A Curious Beginning

“Ireland,” Stoker supplied. “And her mother was Irish. Christ and his apostles,” he swore. “The separatists could not have asked for a prettier gift—a legitimately born Catholic alternative to the British royal family—and with Irish blood in her veins no less.”


Sir Rupert looked at me intently. “Miss Speedwell, whether you like it or not, these documents prove that you are, in fact, the most dangerous person in the British Empire.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX


After his pronouncement, Sir Rupert collapsed back into his chair. We sat in bewildered silence for a long moment before he swore—something more profane than I had ever heard issue from Stoker’s lips, although at least he followed his lapse with an apology—and retrieved a bottle from his desk. He poured a generous measure of excellent whiskey into crystal glasses and handed them to us, taking a double measure for himself.

He swallowed it down in a single go, and Stoker regarded him with something like cautious admiration. “Careful, there. The Templeton-Vane men have always done that a bit too easily.”

Sir Rupert wiped his mouth upon a pristine handkerchief and gave his younger brother a shake of the head. “No. It was Mother who liked a tipple. She could drink Father under the table.”

Stoker bridled. “She did not.”

“Of course she did. Kept the best of Father’s single malt in a perfume bottle on her dressing table. She used to bribe the butler for it.”

Stoker stared at him openmouthed, and Sir Rupert gentled his tone. “There is a lot you have yet to learn about our family.”

“The Templeton-Vanes are the very last subject I would wish to discuss with you,” Stoker replied coldly.

Sir Rupert steepled his hands under his chin. “One of these days, you will put aside your childish resentments, Revelstoke. But in light of Miss Speedwell’s current predicament, I think we ought to call a truce.”

Emotions warred upon Stoker’s face, but his tone was as even as his brother’s. “Agreed. From the information you have given us, it should be a simple matter to determine who is best served by removing the threat she represents.”

Sir Rupert nodded. “Indeed. First—”

Stoker rose. “Not you. Us,” he said, putting a hand underneath my elbow and encouraging me to my feet.

Sir Rupert rose with automatic courtesy. “But you cannot possibly do this alone!”

“We will and we must,” Stoker told him. “I am grateful to you, Rupert, really. You have been quite decent, and it is rather refreshing to take my leave of you without either one of us dripping blood upon the carpets. But this is as far as you can come.”

He glanced meaningfully at the photograph resting on a small easel on Sir Rupert’s desk. It depicted a woman—sternly pretty with a small mouth and exquisite hands—and three little boys.

“You have a wife,” I said, suddenly understanding Stoker’s reluctance to involve his brother further. “And children. You have already declared I am the most dangerous person in the Empire,” I told him with a lightness I did not feel. “I would not have that danger touch you or yours.”

I put out my hand. “Thank you for your assistance, Sir Rupert. I will not forget it. And if it is ever in my power to do you a service, you may be assured I shall.”

He clasped my hand slowly. “In that case, Godspeed, Miss Speedwell.” He gave me a ghost of a smile at the bit of wordplay and released my hand. The brothers did not touch but exchanged nods, and we made as if to leave. At the last moment, Stoker turned back, tossing the Brief History onto his brother’s desk. “One last thing, old man. I stole that from Wibberley’s, the little bookshop in Oxford Street. Oh, and there is a page gone missing. See that it is paid for, will you?”

Sir Rupert gave a short laugh, like the bark of a fox, and we left him then, emerging into Chancery Lane just as the street began to fill with solicitors and barristers and clerks, all bound for their luncheon tables.

Stoker took my arm. “Put down your veil. I don’t like how crowded the street has become, and we must have a think.”

I drew the light silk veil over my features. “I have just the spot,” I told him. “Where no one would ever think to look for us.”

? ? ?

An hour later we were in the Tower of London listening to the Yeoman Warder’s speech of welcome. We had paid our admission by cobbling together a few coins. Most had gone to fish and chips, fragrantly greasy and eaten straight from the newspaper, with Stoker complaining all the while that respectable ladies did not eat in the street.

“Since when do such trivialities concern you?” I demanded.

“They do not, but they will draw attention to you,” he reminded me. I shrugged and finished every delectable bite of my crispy cod.

“That was sublime,” I told him as we threw away the greasy newspapers and joined the queue to enter the Tower. I listened eagerly to the Yeoman Warder’s patter, then quickly assessed our options. With Stoker hard upon my heels, I directed my steps to the squat bulk of St. Thomas’s Tower. We emerged at the top to find clouds gathering and a cold river mist rising.