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

I retrieved my hand. Tiberius had, as was his custom, taken refuge in gentle mockery, but I knew he was sincere.

“What happened after your wife died?”

He passed a weary hand over his eyes. “We were still in Russia at the time, so I consoled myself with every imaginable sort of Slavic debauchery. I marinated myself in vodka and slept with half the court, including the tsar’s brother. A few months of that should have been the end of it.”

“But it wasn’t,” I reminded him.

“No. Rosamund haunted me, I dreamt of her,” he said, shutting his eyes. “I used to drink enough to stupefy me into sleep because then I would be certain of seeing her.”

“Did Malcolm ever know of your attachment to one another?”

He paused. “I don’t know. We had to be very careful because of Rosamund’s reputation. She had a living to get, and the merest hint of a dalliance would have ruined that. Anything short of an engagement would have spelt doom for her prospects of employment.”

“But it’s possible?”

He shrugged. “Anything is possible. She might have told him. Someone else may have discovered it. She may have been observed in the act of sending that telegram. It is not significant in any case.” He spread his hand in a gesture of magnanimity. “You know why I have come, my dear. I am here because Malcolm requires my friendship and support and I mean to give it.”

“Liar,” I said pleasantly.

His gaze narrowed. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, don’t come over lofty now, Tiberius. I have no doubt you’ve been called worse by a much better class of woman. You had an ulterior motive in coming here. You want to know what became of Rosamund and you suspect Malcolm had something to do with her disappearance.”

“If I did, I was a fool,” he told me in a silken voice. “Perhaps there is nothing to be gained by raking up the past.”

I knew that tone. He was playing games as only Tiberius knew how. But I knew a game or two of my own, and I answered him in the same cool voice. “Your ulterior purposes have purposes, my lord. And I mean to find them out.”

“Is that a threat, my dear Miss Speedwell?”

“It is a warning,” I told him. I rose to take my leave. I opened the door and nearly fell over Stoker, his hand raised as if to knock.

His expression of shock was one I shall remember all of my life, and it was compounded as he studied me from tumbled hair to disarranged robe and bare feet peeping out from my hem. He looked past me to his brother, who lounged lazily in the armchair by the fire, and it was painfully obvious what conclusions he was drawing.

“Stoker—” I began.

He gave me a smile that was icily polite as he held up a hand. “Silence, if you please, Veronica. This is between Tiberius and myself.”

He stepped sharply around me, gave me a gentle push onto the stairs, and closed the door behind me. If his preternatural calm had not alarmed me, the sound of the bolt shooting home would have done it.

CHAPTER

12

I dared not knock; such noise might rouse the household. But neither could I retire to my room without knowing precisely what sort of damage the Templeton-Vanes were inflicting upon one another. Stoker had the advantage of inches and weight, but the viscount was older and frequently armed. I wrapped my nightdress about my legs and seated myself on the stone step, awaiting the outcome. I harbored no illusion they were fighting over me. I might have provided the spark, but the tinder was old and dry. This battle had been brewing from the cradle, and—truth be told—I was rather glad they were finally getting on with it.

Few sounds penetrated the stout oak door. I heard breaking glass and a long groan—whose I could not have guessed. This was followed by the sound of splintering wood and an odd gurgling noise, as if someone were being strangled with the belt of his dressing gown, I decided.

At long last, silence reigned, and I rose, shaking out the folds of my nightdress. I knocked softly upon the door, and after an impossibly long time, it was answered. Stoker sat upon the hearth, covered in ashes and broken glass with a small knife stuck into his arm, while Tiberius attempted to staunch the flow of blood from his nose. One of his eyes was swollen nearly shut, and his left arm dangled at his side.

“I believe you have suffered a dislocation,” I pointed out helpfully.

“Nothing he hasn’t done to me before,” Tiberius returned with a lowering glare at his brother.

“I told you I would remedy it,” Stoker rasped. He rolled onto all fours and levered himself up after a moment, staggering only a little. Without preamble, he grasped his brother by the neck and waist and slammed his lordship’s shoulder into the bedpost, setting the joint neatly back into its socket with a growl from the viscount.

“Now, what about this?” Stoker demanded, gesturing towards the knife still quivering in his arm.

“The merest scratch,” the viscount assured him. “That knife is hardly more than a child’s toy.”

Stoker curled his lip as he tightened his fist, but before he could lay hands on his brother again, I grasped the knife by the handle and jerked it free. Stoker smothered a howl of pain, and I saw Tiberius’ eyes light with pleasure.

“Do it again. I like it when he screams.”

“Mind your manners or I will use it on both of you,” I warned them.

“How you do tempt me,” Tiberius murmured.

“Is there no end to your flirtations?” I demanded.

“Where you are concerned, never,” he assured me.

I wiped the knife blade clean upon Tiberius’ dressing gown. “I am keeping this,” I told him as I slipped it into my pocket. “I cannot trust that you won’t hit something