A Curious Beginning

“So either Mr. de Clare was standing watch across the street and has just prevented us from being accosted by the intruder, or Mr. de Clare was the intruder,” I summarized. “But what purpose did the intruder have in breaking into the baron’s study?”


“Perhaps he was looking for that,” Stoker suggested, gesturing to the pocket where I had secured the purloined packet . “If it was Mr. de Clare, perhaps the baron meant to entrust it to him at some point—presumably Mr. de Clare knew of its existence but not its precise whereabouts. With Max dead, the fellow would have no choice but to search on his own for it. He might have lost that bit of caraway seed at any time. Or perhaps he was looking for you.” I said nothing, and Stoker went on, warming to his theme. “Yes, I like this idea quite a lot. What if Mr. de Clare knows something about you, something truly important?”

“Such as?”

“Oh, it could be anything. You say the aunts told you that you were a foundling, but what if my kidnapping theory is correct? You could have parents alive somewhere who have been searching for you for a quarter of a century.”

“I told you the aunts would never do such a thing,” I reminded him with considerable coldness.

“Very well,” he amended. “Perhaps you really are an orphan but you were left something—something valuable like an inheritance. It might be a bit of money or some jewels. Max had the papers that can prove your claim, but with him dead and no clue of where to find the papers or you, Mr. de Clare has no choice save to return to Max’s house to search for the packet—and keep watch, hoping eventually you will make an appearance.”

“That is a tale straight from one of Mrs. Radcliffe’s thrillers, Stoker. I expected better from you.”

“It is a perfectly logical hypothesis,” he returned. “Now, do shut up and stop interrupting whilst I’m being interesting. Where did I leave off?”

“Mr. de Clare is sitting watchfully every night, waiting for me to show myself.”

“And tonight, finally, you do. But before he can reveal himself to you, we are attacked by the murderous fellow who broke in tonight. The vigilant Mr. de Clare sees him off with a shot and gives chase.”

“So you like Mr. de Clare for savior whilst I like him for the villain. I suppose only time will reveal which of us has the right of it. I only hope when we do discover the truth, it is worth bleeding for,” I said dryly.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I think it is a propitious time to warn you—my stitches seem to have come undone.”

He swore fluently and reached for my arm, sliding his fingers underneath my jacket. He brought his hand away and held it up to the fitful light of a passing streetlamp. It was dark and shone wetly. “Your sleeve is soaked in blood. Do you feel faint?”

“Not in the slightest,” I lied as I pitched forward into darkness.





CHAPTER TWENTY


When I came to, I was lying on a sofa in the snug of the Belvedere. How he managed to get me out of the hansom and through the gardens without attracting attention I could not imagine.

“Quite simple, really. I told the cabman you were an inebriate,” he informed me. He sat me up and wrenched my jacket aside. Next came my shirtwaist, leaving me in my corset cover. I snorted.

“What?” he demanded.

“I was just imagining poor Lady Cordelia’s face if she were to see us now. We do seem to be very frequently thrown together in various states of undress.”

He thrust my flask of aguardiente at me. “Drink this and hush. I shall have to clean it before I can tell how badly you’ve undone my handiwork.”

The next few minutes were not pleasant, but he was quick and thorough, and as I had observed before, unfailingly gentle. As it happened, I had lost only a stitch or two, and he repaired my torn flesh, fussing all the while.

“Why the devil do I waste my skills upon you when you persist in rushing headlong into peril?” he remonstrated.

That particular remark was so blatantly unfair, it did not even merit a response, so I let it pass. I was too busy puzzling over the events of the evening.

“Do you think the fellow who shot tonight—whether Mr. de Clare or not—meant to do us a good turn? Or was he after the baron’s murderer and we were simply the unwitting beneficiaries of his attack upon the assassin?”

“I do not know, and I care less,” he muttered, clipping the end of the silk thread neatly. “It will certainly scar now,” he warned me. “Don’t you dare tell anyone that is my work. I used to be famous for the delicacy of my stitching, but now you’ve gone and ruined it.”

I surveyed the line of tiny, precise stitches and shrugged, wincing only slightly. “I shall consider it a badge of honor, a souvenir of our adventures when I am in my dotage and no one believes I once pursued a murderer.”

He opened his mouth to speak then but thought better of it. He tidied away the tools of his trade as I took up my shawl. I did not bother to re-dress, and he put my shirtwaist to soak in the little domestic office Lady Cordelia had mentioned. He came to sit beside me when he had finished. The packet lay in my lap, and I touched the violet silk ribbon.