An Unexpected Peril (Veronica Speedwell #6) -Deanna Raybourn Page 0,19
happenstance, I presume.”
His mouth twitched, and I knew he was close to laughing.
“I might have sent him a letter or two with suggestions on beauty spots he would appreciate,” I allowed. “But I suspect you know that, as you no doubt sent him a few hints of your own.”
He colored slightly. “There is a pretty little sloth I have been coveting,” he admitted. “If he happened to find one, I should not be entirely displeased.”
“I shall tell him to make you a birthday present of one,” I promised.
With that rare sympathy we shared, he fell silent then, holding my gaze, and I knew what he wanted.
I sighed. “I give you my word that I will not seek out any further involvement in the matter of Alice Baker-Greene’s death.”
“Then why,” he asked gravely, “do I suspect you of crossing your fingers?”
Before I could form an indignant response, young George appeared, waving a note overhead. “Delivered by messenger,” he said in breathless excitement as he thrust it into my hands. My name and Stoker’s were scrawled on the envelope. The missive inside contained only a few hasty words—Come at once. Curiosity Club. C.
I snatched up my hat and cloak and urged Stoker to haste. “Something is amiss,” I told him as he thrust his arms into his greatcoat, the tails flapping behind him as we strode along Marylebone Street. “Lady C. has the tidiest penmanship I have ever seen, but this looks as if it were written by an inebriated moose.”
I stood on tiptoe on the edge of the pavement, straining to see an empty cab.
Stoker cupped his hands to his mouth and made a sound of such eldritch horror that half the horses in the street started in surprise. But a cab came trotting smartly around the corner and we sprang inside, urging the driver to make haste. Still, the streets were thick with traffic, wagons and carriages and carts all jostling for place with the monstrous bulk of omnibuses while pedestrians picked their way as best they could through the throng. There were a few hours of short, sharp daylight that time of year, and the city never seemed more alive to me than in the brief bright hours in which so much business was conducted. Amidst the odors of horse and burning coal I could smell roasting chestnuts and the occasional whiff of woodsmoke. The air was damp and heavy, the clouds gathering to draw a grey veil over the sun.
“The weather is turning,” Stoker remarked as he cast a practiced eye upon the line of rooftops. “It will be icy by morning.”
I shivered in my seat. Like all butterfly hunters, I was most at home in tropical lands where the most flamboyant species of lepidoptera flourished. Give me a jungle, a forest lush with green and thick with flower-scented air that steamed gently, pulsing with life and promise, and I was a happy woman. This sooty, smirched chill that penetrated one’s clothes and settled into the bones was most difficult to bear in January. The calendar had turned, the days were lengthening, spring was a promise, but it was a long and shiversome season until May blossoms would ripen.
It took longer than I might have preferred to reach the club, but we arrived at last to find Lady C.’s anxious white face peering from one of the upstairs windows. She dropped the curtain when she saw us alight from the hansom, hurrying downstairs to meet us as we entered.
“Whatever is the problem—” Stoker began but she hissed him to silence.
“Hush! Not here. Upstairs,” she said, bustling us up to the exhibition room. She drew a key from her pocket and unlocked the door, making it fast behind us once she had peered down the corridors to make certain we were not observed.
Stoker did not have to repeat his question. There was a gentle crunch underfoot as we trod on broken glass, powdering it into the carpet. The display cabinet had been broken.
“An unfortunate accident,” I began. But Lady C. shook her head.
“There are scratches on the lock,” she told us, her expression grim. “Someone had a go at forcing it but couldn’t manage it. They might have feared to take too long or simply lacked the strength to break it. In any event, they found it easier to break the glass.”
“What is missing?” Stoker asked, peering in the cabinet.
“Only one thing, as far as I know,” she said. “Alice Baker-Greene’s summit badge from the Alpenwalder Climbing Society.”