“Mertensia,” Malcolm Romilly said in a steady, authoritative voice. “That is enough.” His sister shrugged, clearly more interested in her dinner than in sparring with her brother’s widow. Malcolm looked to his sister-in-law. “Helen, please accept my apologies. Of course you andCaspian are family. You were much loved by Lucian and he was much loved by us.” He raised his glass, the dark red wine catching the candlelight like a handful of garnets. “A toast, then. To the memory of my late brother, Lucian. And to burying the past.”
Helen Romilly gave him a sharp look, but the rest of the company merely echoed the toast and sipped. Only Malcolm Romilly did not drink. He stared into his glass as conversations began around the table amongst the dinner partners.
“Are you scrying?” I asked him in a teasing tone.
He roused himself. “I beg your pardon?”
“The old folk custom of looking into a crystal ball or a bowl of water to tell one’s future. I have never seen it done with a glass of wine, but I am certain it could be attempted.”
He gave me a curiously attractive smile. “I am glad his lordship thought to bring his brother and you, Miss Speedwell. I think with strangers amongst us, we might behave better than otherwise.”
He fell silent again, staring into his wine for a long moment before giving himself a visible shake. “Forgive me. I seem to be woolgathering and I am failing in my duties. Now, Tiberius tells me you have a passion for my glasswings. Has he mentioned my intention to make you a present of some larvae?”
“It is very generous of you.”
He waved a hand. “I am very happy to think that a colony of them might find a home in your vivarium. It is a miracle they have survived as long as they have. The slightest alteration in habitat or climate, and we might have lost them. In fact, for some years, we thought we did. It was the most delightful surprise to find them thriving once more.”
We fell to talking of other things—the natural beauties of the island, the difficulties of living in so remote a place—and although we turned at times to talk to our partners, we conversed easily upon a variety of topics. The food was excellent, the consommé being followed by severalcourses of fish. From fried soles sauced delicately with lemon we proceeded to roasted turbot and curried lobster, all of it freshly drawn from the sea around the Isle, our host assured me with obvious pride.
“Our waters are some of the most bountiful in all of England,” he boasted. “Luckily for us.”
“Indeed?”
He smiled. “We are a Catholic family, Miss Speedwell, and it is Friday,” he reminded me.
We were partnered again during the sweet course, and after we had finished it, I remarked upon how clever the confection had been.
“Clever?” he asked.
I gestured towards my empty crystal dish. A sorbet had been served with tiny plates of the most elegant cakes I had seen outside of a patisserie. “The rose sorbet. It is a perfect complement to the roses in the centerpieces.Rosa mundi, are they not? The rose of the world?”
•••
As luck would have it, my remark came during lulls in the other conversations, and I distinctly heard the sharp rasp of a spoon scraping over china.
“Rosamund,” Helen Romilly whispered.
Malcolm Romilly gave her a thin smile. “It seems Miss Speedwell is the only one to notice my tribute. It is fitting, is it not? A mass of roses to commemorate Rosamund.”
The rest of the company was silent, expressions varying from numb horror (Helen Romilly) to acute boredom (Mertensia). Only Tiberius was smiling, a small, cruel smile.
I looked to our host. “Who is Rosamund?”
He did not look at me, staring instead at one of the striped roses. Unlike the others, this one must have been imperfectly arranged, for itdrooped away from the epergne, brushing wilting petals against the tablecloth.
“She was my wife, Miss Speedwell. At least, she was my bride,” he corrected in a still, small voice.
“She disappeared on their wedding day,” Mertensia supplied bluntly. “It’s been three years and no one has seen or heard from her since.”
Stoker turned to her, his brow furrowed. “You do not know what has become of her?”
Mertensia’s laugh was brittle. “You don’t know the story?” She glanced from Stoker to me and back again. “Goodness, where have the pair of you been? On the moon? It was the most shocking scandal of 1885.”
“In 1885, my brother was fighting for his life in the jungles of Amazonia,” Tiberius told her with a quiet sternness I had not expected.
“And I was somewhere in the foothills of the Himalayas,” I added. “I am still not entirely certain of the exact location. The maps of that region are imprecise at best.”
Mertensia was not cowed. “Still, newspapers do exist,” she replied. “And poor Malcolm was on the front page of every one. It isn’t every day an English gentleman misplaces his bride.”
