A Curious Beginning

His expression was dubious. “Miss Speedwell—”

I held up a hand in a gesture of mock severity. “It is Mrs. Stoker, but you may call me Veronica. If you don’t want to give away our masquerade, you must practice calling me by my nom de guerre, even when we are alone.”

“Very well. Veronica.” He hesitated, searching for words, mining each one slowly and with care. “I suppose I may have been a trifle precipitate in coming here. I reacted badly to the news of Max’s death and the possible consequences,” he began. “I must confess I did not think the matter through as well as I ought. I realize now I have put you in an untenable position. I know you have traveled alone, but this is a very different situation for a lady. This entire charade could have devastating consequences for your reputation.”

I gave a distinctly unfeminine snort. “And this only now occurred to you? My dear Mr. Stoker, I set myself beyond the pale the moment I put myself under the baron’s protection. Surely you don’t think polite society would approve of such an action? Or my remaining in a gentleman’s quarters at all hours without a chaperone?”

“I did not think,” he muttered.

“Then it is a very good thing you are not often called upon for the protection of ladies in distress,” I returned. “But you need have no fear upon that score in our present situation. I daresay I have more experience of the world than you.”

He gaped like a fish pulled from the water, and it was a moment before he found his tongue. “Surely you don’t mean—”

“I do. And why not? The female of the species is just as prey to the passions of the flesh as the male, and with greater cause, as it is her responsibility to propagate. But I am tired and it is far too late to engage in a thorough discussion of Darwin versus Wallace, don’t you think?”

I opened the windows of the caravan to let in a draft of fresh cool air, heavy with the scent of hedge roses and honeysuckle. “Ah, that is lovely!” I said, drawing in a great deep breath of it.

“It is bloody cold,” he argued, but I would not be crossed. I gave him a cool stare.

“Mr. Stoker, I am prepared to suffer only one discomfort while sleeping. You may share the bed with the windows open or you may sleep on the chairs with the windows closed. It matters not in the slightest to me.”

I reached for the top button on my coat and he licked his fingers, diving to snuff the lamp. I waited a moment for my eyes to adjust to the gloom, then removed my coat, jacket, shirtwaist, and skirt, folding them neatly and placing my hat tidily on top. My stockings were rolled into a bundle to fit under the crown of my hat, and my corset left under it all so as not to offend Mr. Stoker’s delicate sensibilities. I slipped under the coverlet in my chemise, courteously moving to the far side. All the while I was conscious of him in the darkness, breathing softly as he heard the rustlings of my clothes coming free.

He did not relight the lamp. He undressed in the dark as I had and slid into the bed. The mattress dipped alarmingly, flinging me into him.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he muttered, shoving me back against the wall. But I had been highly amused to discover that my face had brushed against his feet. He had observed the gentlemanly expedient of lying with his head opposite my own. It was a trifle disappointing—for all his hygienic defects, he had the potential to be a deliciously attractive fellow—but it was an unthinkable breach of my rules to contemplate indulging in the pleasures of the flesh with him. He was, after all, an Englishman, and I never trifled with my own countrymen.

Unfortunately, my mind was of another opinion entirely, for I was kept wakeful by a number of interesting thoughts regarding Mr. Stoker and his physique. I amused myself for a while thinking about his musculature and his intriguing tattoos, but as this brought me no closer to peaceful repose, I distracted myself with other questions. Mr. Stoker, it seemed, was similarly afflicted. I felt him turn over more than once, shaking the entire caravan as he did so.

“Why haven’t you slept in a bed in six months?” I asked.

“Because I sold it to pay for supplies,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep.

“A foolish economy. A man can hardly work to his full potential when he is robbed of proper rest,” I observed.

“And he cannot get proper rest if his bed has been seized by bailiffs because he did not work,” he retorted.

“True enough. Does this mean you will lose the commission from Lord Rosemorran? Since you failed to finish the elephant, I mean?”

He groaned. “Damn it to hell. I didn’t even think of that.” He swore again.

“I am sorry to have pointed it out. Perhaps he will understand the delay if you explain to him.”

He gave a bitter laugh. “Explain what? That my mentor died and I had to abduct his murderess?”