A Curious Beginning

“Stoker,” the baron called.

The man whirled, his hands still gripping the animal’s skin, his face imperfectly illuminated by the fire. He was half in shadow, and the shadow revealed him slowly. His left eye was covered by a black leather patch, and thin white scars raked his brow and the cheekbone below. They carried on, down the length of his neck, into the thick black beard, twisting under his collarbone and around his torso. They marred only the skin, I noted, for the muscles beneath were whole and strong, and the entire impression was one of great vitality and energy, strength unbridled. He looked like nothing so much as a fallen god working at a trade.

“Hephaestus at the forge,” I murmured, recalling my mythology. The baron shot me a quick appraising glance.

“My dear?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly, for the man had dropped his tools and was coming near. Just then he caught sight of me and paused, reaching for a shirt. To my regret, he pulled it on, obscuring his impressive form as he turned to the baron.

“Max, what the devil—”

The baron held up a hand. “I come to throw myself upon your mercy, Stoker. This young lady is Miss Speedwell. I must beg your help and ask you to keep her here. I cannot explain yet, but I must leave her with you.”

Mr. Stoker turned the full force of his gaze upon me, scrutinizing me from my butterfly net to my neatly pinned hat, and shook his head. “Not bloody likely.”

“Stoker, I know how you feel about your privacy, and I would not ask but I have no choice,” the baron pressed, his voice low.

If I had had any sense of delicacy, I would have been acutely embarrassed by the situation. As it happened, I was merely bored with their discussion. I had little doubt the baron would prevail, and I was fairly itching to see what lurked amidst the collection Mr. Stoker had amassed. I wandered to the nearest shelf, where I peered at a specimen floating in a jar. It was a pretty little frog with enormous eyes and a faintly surprised expression.

I could hear them arguing in low voices behind me, the baron’s aristocratic tones punctuated by Mr. Stoker’s occasional profanity. I put out a hand and he called out sharply. “Do not touch that! It took me the better part of a year to find the damned thing and it cannot be replaced.”

If he expected his harsh tone to cow me, he should learn differently right from the start, I decided. I picked up the jar and turned, setting a pleasant smile upon my lips. “Then you ought to have taken better care of it. Your seal is damaged, and the preservative solution is contaminated. The specimen looks to have been badly fixed as well. Pity, really, it’s quite a fine little Phyllomedusa tomopterna.”

His mouth tightened. “As the label quite plainly states, it is a Phyllomedusa tarsius.”

“Yes, I see what the label states, but the label is wrong. You can tell by the coloration of its lower legs. These are very bright orange with pronounced tiger stripes. Tarsius has green legs. Really, I am quite surprised you did not see it for yourself. I should have thought so avid a collector would have noticed such a difference. Ah well, perhaps you have not had the chance to examine it closely.”

Mr. Stoker’s mouth gaped open until he closed it with an audible snap. “I assure you, Miss Speedwell, I am intimately familiar with that particular specimen, considering I collected it myself in the jungles of the Amazon.”

I was enthralled. He had appalling manners and questionable hygiene considering the state of his hands, but any man who had been to the Amazon was worth talking to.

Evidently Mr. Stoker did not share my interest in conversation, for he turned back to the baron to remonstrate with him one last time. “I haven’t time to mind strays for you, Max. I have to finish that bloody great elephant by next month or Lord Rosemorran will not pay me.”

The baron put out his hand. “My dear friend, I would not ask if necessity did not demand it.”

Mr. Stoker said nothing, and, doubtless sensing his advantage, the baron pressed it. “I ask you for this one thing in memory of the dangers we have known together.”

Mr. Stoker’s face flushed dark red. “It is a very genteel form of extortion to remind a man of his debts, Max. Very well, dammit. I am nothing if not a man of my word. You have it. I will keep the lady here until you come for her.”

The baron put out his hand to clasp his friend by the shoulder. “You have repaid your debt in full with this.”

“I cannot think how,” Mr. Stoker protested. “Overbearing spinsters are not exactly your stock in trade.”

I studiously ignored the insult as I replaced his Phyllomedusa. Within a few moments the baron was on his way, taking his leave of me with a bow over my hand and a smartly Teutonic click of the heels.