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

the business. He could have engaged a private inquiry agent to do his sleuthing. Instead, he is relying upon us.”

“Without telling us,” Stoker stormed. “That is the difference between working with us and using us. He has exposed you to danger without the slightest consideration for your safety.”

It was telling that Stoker was more concerned about my own safety than his own. I gave him an indulgent smile. “Do not worry about me. I have brought my knives,” I told him cheerfully.

“Knives? Plural? I only gave you one, the little fellow to strap to your calf,” he said, his expression startled.

“And I wear it,” I promised. “But a lady likes to have options.” I went to my carpetbag and lifted out the false bottom, revealing a compartment that Daisy the maid had not discovered. I began to extract my weapons, passing them to Stoker as they emerged. “Here is the hatpin I had made—a fine steel stiletto with a very sharp point. I warned you it was sharp,” I said, handing Stoker a handkerchief to staunch the bright bead of blood that welled up on his thumb. “Here are the minuten for my cuffs,” I added, handing over the packet of headless pins used by lepidopterists to secure specimens to pieces of card. I often threaded them through my cuffs when I desired a little extra protection. I removed a delicate violet silk corset from the compartment, holding it up as Stoker blushed furiously. “This is my favorite, I think. Each stay is actually a slim blade of excellent Italian steel,” I told him, demonstrating how quickly I could remove one from the bodice.

“Anything else?” he asked. “A beehive to hide in your bustle? A poison ring full of arsenic to bung into someone’s tea?”

I flapped a hand. “Don’t be crude. Poison is a distinctly unoriginal method.”

He cocked his head curiously. “So how would you go about it if you were to dispatch someone?”

“I have nineteen strategies at present and I am developing a twentieth. Don’t worry,” I told him cheerfully. “If I ever decide to kill you, I shall make it quick and creative. You will never see it coming.”

“That, my dear Veronica, is what I am afraid of.”

He paused and with that peculiar telepathy we sometimes shared, I knew what he was going to say next. “I know you do not wish to speak of Madeira,” he began in a halting voice, “but I think we must.”

“There is nothing to say,” I replied.

“I believe there is.” He turned to me, his sapphirine eyes bright with emotion. Anger? Challenge? I could not tell. “I was with Lord Rosemorran when the bills arrived, Veronica. A doctor. A wet nurse. A seamstress’s charges for the making of clothes for an infant.” He paused and the moment stretched between us, a taut silence waiting to be shattered.

“Yes. All of that.” I lifted my chin. “You want me to be answerable to you?”

“I should have thought our friendship would demand it,” he said simply.

“I am answerable to no one,” I replied fiercely.

“And I am no one?” he asked, his voice edged with some dark feeling I had never heard before.

“Of course not.” My voice was snappish and I said the words quickly, thrusting them from my lips. “But I can give you no explanation.”

“I see,” he said, turning once more to the fire.

He said nothing more and I rose, my hands curling into fists. “I know it looks as if I went to Madeira to have a child,” I began.

He rose too, more slowly, favoring the arm that had just been bandaged. The bruise blooming on his face was a slow, spreading purple, plummy and deep. He came close to me, pronouncing each word carefully. “I am not the men you have known before,” he reminded me.

“It is time we cleared the air,” I told him, planting myself firmly in his path. “I have come to a decision. I do not break promises easily, but I owe you that much.”

“That Lady Cordelia went to Madeira to have a child out of wedlock?” he hazarded.

“How did you—”

He sighed. “Veronica, give me a little credit. I may be a man, but I am a doctor, after all. I saw the signs. I also know that she would have sworn you to secrecy and you would have felt obliged to keep your promise to her. Therefore, I will ask you nothing about the child or its father. If Lady C. wishes me to know, she will tell me herself.”

“Thank you for that,” I said simply.

“The only thing I did not understand was why there were doctors’ bills with your name on them.” He lifted his brows in inquiry.

“A relapse of malaria,” I told him. “I went to take care of Lady C. and instead she nursed me.” I smiled, thinking of the time Stoker had cared for me during a bout of the fever that lurked in my blood, bursting out at inopportune moments. “I must say, her bedside manner is rather gentler than yours. But I know whose I would rather have.” Something in his face eased and I smiled again. “Did you really never believe the worst of me?”

He shrugged. “I knew you would never be so pigheadedly mysterious about your own child. You don’t care enough about public opinion to keep such a thing a secret. But you would go to your grave to protect a friend.”

I stared at him, a smile breaking over my face. “You really do comprehend me.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “And you are a bloody sight more challenging than Latin, believe me.” He went on. “I also know that if you found yourself unexpectedly with child, you would put aside your obstinacy and come to me for help.”

I canted my head as I moved a step closer, just near enough to see the silver-grey lights in the dark blue of his eyes. “What would you have done for me?”

He shrugged and took his own step closer. “Whatever the situation required.