CHAPTER
6
Having concluded our work the next day in a timely fashion, we fell into gentle disagreement about how best to beard the marquess’s son in his den.
“We cannot simply appear at Lord Ambrose’s door unannounced,” I pointed out. “It is not done.”
“When,” Stoker inquired in a tone of exaggerated politeness, “has that ever deterred you?”
“Shall I remind you now or later that we are undertaking this investigation for your benefit, dearest? This is our one and only course of inquiry just now, and if we offend Lord Ambrose by imposing our attention on him without warning, he may dismiss us at once as frauds or fantasists.”
“I suppose it does seem a trifle unusual to ring a man’s bell and ask to see his doll collection,” Stoker admitted with ill grace.
“Anatomical Venuses,” I corrected him. “Shall we prevail upon Lord Rosemorran to write us an introduction?”
Stoker shook his head. “He has gone to Cornwall. Something about trouble with the tin mines, and he wants to look things over. He expects to be gone the better part of a week.”
“We could wait until his return,” I suggested. “Or...”
Stoker put up a warning finger. “Do not say it, Veronica.”
“Or,” I went on as if he had not spoken, “we could apply to some other person of influence to provide an introduction.”
Stoker flopped backwards into his chair with a groan.
“I shall take that as agreement,” I said cheerfully. “Put on your coat. We are going to see your brother.”
***
Stoker had, in point of fact, three brothers of whom he was fond in varying degrees depending upon geography. Generally speaking, the further away one was, the more Stoker liked him. At that particular moment, the eldest—Tiberius, Viscount Templeton-Vane—was amusing himself by turning his considerable talents to the management of his country seat in Devon. The youngest of the brothers, Merryweather, was currently engaged in consoling a bereaved gentleman who had featured heavily in our last investigation.[*] That left Sir Rupert, the second-born and most conventional of the Templeton-Vanes. Whilst Tiberius had acquired his title through inheritance, Rupert had been knighted by Her Majesty—ostensibly for the translation of Chinese poetry, but really for the successful completion of several delicate diplomatic missions. He was a paragon of discretion, privy to my own secret status as a semi-legitimate member of the royal family and virtuous enough to keep that confidence unto the grave.
But where I saw stalwart loyalty, Stoker perceived priggish intractability. For his part, Rupert would forever deplore Stoker’s refusal to conform to the expectations of his class—namely that he should settle down to one of the few occupations open to gentlemen and starch his collars.
Managing the various quarrels and grudges amongst the Templeton-Vanes was a task for which I had neither time nor inclination. I bullied Stoker into a half-decent town suit and hat although he refused to put on any sort of necktie and wore his dustiest boots by way of rebellion. He grumbled all the way to Rupert’s house where, as it was a Saturday, we expected to find him settled comfortably by the fire. Rupert was a creature of habit and a lover of home comforts. He never strayed far from hearth or tea table if he could avoid it, and that particular afternoon was cloudy and unseasonably cold, the lowering skies threatening rain at any moment.
We were ushered into the drawing room where we were greeted with genuine warmth by a tall and graceful lady of middle years, although there was no sign of Rupert.
“Veronica! This is an unexpected pleasure, my dear. And Stoker as well, how lovely. Come, sit by the fire. It is grown chilly, and you are just in time for tea.” Lavinia, Rupert’s wife, urged us to chairs, deep, comfortable, and upholstered in heavy glazed chintz. A fire screen needlepointed with the Templeton-Vane arms shielded us from the heat of the fire, softening it to a homely warmth, whilst bowls of potpourri steamed gently upon the hearth, sending fragrant drifts of rose into the room.
“Are you certain we have not interrupted you?” Stoker asked, nodding towards the open book she had clearly just abandoned on the sofa.
“Indeed not,” she assured us. “One can only read so much before the eyes begin to tire and the mind wanders apace.”
I leant near to peer at the title. “Mary Somerville’sConnexion.” I was as impressed as I was surprised at her choice.
“Have you read her?” Lavinia asked eagerly. “I confess I know precious little of mathematics or astronomy so I find it slow going, but it is so intriguing I am determined to finish. She proposes a planet that may lie beyond Uranus. Astonishing.”
“I will send you a copy of herPersonal Recollectionsto read.Marvellous stuff. One wonders what she might have accomplished if she hadn’t been distracted by the business of bearing and burying children.”
“Indeed,” Lavinia replied dryly. “Rupert was called away on business, but he ought to be returned any moment. Don’t let’s wait tea for him. It is far too foul a day to put off the pleasures of the tea table.”
The tea things appeared then, and we applied ourselves to refreshment, Lavinia and I taking modest portions of sandwiches and cakes whilst Stoker happily consumed the rest of the sandwiches, seven jam tarts, scones with jam and cream, and the better part of a chocolate cake. The plates were almost empty of anything but crumbs by the time Rupert arrived, soaked to the skin and shivering. He punctuated his greeting with several heavy sneezes in succession.
He greeted me with cordiality and dropped a kiss to the fair cheek of his wife before looking in dismay at the wreckage of the tea table. A lone and very tiny chicken sandwich reposed in solitude on the platter. “My god, Stoker, you have the appetite of an anaconda. I think there is a leg of lamb in the larder. Shall I fetch you the bone to gnaw upon or would you rather suck the marrow directly?”
Stoker gave him a lazy grin and held eye contact as he reached for the sandwich and popped it into his mouth. “Oh, dear. I seem to have finished it all.”
Lavinia rose smoothly. “I am so glad you enjoyed it, Stoker. That is a new receipt, and I have worried there might be just a touch too much tarragon in the mayonnaise. I shall tell Cook you approve. And I will order a fresh plate of sandwiches for you,” she told her husband with a meaningful look. I understood her intention at once.Be courteous, dear. They are guests.