A Curious Beginning

I scrutinized his face, the handsome, even features, the guileless expression, and I did a rapid calculation. It was possible, just barely possible, that this fellow was my father if he had enjoyed a very indiscreet youth. There was something familiar in the sculpture of his bones that made me wonder if he might be. And I could not blame him for his reticence. Surely no gentleman would own such a truth in the mayhem of a London train station.

But something about his smile troubled me. Although he wielded it with practiced charm, it did not touch his eyes. And while he professed relief and joy at finding me, his gaze darted about us as his finger went to his collar. It was a minute thing, that tug upon his collar, but it was enough. He had delivered his lines with the smoothness of one who has often rehearsed, yet his own unconscious gesture had betrayed him.

“If you know my name,” I told him evenly, “then you must know I am a natural historian.”

“There is all the time in the world for us to become acquainted,” he promised. “But we must go now.”

He put his hand to my elbow, but I ignored the prompt.

“It is a pity you are not also a student of natural history,” I said. “If you had read Duchenne’s or Darwin’s works on facial expressions, you would be a much better liar.”

His eyes widened and his mouth fell open as a dark tide of red anger rose in his cheeks.

“There!” I said in some triumph. “Now you have it. Your expression accurately conveys your feelings—unlike a moment ago when you were lying. Your eyes gave you away then. And I feel I ought to make it quite clear that I do not appreciate being detained by men who ply me with falsehoods,” I finished.

Instantly, my companion was contrite. “It seems I must ask your apology once more, Miss Speedwell,” he said simply. “I have been too swift and I have frightened you, and I shall never forgive myself.” He reached into his coat and withdrew a card case. It was a flashy thing, gold and set at each corner with gems so large I could only assume they were paste. He extracted a card and presented it to me. Unlike the baron’s, this was of thin cardstock, the flimsiness of the paper betraying an attempt at economy.

“Edmund de Clare,” I read aloud. Penciled beneath his name was the address of his lodgings in London—the Empress of India Hotel, a respectable but not fashionable establishment. He doffed his hat and swept me a theatrical bow.

“Your servant, Miss Speedwell.”

“To what purpose, Mr. de Clare?” I asked.

“To the purpose of assisting you at what can only be a most difficult time. I understand your confusion,” he pressed. “A young lady, alone in the world, without friend or family to offer succor. But I am here, ready and willing to offer my services and take on the mantle of protector so recently relinquished by the baron.”

It was a pretty speech; I must credit him that. And a woman who had not learned self-preservation at the hands of a Corsican bandit might well have succumbed to his blandishments. But I was made of sterner stuff.

“How very kind of you, Mr. de Clare,” I said, giving him a smile that would never have fooled Messrs. Duchenne or Darwin. “But I have business I must conclude before I place myself entirely in your care.”

He did a masterful job of concealing his frustration, but the little tic at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “My dear child, there is simply no time to spare!” he said, bringing his face close to mine, the scent of green spices heavier now, filling my nostrils. “Even now the peril approaches.” He would have put a hand to my wrist, but I turned slightly to elude him.

“The peril?”

“From more than one source,” he said grimly. “I do not wish to alarm you, Miss Speedwell, but the man you are with is no proper person to have the care of a lady. In fact, I must warn you that you are in the gravest danger from him.”

“Indeed? Whatever has he done?” I asked, widening my eyes. I could fairly smell the frustration wafting from him.

“Things I cannot bring myself to speak of in your presence,” he returned shortly. “But you are not safe with him, no matter what you believe. Now, will you come with me?”

I tipped my head and considered. “Very well,” I told him.

The mask of concern dropped and I saw an instant of naked triumph in his eyes. “I am glad to hear it,” he told me, and I did not doubt his sincerity. Whatever his ultimate purpose with me, he was thoroughly desperate to separate me from Mr. Stoker.

Just then I caught sight of a placard in the refreshment rooms advertising ham sandwiches, and my mind whipped back to the little scene between Mr. Stoker and his errand boy as he divested himself of the remains of the ham. A devilish stratagem proposed itself to me, and I accepted.

“A moment, sir, if you please. I find I am in need of the ladies’ accommodation again,” I told Mr. de Clare, lowering my lashes modestly. “A touch of alimentary distress,” I murmured.

“Of course, of course,” he said, his tone now soothing. Clearly nothing would be too much trouble for me now that I had capitulated.