He left us and I turned to Eddy. “Well done, Eddy.”
He bristled. “One does not like to threaten another gentleman with violence, but I will not let any man bully my sister.” He deflated a little then. “Although I must say, he is a chilling sort of monster, isn’t he? I rather thought you were going to be able to twist him round your little finger at first.”
I shook my head slowly. “No. Not a man like Archibond. That was never going to be possible.”
“Then why did you play up to him, behaving as if he were the only true gentleman and your Uncle de Clare was a dangerous madman who must be stopped?”
“Heisa dangerous madman who must be stopped,” I pointed out. “But Archibond is the true devil in the deal. He is far more cunning and ruthless than Edmund de Clare. Uncle has the old Irish grudge of hating the English coupled with the same sort of monomania one sees in those of very low intellect.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I daresay you have never met a butterfly collector, Eddy,” I told him. “Not a proper one. Most folks are content with a broad collection, amassing as many different types as they can. A true fanatic wantseveryspecimen, dozens of a singular species, and the quality does not matter. They will pay almost as much for a moldering old wreck that’scrumbling to dust as they will something freshly netted and still smelling of the meadow. They want everything because they cannot bear another collector to have anything. They might make coherent conversation or present themselves as normal, but scratch the surface and you will find an absolute fiend, incapable of sharing or empathy or rational understanding. They are driven by one desire only and that is to amass more than anyone else has.”
“But how does that translate to low intellect?”
“To be of truly high intelligence, one must have an understanding and appreciation of other people, an ability to empathize and relate.”
“I suppose he does,” he said with a nod towards Stoker.
I paused. “Revelstoke Templeton-Vane could be beaten senseless, drugged, and half out of his wits and he would still be twice the man Archibond is on the best day of his life.”
After a moment, Eddy nodded. “I can see that. So what now?”
“We wait,” I told him. “Archibond will no doubt speak with my uncle and with any luck they will quarrel and give us some time.”
“Time enough for what?” he persisted.
“Time to make a miracle.”
CHAPTER
17
I do not mind admitting that the next hours were the darkest I had yet spent in that place. Stoker exhibited alarming signs of needing proper medical attention—the most alarming of which was agreeing when I suggested such a thing.
“You never think you require a physician,” I pointed out.
He gave me a small smile. “Perhaps just this once.”
My mind whipped back to a similar situation when he had been shot for my sake and we sat for hours, waiting for help that might never have come. This time there was no bullet to blame, only the booted feet of those ruffians who had broken his ribs and likely punctured a lung. He spat up blood from time to time and his breathing was labored, and when he smiled, it was a ghost of the smile I knew so well. Only the feel of his hand in mine was the same.
I used the last of the water in the pitcher to bathe his brow.
“I was going to drink that,” Eddy protested feebly. “But I daresay his necessity is the greater,” he added swiftly at the murderous expression on my face.
He had obviously been thinking, for when he spoke again, heventured a question. “What do you suppose they mean to do to disgrace me? How will they blacken my name?”
I considered giving him a comfortable lie, but he had already risen to the occasion more than once during our ordeal, and I thought it best to pay him the compliment of the truth.
“I expect it all began with Madame Aurore and the star. You gave her an expensive trinket that could easily be traced back to you.”
“But she was going to return it,” he protested. “As soon as I told her I had had second thoughts on account of Alix, she swore she was going to give it over.”
“Was she?” I asked, giving him a moment to think.
“Well,” he said slowly, “shesaidshe was, but I suppose she might have been telling an untruth.”
“Let us presume she was,” I said kindly. “Did she ask for the jewel in the first place?”
