A Curious Beginning

Stoker swore fluently and shoved his teacup aside.

“Where are you going?” I asked sweetly.

“Out.”

“Mind you don’t stray too far. I promised Lady Cordelia we should dine with her and his lordship tonight.”

The only response was the slamming of the Belvedere door behind him. I smiled and poured out another cup of tea.





CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR


Stoker was in such a filthy temper when he returned that I felt rather sorry for the Beauclerks for inflicting him upon them. He said scarcely a dozen words at dinner, restricting himself to complimenting Lady Cordelia on the lamb and Lord Rosemorran on the acquisition of a rather fine pelt of a Himalayan bear. It was left to the Beauclerks and to me to carry the flag of civility, and we managed quite nicely.

We settled onto the subject of travel, and his lordship was most interested to find I had been to Switzerland, a country of particular interest to him.

“And how did you find Switzerland, Miss Speedwell?” he asked as we started in on some elegant fish roulades.

“Very pleasant, so long as one is able to overlook the preponderance of goiter,” I replied.

That led to a thoroughly engrossing discussion on the efficacy of the Chinese methods of dealing with goiter, the Boxer Rebellion, opium addiction, the problem of crime in the East End, and the difficulty of finding a cook who could produce a really good blancmange.

Through our conversational meanderings, I also learned that Lady Cordelia claimed membership in the Hippolyta Club, founded to celebrate the achievements of remarkable women. I had long been intrigued by its reputation for accepting the most distinguished members, whose intelligence was equaled only by their accomplishments. Some of the less respectful society wags had christened it the Curiosity Club on the basis that its members were constantly sticking in their noses where ladies’ noses ought not to be, but the members had adopted the epithet as a badge of honor. For her part, Lady Cordelia had been nominated on the strength of a paper she had written upon the subject of hyperintegers, mathematics being her particular passion. Scarcely able to multiply beyond the twelves myself, I was immensely impressed, and I turned to Lord Rosemorran, inviting him to share my respect.

“Oh yes, Cordelia and her numbers. Very useful for keeping the estate accounts,” he said with a fond look.

I looked back at Lady Cordelia, who was quietly dissecting her lamb into tiny pieces. It was the rankest chauvinism that he reduced her intellectual accomplishments to columns in a ledger, but I realized from her placid looks that Lady Cordelia must be well accustomed to his benign neglect, and I sighed for her. She gave me a small, conspiratorial smile, and I found myself liking her very much indeed.

For his part, Lord Rosemorran was keen to display his newest treasure, a stuffed Eurasian eagle owl he had purchased at auction. “Belonged to Voltaire. Was it Voltaire?” he asked, rummaging in his pocket for the card with the specimen’s description. “Ah well. It makes little difference now he’s mine. I mean to call him Tacitus.” He nudged me in the ribs with his elbow. “D’ye mark the joke? Rather good one that, calling a stuffed owl Tacitus.”

He was still chuckling when we took our leave, and while Stoker tarried a moment to discuss the new trophy with his lordship, Lady Cordelia walked me through the morning room to make the acquaintance of her lovebirds, Crates and Hipparchia. They had the freedom of an enormous cage of wrought iron, some ten feet in length, but they cuddled close together on a single perch, rather like their namesakes.

I said as much to Lady Cordelia and she smiled her gentle Madonna’s smile. “They are devoted to one another,” she said. She was dressed, as ever, in deepest black, and as she spoke, she twisted a ring upon her finger. It was a mourning ring set with a single lock of hair the color of a russet apple.

She saw my glance and squared her shoulders, concealing her hands in the folds of her skirts. “How go your investigative efforts, Miss Speedwell?”

“We are moving forward,” I told her. “There was a development today, in fact, during the course of which I am sorry to say that I lost your revolver. You must allow me to replace it.”

She shook her head. “Do not trouble yourself. I only hope it proved useful.”

“Indeed it did.”

“Good,” she said. “You must let me know if you require further protection of firearms. His lordship has quite a collection.”

“For the love of God, do not encourage her,” Stoker instructed as he strode up to join us.

“I am not encouraging,” she said calmly. “I am abetting.” She turned to me. “You are striking a blow for all of us with your adventures, Miss Speedwell. I hope you know that.”

I thought of her then, her brilliant mathematician’s mind wasted upon grocers’ bills and linen counts, and I pressed her hand in return. “I will do my best not to let down the side, Lady Cordelia.”