A Curious Beginning

“Hm?”


“Lying to Lady Cordelia about what we found in the baron’s study.”

His brow was furrowed. “Too soon to share. We have made no sense of it yet. All we have discovered is that you are the daughter of an actress—”

“And illegitimate,” I threw in.

“It is not gentlemanly of me to stress the point, but yes, illegitimate to boot. And we know that somehow the baron was involved in acting as go-between in this liaison. We further know that at some point your mother died, possibly by your father’s hand, possibly not. But her death left you in the care of the Harbottles, women who were so afraid that they changed your name and moved you from place to place.” He tipped his head thoughtfully. “Do you suppose they killed your mother in order to keep you for their own?”

I narrowed my gaze into my severest look. “Do not be daft. Those gentle old women—it’s unthinkable. And neither do I believe the baron’s involvement in covering up my birth was a motive to murder him. It is all quite ancient history, after all. It happened a quarter of a century ago.”

“Max’s murder didn’t,” he replied.

“No, of course not. But to think that that heinous act was somehow connected to my birth is a tremendous stretch. Surely you see that.”

“What about your uncle?”

“What about him?” I demanded.

“You don’t find it just a little coincidental that he should make an appearance now, right when Max is killed? Your birth must be tied to Max’s death.”

“Must? That’s a dangerous hypothesis,” I told him. “There might be a dozen equally likely explanations.”

He turned and fixed me with a roguish look. “Would you care to make a wager upon the point?”

“A wager?”

“I’ll wager there is a connection between your birth and Max’s murder, and I’ll further wager that your uncle is involved somehow.”

“Fine,” I said, extending my hand. “A guinea.”

“A guinea! Have a heart. I am a poor man,” he said, clutching his pocket.

“A guinea,” I repeated.

He shook my hand with ill grace. “Very well. A guinea. And when I win it, make it a nice, shiny new coin. I’ll not have one that’s dull and worn.”

“They spend the same, Stoker.”

“I shan’t spend it. I shall hang it from my watch chain and wear it with pride.”

“You would try the patience of one of the most forbearing of saints,” I told him. “But you are my best hope of unraveling this tangled skein. Where do you think we should proceed from here?”

He tipped his head. “The sweet shop.”

“To pursue the caraway seed we found at the baron’s? But a sweet shop wouldn’t sell caraway seeds.”

“No, the sweet shop because I am out of humbugs,” he said, turning out his pocket.

“I must congratulate you. I didn’t think you had the power to surprise me any longer, Stoker, but I am continually astonished at your ability to consume sweets. It is a wonder you have a tooth left in your head.”

He bared his strong white teeth and snapped them soundly. “Saint Apollonia be praised.”

I tucked my arm through his, careful not to jar my wound. “Come on, then. Humbugs it is, and when we’ve bought them, we shall hold a council of war and decide our next move.”





CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO


Stoker proved a true connoisseur of sweets, selecting not only humbugs but bull’s-eyes and acid drops and a bar of mint cake. He tucked them into various pockets, looking far happier than I had yet seen him.

Without discussion, we turned our steps south, towards the river, and after a long walk reached the Embankment. The day continued fine, and we could see pleasure boaters plying their craft along the waters of the Thames, the bellies of the sails swelling with a soft late spring breeze.

“One feels quite removed here from the bustle of the city,” I observed.

“Hm,” Stoker agreed, his teeth no doubt stuck together by one of the atrocities he had just purchased.

I turned to remonstrate with him, but just as I did, I heard the footsteps, running hard. Sensing the danger, Stoker reached for my hand, but it was too late. They were upon us, a gang of ruffians bent upon seizing the pair of us. I kicked and clawed and cursed them roundly as they shoved my head into a sack. I don’t know what Stoker did, but I could hear the sounds of a struggle and words that chilled me to my marrow.

“We only have need of her. If he keeps fighting, do what you must,” instructed a low voice. I went still, straining my ears to hear more. I was held, quite tightly, but one of my arms had been caught up near my head, the hand trapped in the sack. I wriggled my fingers until I reached my hatpin, slipping it free. I had one chance, and I grasped it, driving the hatpin straight into the arm that pinioned me.