A Curious Beginning

I considered. “He might be a private detective, but he might also be precisely as he claims—an inspector with Scotland Yard. That would make him a reluctant ally to whichever puppet master pulls his strings. He claims he was tasked by his superior at Scotland Yard with monitoring our activities—perhaps even ordered to secure us. He has refused because he believes I am no threat, but his masters will not be appeased. He is torn between the conflicting claim of duty and his own instincts. In that case, he does the only possible thing: he warns us to flee. He might be rapped on the knuckles for failing in his job, but he will not be ruined. And we escape the clutches of whatever forces at Scotland Yard are working against us.”


“Not ‘whatever forces,’” Stoker corrected grimly. “There is only one division of Scotland Yard that would concern itself with royal scandal—Special Branch.”

“I thought Special Branch were formed to deal with the Irish problem.”

“Originally, yes. But they have expanded their purview over the past few years. Special Branch are discreet to the point of secrecy. If someone close to the royal family wanted something investigated on their behalf, they would go to Special Branch.”

“How convenient to have so many people to clear up one’s indiscretions,” I said with a trace of bitterness. I felt a rush of cold wind. It was an atmospheric place, the Tower. The very stones seemed heavy with the memory of pain.

We fell to silence, and I amused myself watching a Tower raven strut about, preening his handsome feathers as smugly as a lord. Legend held that if the ravens left the Tower, the monarchy itself would fall, and from his demeanor, it seemed as if this fellow knew his own importance.

One of the guards strode past and the raven quorked irritably at him, scolding him in his throaty little voice. Stoker started to laugh, but I grasped his arm, digging my fingers into his muscle.

“Stoker, what if Mornaday’s urging us to flee was a warning?”

“Of course it was a warning,” he said, rolling his eyes. “A rather poor one considering it came after we had already been abducted.”

“Not that,” I told him impatiently. “What if Mornaday knows of something else, some other danger.”

“What sort of danger?”

“If Special Branch meant to clear up this particular indiscretion, the only way to do the job thoroughly would be to eliminate me before the Irish could take me in hand. And we have given them the perfect scapegoat.”

“What on earth are you—” He broke off as the truth began to reveal itself to him. “Kill you and lay the blame for it at my door,” he said flatly.

“Exactly. They could manufacture a dozen motives. Lovers’ quarrel, a falling out over money, some fever of the brain. Don’t you see? It answers all of their requirements. It removes me as a threat and it eliminates the one other person who knows the truth—you. And they daren’t leave you alive for a trial. They cannot risk the truth about my birth coming out in the testimony. They will have to kill you as well. A prison suicide—taking your own life in remorse or a thwarted attempt at escape. And everyone will believe it because of your reputation.”

He said nothing, but his complexion had gone very white.

“Stoker, I know you do not wish to discuss your past, but—”

“But you’re quite right,” he said, his voice low and harsh. “According to public record, I am a violent man—at least if you believe what the newspapers have said about me. Half of society thinks I am mad and the other half thinks I am the devil. They could not have chosen a better villain for their melodrama.”

He faltered then, and I put a hand to his arm, rousing him from the painful reverie into which he had fallen. “What shall we do?”

“We might take Mornaday’s advice and flee,” he said slowly. “We could go abroad, somewhere on the Continent, and from there make our way around the world, as far from here as possible.”

“And run for the whole of our lives? Stoker, we would never be free of them. Can you really imagine a life like that? Jumping at shadows and wondering, every moment, if it would be our last. I could not live such a farce, and I do not believe you could either.”

“Even if it saved your life?” he demanded.

I shook my head. “Not even then.”

“Veronica,” he said quietly. “Do not think that I was suggesting anything improper in urging flight. If we leave together, I will not tarnish your reputation further. I will marry you.”

I tipped my head. “Stoker, I have received seventeen marriage proposals and that is by far the most halfhearted.”

“I mean it. I will take care of you,” he said, tugging a little at his collar.

“Generally when a gentleman proposes marriage he looks rather less like he’s awaiting the tumbril to carry him off to the guillotine. You may put your mind at ease. I have as little inclination to marry as you do. Nor do I intend to flee. But I believe you will be just as much a victim of this malicious plot as I will. And I cannot have that.”

I drew in a deep breath of the damp river air and blew it out slowly. “I have a little money put by in the bank. Not much,” I warned, “but it is enough to see you out of the country and well on your way. Madeira, perhaps. Or the Canary Islands. From there you can work your way to Africa and eventually Australia. Australia is full of unsuitable people—you will fit in beautifully. And just think of all the lovely animals you can stuff. You should go there for the platypus alone,” I said with considerable more brightness than I felt.

“And what do you intend to do?” he asked slowly.