A Curious Beginning

“Of course you do. I ought to have suspected it. No creature of feeling and spirit would be content to sit by and let matters take their course. All nature would rebel against it,” she acknowledged. I gave her a gracious nod, pleased she saw things my way.

She sighed. “In that case, here is a revolver,” she said, handing over a small weapon perfectly sized for a lady’s hand. “Make certain you leave after eleven. That is when Betony is taken out for her evening patrol of the grounds.”

She left us then, and I realized Stoker had not said a word for the duration of her visit. “What ails you, Stoker? Cat got your tongue?”

He stroked his chin thoughtfully as he stared at the revolver. “I was merely thinking that it may have been a very grave mistake to introduce you to Lady C. If the pair of you ever put your minds to it, you could probably topple governments together.”

I smiled as I pocketed the weapon. “One thing at a time, dear Stoker. One thing at a time.”

? ? ?

Some hours later—after a cold meal of Lady Cordelia’s offerings and several games of two-handed whist during which Stoker collected a sizable IOU from me—we ventured forth. I dithered a moment over my hat but in the end opted to lay my favorite rose-bedecked chapeau aside for my second-best, a much smaller and less obtrusive affair decorated with a lush cluster of violets.

Stoker peered at my carpetbag in stupefaction. “How much have you packed in there? It is a veritable Aladdin’s cave.”

I held up my hatpin to the light, admiring the slender strength of the steel. “Packing a bag efficiently is simply a matter of spatial understanding,” I told him. I thrust the point of the pin home, skewering the hat neatly to my loose Psyche knot. He eyed the unguarded tip warily, but I noticed in addition to the blade he usually kept in his lanyard, he slid a second into his boot.

“Good heavens, how much trouble are you expecting?” I demanded.

He blew out the candle. “In my experience it is the trouble you do not anticipate that is the most dangerous.” We stood in the darkness for several minutes to let our eyes adjust, saying nothing, scant inches apart. I could hear him breathing, long slow breaths, and smiled to myself. He was calm—almost unnaturally so, and this was precisely what I required in a partner in adventure. At my signal we moved to the door, slipping into the night. He took my hand and led the way through the grounds of Bishop’s Folly, following the path we had taken earlier in the day. I expected he would drop my hand once we left the property, but he kept it clasped in his, even as we eased out of the gate and through the darkened streets.

He chose alleyways and quiet parks rather than the well-lighted thoroughfares crammed with the vehicles of the fashionable. We crept across silent squares and ducked into areas thick with shadows. Whilst society went about its business in the broad roads we skirted, the creatures we passed in the shadows were those who made their living by their wits—prostitutes and vagabonds, thieves and blackguards, bent upon their degradations. Once, when we heard the sharp step of a constable upon his rounds, Stoker whisked me into the dark corner of a tradesman’s yard, pushing me up against the brick wall as his arms came firmly about me. I hitched my leg around his waist and twined my arms about his neck, knotting my fingers in his hair as he pressed his face into my neck, nuzzling the delicate skin of my ear. The bobby’s light flashed our way, illuminating a stocking-clad leg and a glimpse of thigh tight in Stoker’s grip. The bobby chuckled, no doubt taking us for a wayward maidservant and her panting swain, and went about his business. We waited a moment, clinging to each other as his footsteps faded into the distance.

Stoker pulled away just enough for me to see his eyes gleaming in the shadows. “He is gone,” he said hoarsely.

But his hand still rested upon my thigh and my hands were still knotted in his hair. “In that case, we ought to let go of each other,” I said evenly.

He sprang away from me, smoothing his hair as I straightened my skirts. “I must apologize—” he began.

I waved an airy hand. “Think nothing of it. Your quick thinking under the circumstances was commendable,” I told him.

He slanted me a curious look but said nothing more.

Arm in arm, we proceeded on our way. After a rather uneventful passage across Hyde Park—we inadvertently disturbed a pair of male lovers entwined beneath a tree who cursed us roundly—we emerged near Curzon Street. Another several minutes saw us safely into the baron’s street, a quiet but respectable address, and Stoker led me down to the area, where we gained entrance through the tradesman’s door.