An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6) -Deanna Raybourn Page 0,17
dislike of me on the grounds that she adored Stoker and would not countenance a rival for his regard. I had won her over by giving her the perfect recipe for dosing her despised brother with a rhubarb concoction that would see him heaving up his guts, but the ensuing punishment from her father had swiftly put an end to our accord. Given her slightly alarming tendency towards physical violence, Lady Rose was not an enemy I cared to provoke.
“Lady Rose returned home this afternoon,” I informed him. “She has already told his lordship that she intends for you to take her stargazing this evening. Something about a meteor shower.”
Stoker swore under his breath. “What the devil is the little menace doing home? She is supposed to be at school.” Stoker was smiling in spite of himself. He had a real fondness for the child and her obstreperous ways, no matter how much he railed against her.
“Sent down,” I said briskly.
“Again? Did she try to burn this school down as well?”
“No,” I told him. “The headmistress.”
Stoker blinked. “She tried to burn down her headmistress?”
I shrugged. “She meant to light a firework off to stop them having to go to chapel, but the thing shot the wrong direction and ended up in the headmistress’s wig, according to Lady C.” Her niece’s waywardness was a frequent source of vexation to Lady Cordelia, who was often left to the practicalities of caring for her brother’s motherless children. The rest of them had their challenges, legacies of seven hundred years of Beauclerk eccentricity, I had little doubt, but Lady Rose took the peculiarities to new heights.
I tipped my head. “I was just reading about Alice Baker-Greene. She advocated for strong physical education for high-spirited girls.”
“Perhaps Lady Rose needs to be taken to a mountain,” Stoker suggested.
“And shoved off it,” I finished.
“I am sorry about our evening,” he said, a faint note of hesitation in his voice.
I waved a hand. “Never mind. I have a great deal of reading to do in any event. And with Lady C. busy finding another school for Lady Rose, more of the work of the opening of the Baker-Greene exhibition will fall to us.
“Besides,” I added, resting a fond hand on Vespertine’s broad head, “I have a companion for tonight.”
His mouth curved into a smile. “Replaced by a hound,” he said lightly. But the smile did not reach his eyes, and when he turned to go, I did not stop him.
CHAPTER
5
I slept, as is my custom, quite well that night, waking to a chilly, fogbound morning and the weight of Vespertine draped over my legs and pinning me to the bed.
I shoved him off and made my ablutions, reaching for a comfortable work ensemble of dark blue tweed piped narrowly in velvet. It reminded me a little of the princess’s costume although nothing near as fashionable. But the cut was serviceable and the color flattering, and I made my way to the Belvedere with a brisk step. Stoker and I habitually took breakfast there, the food brought down from the main house by George, the hallboy, and laid out in a sort of buffet atop a Greco-Roman sarcophagus. I had just finished my repast when Stoker appeared, looking a little the worse for wear. He had not shaved and the dark growth always in evidence after a day’s passing was a heavy shadow. He wore his eye patch, a sure sign that his old injury—the one responsible for damaging his eye and leaving the narrow scar running from brow to jaw—was troubling him.
I gave him an inquiring look. “How was your meteor shower?”
“Nonexistent,” he growled. “The bloody fog rolled in and we could not see two feet. Lady Rose was so mightily put out I had to teach her sea chanties until two in the morning to get her to go to bed like a nice child.”
“Sea chanties?”
“I was rather hoping that a little forthright naval language might persuade Lord Rosemorran he should forbid her from associating with me,” he said, his expression hopeful.
“She will find a way,” I warned him.
His face fell and he helped himself to a plate of eggs and sausages. He ate in silence for several minutes, then began to toss scraps to the dogs. “Was it a jealous rival in mountaineering? A thwarted lover? A failed climbing student?”
I roused myself from my reverie. “I beg your pardon?”
“Alice Baker-Greene’s murderer,” he said. “I presume you have spent the last few hours inventing theories.”