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

know. Most great estates make a formal allowance to the heir to permit him to establish his own household. A few hundred pounds a year would mean so little to Uncle Malcolm, but it would enable me to pursue my career upon the stage without worrying about taking bit parts and small, unworthy roles. Besides that,” he added smoothly, “there is the matter of a few insignificant debts of honor to be paid. But Uncle Malcolm wouldn’t hear of it. He said that playacting is beneath the dignity of the Romilly name and he would have no part in my making a career on the stage.”

I blinked at the breathtaking arrogance of demanding money from a man he hardly knew simply because he existed, but Caspian Romilly was hardly to blame. His mother had cosseted and coddled him from birth, indulging his every fancy. Little wonder he had emerged from her tender care as feckless a creature as his father.

“Very natural that you should have resented his refusal,” I said.

He brightened. “Thank you! I thought so as well. So unreasonable of him,” he added with a petulant twist of his mouth. It was a pity about that mouth. It was an enchanting feature, fashioned for kissing, but his expressions frequently ruined it.

I patted his hand. “Well, I can hardly think that the quarrel would have lasted. Doubtless Malcolm will come to his senses sooner or later. He is much distracted with this Rosamund business at present.”

“Yes,” he said slowly. “I suppose that is true.” He brightened. “I should go and look in on Mama now. Thank you for a most interesting and entertaining hour,” he said, bowing neatly before taking his leave.

“God, the young are so exhaustingly buoyant,” Stoker said as he emerged from the shadows of the corner where he had discreetly kept himself for the duration of the discussion.

I looked at him curiously. “I presume you heard everything.”

“My hearing is acute, you know that.” He took his cue and bent to line up the shot. He paused for the space of a heartbeat, then rammed the stick home, sinking the ball with a gentle click. He straightened. “You don’t really think the boy capable of murder?”

“He isn’t a boy,” I reminded him. “He is eighteen, a man under the law. He only seems young because his mother has treated him like a new-lain egg.”

“Of course, it is interesting to ponder,” Stoker said, stroking the blue-black shadow at his jaw.

“What?”

“Well, if Rosamund was murdered, that young man has a very strong motive.”

“What leap of logic has led you into that morass of a conclusion?”

“Simply this: he stands to inherit a significant fortune. You heard him. The Romillys have always held with the old customs. Under the principles of primogeniture, that fellow is next in line. Unless his uncle Malcolm fathers a child.”

“Men have killed for less,” I agreed grudgingly. “But would he really murder his uncle’s bride just to preserve his place in the succession?”

Stoker shrugged. “He might. We do not yet know enough of his character.”

“We know some,” I replied. “He is passionate, resentful, impulsive—qualities I rather like, if I am honest—and not entirely trustworthy when it comes to money, I suspect.”

“I’ll grant you the first three, but how can you possibly know the last?”

“Because the little blackguard still owes me a pound.”

•   •   •

Without ever quite discussing it, we somehow found ourselves walking down to the village. The atmosphere of the house had become oppressive, and the late-morning weather had taken a turn for the dramatic, the sea winds whipping color into our cheeks and the falling temperature causing us to walk quickly, drawing in great drafts of fresh, brisk air.

“That’s better,” Stoker said, breathing deeply.

“The air here is different. Do you feel it?” I asked.

He stopped and breathed again, slowly, savoring the salt-tinged scent. “It smells of the sea, like any island. And apples from the orchards. And something else, something cold and mineral, like flinty wine.”

I nodded and we set off again. Something tight within my chest eased a little. We had a mystery to solve, and such a quest never failed to bring out the best in us. As the temperature dropped and the seas swelled, my mood rose, as did Stoker’s. He began to recite poetry as we walked, lines from Keats:

Souls of Poets dead and gone,

What Elysium have ye known,

Happy field or mossy cavern,

Choicer than the Mermaid Tavern?

Have ye tippled drink more fine

Than mine host’s Canary wine?

Or are fruits of Paradise

Sweeter than those dainty pies

Of venison? O generous food!

Drest as though bold Robin Hood

Would, with his maid Marian,

Sup and bowse from horn and can.

“Is there any occasion for which you cannot find a poem from Keats?” I asked as we neared the Mermaid Inn.

“Of course not,” he replied happily. “It was one of the greatest discoveries of my life when I learnt that Keats was a man for all seasons and all situations. There is not a person, a feeling, a moment, that Keats did not address.”

I stopped to face him. “He has no poem to fit me,” I challenged.

He grinned, a devilish expression that nearly robbed me of breath. “Of course he has. ‘I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful—a faery’s child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild.’ ”

“‘La Belle Dame sans Merci’?” I demanded. “That is how you see me? A beautiful woman without mercy who kills her lovers?”

He tipped his head with a thoughtful look. “’Tisn’t so much that she kills them. I think it’s more that she isn’t terribly fussed when they die.”

“Of all the—” I broke off when I saw the unholy glint in his eye. “You are in an unaccountably buoyant mood.”

“I am near the sea,” he said simply. I remembered then how many years of his life had been spent aboard ships, first of Her Majesty’s Navy, and then of his own expedition as he traveled to Amazonia in search of undiscovered species and perhaps a