“I am off to have a wash,” he said shortly. “I can manage.”
He was gone, taking the dogs with him, before I could form a suitable reply.
I made a lengthy and thorough toilette, scrubbing off every vestige of the past few days and dressing myself in my favorite ensemble, my hunting costume. Designed for chasing butterflies, it had proven eminently suitable for our work as well. It consisted of a fitted white shirtwaist buttoned under a waistcoat of black and violet tweed. A narrow tweed skirt concealed slim trousers and long boots, laced to the knee. Topping it all was a jacket, cut severely but cleverly so that there was no extra fabric but plenty of range of movement. The skirt had an arrangement of buttons enabling it to be tucked out of the way in any number of configurations. I slid a handful of minuten—the tiny headless pins used by lepidopterists to secure their prey—into my cuffs,and tucked my favorite knife into my boot. I had no intention of being caught unawares again, I reflected grimly.
Dressed and clean, I presented myself at Lady Wellie’s rooms to find Lord Rosemorran just emerging. He wore his usual expression of vague benignity as he stopped to speak.
“How is Lady Wellie?” I asked.
“No appreciable change. She drifts in and out of consciousness, but seems comfortable.”
“I am glad to know she is no worse,” I told him.
He blinked as though just seeing me properly. “Were you and Stoker absent? I went to speak to you yesterday, but you were not in the Belvedere.”
“I apologize, my lord. We were assessing a possible acquisition for the collection,” I lied smoothly.
“Ah, no matter. I can’t remember now what I wanted. Something to do with a delivery, I think.”
“I am sure it will come to you,” I said. I thought of de Clare and Archibond. It was narrowly possible that they might attempt to gain entry to the estate, and with the earl’s children about, it was an eventuality that chilled me to the marrow. But I saw no need to raise fears where they might be unfounded, so I temporized. “It occurred to me, my lord, to ask about security arrangements. The collection is rather valuable, after all, and there ought to be some protection for it.”
His brows rose again. “My dear, did you not know? There is always a guard about the place. Two of the gardeners, one of the drivers, and the underbutler are all former members of the Yard on secondment for Aunt Wellie’s security.”
I blinked at him. “Are you quite serious?”
“They take it in turn to patrol the property at night. It was Aunt Wellie’s idea. She thought it might be a good notion to have a few sturdy lads about the place.”
“How long ago did she bring them into the household?” I asked, suddenly suspicious.
The earl tipped his head, calculating. “Heavens, when was it? Right about the time of the Jubilee, I should think. When you and Stoker came to live here.”
I said nothing for a long moment.That impossible old woman,I thought. She had lived decades in the shadow of danger and never set a watch for her own protection. It was not until I had come to live at Bishop’s Folly that she had ordered a guard. I thought of how many times Stoker and I had slipped out, nodding towards a vigilant gardener or making use of a driver, certain we were being discreet. And now to learn they had been keeping her apprised of our comings and goings all the while! It was equal measures annoying and touching.
“Very wise of her,” I told him.
I took my leave of his lordship and made my way to the Belvedere. Stoker was already there, looking more disreputable than I had ever seen him. His shirt was fresh, but he had neglected to shave, no doubt due to the various cuts and bruises decorating his face. He wore his eye patch, and when he moved, it was with great care.
“Not entirely decomposed, then?” I asked sweetly. It was apparent he had no wish to discuss our adventures yet. It was ever thus. In the heat of danger, he was a warrior, brave to the point of recklessness. But when it was finished and the peril had passed, a bleakness seemed to settle on him, a thorny dissatisfaction with the mundanity of life, I thought.
I considered forcing the issue, but in the end, I took refuge in our usual banter.
His only reply was a growl. I waved a hand. “You need a good breakfast and movement to stretch out those muscles,” I advised. I made my way straight to the sarcophagus, where breakfast was laid out. Our plates, heaped with eggs and mushrooms, deviled kidneysand sausages, were covered with domes. Pots of tea and racks of toast stood shoulder to shoulder with jams and butter and even a small crock of porridge. I lavishly buttered a piece of toast and drizzled it with honey, waving it in front of him like a red cape to a bull.
“Come and eat,” I ordered, handing over the toast. He took a bite and canted his head.
“What in the name of seven hells is that smell?”
I tipped my nose in the air. “You smell it too? I rather thought the sausages had gone off.” I poked one experimentally.
Stoker picked it up in his bare fingers and bit off a hearty piece. He chewed, his expression thoughtful. “It’s just a good Cumberland sausage. Nothing but pork and herbs.”
I took a bite for myself. “The kidneys?” I suggested. Kidneys were never my favorite food, but Stoker shook his head.
“I already ate one. They are quite wholesome.”
I shrugged. “Then no doubt it is one of your vile specimens.”
He folded his arms over his chest, carefully, since his ribs were damaged. “I will have you know that my specimens are impeccable. I keep a perfectly clean workshop.”
