

The table was set with a handsome silver service, a line of elaborate epergnes marching down the center of the table, each lavishly filled with striped red-and-white roses