“When the invitation arrived, you called them a pompous bunch of horse-faced numpties,” I reminded him.
“And so they are. But they areyournumpties, and I know it meant something to you to be invited to address them.”
I sighed and pushed away. “It was the first real recognition I have had from my peers that I have made contributions of significance to our field.”
He put a finger under my chin and tipped it up so that my gaze would meet his. “If you think those wool-wits are your peers, you are very much mistaken, Veronica. They are not fit to hold the tip of your butterfly net.”
I rose on tiptoe and pressed a kiss to his nose. “Thank you for that. I will make every effort to throw off this fit of the morbs. Now, perhaps we ought to address yours.”
“Mine?”
“Stoker, I am well acquainted with your face in repose. It is solemn, sometimes to the point of grimness. I confess, it amuses me to watch otherwise confident men entirely lose their self-possession simply from being in the same room with you. But there was something of rancour in your manner towards Lord Ambrose. Is it envy?”
“Envy?” He reared back in surprise. “Of your flirtation with him?”
“Heavens, no. You know me well enough to understand when I am employing a stratagem in order to gain information. And you also know me too well to suppose I would ever entertain a moment’s admiration for such a man when you are in the world. No, when I said envy, I was thinking of his pangolin.”
“I would not mind owning one,” he admitted.
“Not mind? I suspect your feelings run deeper, perhaps to the sort of covetousness that caused Moses to carry down the tablets from Mount Sinai. But I think it is not simply the pangolin?”
I paused and he gave a slow exhalation, as if setting down a burden. His hands, warm and broad of palm, ran up and down my arms, eliciting such sensations as made it difficult to concentrate upon his answer.
“It is because we are at a dead end,” he said finally. “What if we cannot discover anything about her? Or her child? She was a maid-of-all-work, and she drowned whilst pregnant. What does that suggest to you?”
“Desperation,” I said softly.
“Precisely. Hers or someone else’s. There were no marks of a ring upon her finger, and we know exactly how vulnerable such girls are. She was, at best, seduced—and most likely something far, far worse.” He paused. “A maid-of-all-work has no such protection, no housekeeper to look after her, to guard her from men in the household or neighbour lads or the barrow boys delivering from the colliery and the costermonger.”
“And no matter the situation, the girl would always be blamed for her fall,” I said. “Our poor Beauty must have been so terrified. No household with any pretence of respectability would have kept her on. She would have been turned out as soon as her state became obvious.”
“To go where? The workhouse? The gutter? Her prospects would have been worse than grim.”
“If she did take her own life, one can hardly blame her. She must have felt she had no choice.”
“Indeed. And it is a story so common as to be unremarkable,” he said in some bitterness. “But she ought not to be forgot. We should have a name for her, a grave to put her in. And whoever is responsible for despoiling her corpse ought to be held accountable.”
I took his hand. “I am entirely in agreement, my love. I do not arguewith you about the necessity of this investigation, only your state of mind. You seem disheartened.”
He said nothing for a long moment, then said, in a small, low voice, “What if, this time, there is no justice for us to deliver?”
“How can you think so?” I cried. “When have weeverfailed to uncover the plots that surround us? When has any villain eluded our efforts?”
He opened his mouth—no doubt to enumerate the miscreants who had in fact escaped our attempts to bring them to account—but I pressed a hand over it. “Never mind. Our ledger may not always have us in the black, but on balance we have succeeded far oftener than we have failed. Do you really not believe we can do so again?”
“I do not know,” he said with a weariness I had not heard from him before.
“Piffle. Your lack of spirit alarms me. Do you require building up? I could ask Lady Rose’s governess for a dose of iron tonic.”
“You are all the tonic I require,” he told me. (The interlude that followed does not bear upon the narrative, so I shall include no further comment except to say that it was gratifying indeed.)
***
The following day we had no sooner set to work than Lord Rosemorran’s porters appeared with two crates, one large and one small. The smaller bore my name but no other markings. I set to it with a pry bar and very soon had the lid away. I breathed in sharply at the sight of the contents.
Inside the crate, nestled on a bed of excelsior, was an elegant glass case. Inside this was a branch with a flower, both so cunningly crafted as to appear more lifelike than the real thing. Hovering on a slender filament of wire just beyond the petals was a familiar butterfly with glorious goldenrod wings.
“A lone Yellow Gorgon,” I breathed. There was a note inside, but I did not have to read it to know the name of my benefactor. The paper was heavily embossed with the Despard arms and the handwriting was an elegant swirl of grey ink.