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

little desire to hear Stoker’s flagellation of his character, but I was careful enough of him to be inquisitive.

Stoker shrugged. “He was old enough to pick up the servants’ gossip and realized I was Mother’s son but not Father’s.” Stoker seldom discussed the fact that he was the product of his mother’s brief liaison with an artist commissioned to paint her portrait during what might best be described as a “difficult patch” in her marriage to the previous Viscount Templeton-Vane. After bearing Tiberius, the heir, and Rupert, the spare, she had produced Stoker, a brilliantly blue-eyed cuckoo in the nest. The youngest, Merryweather, dated to a hectic period afterwards in which the viscount and his wife had attempted to reconcile.

He went on. “He used to torture me about it, but after a while he lost interest.”

“He simply ‘lost interest’? That doesn’t sound like Tiberius. He’s tenacious as a wolverine. What did you do to make him lose interest?” I demanded.

Stoker gave me a bland look. “I might have set fire to his bed. Whilst he was in it.”

“Enchanting. What do you know of his relationship with Malcolm Romilly?”

Stoker paused to think. “By the time Tiberius made friends with Malcolm, he and I had little to do with one another. Tiberius was not terribly happy at home, and neither was I. We both spent as much time away from the family seat at Cherboys as possible. Tiberius came here for school holidays and I eventually ran off to join the circus,” he added. In his case, it was no mere turn of phrase. Stoker had indeed run away with a traveling show before joining Her Majesty’s Navy. His youth had been a singularly adventuresome one.

“Tiberius is forty,” I reminded him. “Those holidays were long ago.”

“But formative ones,” Stoker said, rubbing thoughtfully at the shadow darkening his jaw. His battle to keep his beard in check was ongoing and uphill. “And he kept returning, long after they left school. I think Tiberius was happiest here. Father couldn’t berate him for every little misstep. There were no expectations put upon him. And with Malcolm’s parents gone, they had the run of the place.”

“What happened to the elder Romillys?”

“Dead. Their boat capsized on a rough sea between here and the mainland. I can’t remember the rest of it, but both of Malcolm’s parents were drowned. Malcolm was only twenty-two or so. He inherited the property and guardianship of Mertensia and Lucian.”

“What a dreadful responsibility for so young a man,” I mused.

“Indeed. I sometimes think Tiberius envied him that.”

“Why so?”

“My brother spent the better part of two decades waiting to wear a dead man’s shoes.” The last Lord Templeton-Vane, Stoker’s presumptive father, had died only the previous year. With his passing, Tiberius inherited the title, the country seat, the London town house, and the family fortune. Little wonder he had chafed at the waiting.

“His friendship with Malcolm is one of long duration, then,” I ventured.

“The longest of his life, I should think. Although with Malcolm’s retreat from the world, I don’t think they have been in communication for the past few years.”

“Since Rosamund Romilly’s disappearance.” I stared into the fire for a long moment, drawing up my feet and wrapping my arms about my knees. “What do you think of Malcolm’s plan to play the investigator?”

“I think he is a desperate man who cannot face the notion that his wife ran away.”

“Without her bag?” I asked, turning to face him.

“Why not? If she were desperate enough to get away, she might leave everything behind.”

“Desperate! What could possibly drive a bride from her own wedding feast to running away like a common criminal in a matter of hours?” I broke off.

“What?” he demanded.

“Tiberius did mention a story from their boyhood. It seems Malcolm Romilly once choked a boy at school—so severely he was sent down for it.”

“There you are,” Stoker said with some satisfaction. “He might have frightened his bride by a display of temper that had her rethinking her entire future with him.”

“But if she did run, where did she go?”

“I do not know, and furthermore, I do not care. I have had my fill of runaway wives,” he added, bitterness twisting his mouth. His own former wife had left him to die in the Amazon and then dragged his name through the gutter in order to win her divorce. I could well understand his reluctance to involve himself in another marriage’s woes.

He went on. “I shouldn’t be surprised if she were living somewhere in the Argentine with a farmer husband and eight brats. After all, it is the simplest explanation.”

“Shaving yourself with Occam’s razor these days?” I asked sweetly.

“Always. How many brides succumb to nerves on the day? How many get cold feet thinking of the commitment they have undertaken? How many cannot face it in the end?”

“Well, that is a cruel trick to play upon poor Malcolm if it’s true,” I pointed out.

“I have experience with the cruelty of women,” he reminded me.

“How much do you know about Malcolm and the others?”

He stared into the fire. “I cannot say I know much about any of Tiberius’ friends. The last time he was here, I was rather occupied in Brazil,” he reminded me, gliding neatly over the fact that he had been recovering from life-threatening injuries and being jilted by his faithless bride. Stoker had spent the better part of three years under the influence of strong drink and women of negotiable affections; that is to say, his consolations were bottoms—those of both bottles and whores. I had had my own opportunity to experience the viciousness of the former Caroline Templeton-Vane, thanks to our most recent foray into the investigative arts.* I shuddered at the memory and decided to bring the conversation back to the subject at hand.

“Still, it is an interesting puzzle,” I said.

“If you have half an ounce of sense, you will leave it be,” he told me, his tone unusually stern. “You needn’t play the game just because Malcolm wants you