“How on earth have you deduced that?” I demanded.
“When Merryweather was born, his wet nurse was from the County Offaly. She used to tell me stories while she fed the little brat,” he said, but there was a fondness, albeit reluctant, when he referred to his youngest brother. “I was quite mesmerized by the size of her bosoms,” he went on.
“Yes, well, if you can possibly tear yourself from a sail down the river of nostalgia, you might realize that an Irish captor raises one most unwelcome possibility as to the author of this little misadventure,” I said.
He sighed again. “Uncle de Clare.”
“Uncle de Clare.”
The last time we had seen Edmund de Clare, he had thrown himself out the window of Stoker’s riverside workroom, his flesh aflame as he plunged into the filthy waters of the Thames. His corpse had not been recovered, but I had been assured that there was nothing terribly unusual in that. The vagaries of the river meant that there was no way of knowing for certain where a body would emerge, if at all. It was so easy to think of Edmund being swept out to sea and the whole wretched ordeal being finished. Too easy, it seemed.
“I thought he was dead,” Stoker said. “When a fellow has the flamboyance to catch on fire and plunge out of a window into a filthy river, he ought to have the courtesy to be dead.”
“You would think,” I replied in a tone of authentic bitterness. “But I always had my doubts. It would be just like him to survive such an escapade only to resurrect himself in order to vex me.”
“Be easy,” Stoker counseled cheerfully. “It may be an entirely different villain. After all,” he added with a jerk of his head towards Eddy, “he has a fair few enemies. This mayn’t have anything to do with you. Or me.”
Before I could reply, the door opened again and a man stood silhouetted in the doorway. I had not met him in two years, but I knew him at once.
“Hello, Uncle,” I said pleasantly. “The last time I saw you, you were on fire. I see you have been extinguished.”
He came forward, into the light, leaning heavily on a walking stick of Malacca. He had been a handsome man—once. He made his way slowly into the room. One leg seemed twisted and he moved it with great effort; one arm was tied up in a silken sling, the hand covered with a glove. The fire had wrought its damage, but those scars were honest, the twisting of flesh by flame. I had met dozens such men upon my travels—former soldiers, fishermen, explorers. Accidents were common in the realm of natural history. Stoker himself bore the relics of a voyage gone disastrously awry. But this was different. This was a man whose very spirit was damaged, and that was nothing to do with the physical ravages of his ordeal.
“Your mother used to brazen out her troubles as well,” he said, a glint in his eye. “Or at least she did before she killed herself.”
“Well, that was uncivil,” I told him, striving to keep the tremble from my voice. “But I suppose I have only myself to blame. Should I have greeted you with open arms? A thank-you for the delicious supper? Or a kiss on the cheek and a compliment on your skills as a kidnapper? You seem to have got so much better at abduction since our last meeting.”
“God, you’ve a tongue like an adder,” de Clare said. He signaled to Quiet Dan, who came forwards with a small chair. De Clare settled himself carefully, like a man well accustomed to the grip of pain.
“The years,” I said slowly and with some pleasure, “have not been kind.”
“No,” he agreed more pleasantly than I would have expected. “They have not.”
He paused a long moment, studying me. “You are so very like her. It is not enjoyable to converse with a ghost, Niece.”
“I am not my mother,” I said, my hands curling into fists beneath my bonds. “I am my own person.”
“That you are,” he said, settling back expansively in his chair. “You have the look of her but none of her gentleness. She was bendable as a willow, our Lily. Beautiful as a faery and twice as wild, but she was weak.”
“I think you will find that the willow is considered one of the strongest trees in nature,” Stoker offered. “The genusSalicaceae—”
“Enough,” de Clare said, beckoning Quiet Dan forwards once more. “Another word from you and I shall let him beat your head against the floor until it is soft as a boiled apple.”
Stoker bristled but said nothing more.
De Clare turned his attention back to me. “When the Prince of Wales abandoned her, Lily allowed her emotions to get the better of her. She gave way to her despair instead of rising above it. She took her life because she was too weak to live.”
“Perhaps,” I said, struggling to keep my voice calm, “she was too mired in that despair to see another way.”
He gave me a narrow look. “Aye, there was another way. She could have made her claim public, forced the prince to do his duty by her.”
I gave a short laugh. “Do you really think that would have been permitted? She would have been silenced and well you know it. Theadvisers and lawyers and ministers would have seen to it that her story never became public. She would have been pensioned off and sent abroad with me.”
Sent by someone like Lady Wellie,came the disloyal thought. And not for the first time, I wondered what Lady Wellie would have done if confronted with the truth of my existence when I was still young enough to be made to go away.
De Clare leant towards me a little. “Or she would have rocked the monarchy, brought it to its knees. Given us a new queen,” he said with a mocking little bow of the head.
“So, it is the same plot as last time?” I asked. “You mean to use my quasi-legitimate status as the daughter of the Prince of Wales to call the succession into question and light a scandal that will burn down the English monarchy?”
