“One of the extremist groups,” I said, skimming the lines. “But a more moderate delegation has come to London for a series of meetings. They hope to achieve their means by peaceful negotiation.” There was a photograph of the leader of the delegation—a maharani of mature years, which I applauded. It was far beyond the time when women should take their seat at the table of international politics, I believed. Unlike their masculine counterparts, women were far less likely to fling themselves headlong into war, to begin with.
I was about to hold forth on the subject when George, the hallboy, appeared, waving a letter that had just arrived in the second post. I slit it open with a fruit knife and skimmed the lines, noticing they had been penned in haste. Sir Hugo’s handwriting, while always spidery, did not usually lurch quite so alarmingly.
“Sir Hugo asks us to meet him in Hyde Park,” I said. “Near the Serpentine.”
Stoker broke a sausage to pieces and fed the bits to the dogs. “Absolutely not.”
I blinked at him. “Stoker, we cannot refuse. The Metropolitan Police force is the finest in the world,” I said stoutly. “And Special Branch is its most illustrious division.”
“Feathers,” he said, piling more eggs onto his plate and adding a few deviled kidneys for good measure.
“And,” I went on as if he had not interrupted, “Sir Hugo is the headof Special Branch. That makes him one of the foremost champions of law and order anywhere on the globe.”
He sat heavily and plunged his fork into the heap of food on his plate, fixing me with a dark look. “I refuse.”
“You have no reason to refuse,” I said evenly. Stoker, being a male of the species, could not help occasionally erupting into irrationality. I had long observed that when a man does so, it is simplest to treat him with the same calm good humor one might employ when coaxing a stubborn horse or a slightly backwards child.
He put down his fork. “I can give you a score of reasons. I have been shot. I have been stabbed. I have been abducted. I have been very nearly drowned—”
I held up a hand. “For which you can hardly blame Sir Hugo. He did not drown you, nor did he abduct you. He has never shot you, and I am the only person who has stabbed you. It is illogical in the extreme to blame poor Sir Hugo for any of those inconveniences.”
“Inconveniences?” His voice rose an octave. “You do recall that I very nearly died during one or two of those events?”
“Lower your voice, my love. You are alarming the dogs.” I nodded to where the pack had pricked up their ears.
He picked up his fork again and stabbed a piece of bacon. “I know what this is about. You are feeling restless again. It has been two months since we last encountered a corpse and you nurture hopes that Sir Hugo will put us on the scent of fresh adventure.” He waved his fork for emphasis.
“Do not point your breakfast meats at me, sir,” I said in a tone of mild reproach. “I will admit only to a curiosity about what Sir Hugo wants and a willingness to put my talents, whatever they may be, at his disposal. For the good of England,” I finished.
“For your own bloody amusement,” he muttered, stuffing thebacon into his mouth. “Besides, I have a new mount to disassemble today. Lord Rosemorran spent hours playing with those benighted puppets and never even mentioned he has just taken delivery of a rather nice albino giraffe. From the Duke of Grasmere’s collection. It’s in filthy condition and apparently I am the only man in England His Grace trusts to repair it.” He preened a little as he helped himself to more bacon.
I widened my eyes. “Heavens! How long has it been dead?”
He shrugged. “Sixty- or seventy-odd years.”
“Then it will still be dead when you return,” I said, smiling.
He growled and grimaced all the way through breakfast, but in the end, he put on his coat and came with me, although as a token of his annoyance, he made no move to pay for the hansom cab. Sir Hugo had instructed us to our rendezvous and I took care that we should arrive a few minutes before the appointed time. Sir Hugo could be as prickly as Stoker when vexed, and I hoped to find him in good humor. It had occurred to me to wonder if Sir Hugo had finally learnt of our Alpenwalder escapade. The events of that investigation had caused me to impersonate the princess of that country—a small crime, I supposed—and commit one or two other, much more significant acts. One might even be considered treason by an ungenerous person, I reflected. Sir Hugo, knowing the secret of my semi-royal birth, had been accommodating upon occasion, but I did not know if his indulgence would extend to criminal conspiracies, particularly those involving diplomatic relations. It seemed wisest not to test him if such a situation might be avoided.
And so it was a quarter of an hour before the designated time when Stoker and I passed through the gates of Hyde Park, where the plane trees were unfurling their soft green leaves to greet the spring with good cheer. Around the Serpentine, nannies pushed their charges in perambulators, both carefully polished. We passed a Sikh gentleman in a turban, quietly feeding bread crumbs to the ducks, and awoman of insalubrious appearance having a lengthy conversation with a red squirrel, whose ears twitched in response. I might have deplored the bustle and grime of the city, but London was also endlessly diverting, I reflected.
I had dressed in a town suit of heavy violet silk, the cut neat and just fashionable enough not to attract much attention. But venturing out with Stoker was rather like taking a pet lynx for a walk. He, too, wore a town suit—of excellent make, the aristocratic habit of good tailoring being one he could not bring himself to abandon. A closer look revealed the odd stain of wax or ink or custard cream due to his inveterate habit of wiping his fingers upon the nearest piece of cloth. But even if his suit had been in a state of pristine tidiness, he would have arrested attention. He was tall, reaching just six feet, and broadly muscled, his shoulders straining the seams of his coat. His hair, thick and black, waved to the bottom of his collar. His shirt concealed the myriad tattoos he had received whilst in Her Majesty’s Navy, but the slim silver scar that ran from one brow to the cheekbone was silent witness to his encounter with a jaguar in the Amazonian jungles. That his eye had not been lost was a miracle. But the injury had left him subject to fatigue, and when that happened, he wore an eye patch, black as a pirate’s heart. Coupled with the hooped gold earrings in his ears, the eye patch presented a creditable impression of a buccaneer, and I was not surprised when one or two nannies hurried their charges out of his path. I was even less surprised to see the expression of frank longing on the faces of a few of the maids. He is, without question, a striking-looking man.
To my surprise, Sir Hugo had already arrived and was sitting on a bench, well wrapped against the late morning chill. He rose as we approached and touched his hat.
“Miss Speedwell,” he said, inclining his head in a courtly gesture. “Templeton-Vane.”
As the third son of the late viscount of that name, Stoker was an Honorable and his given name was Revelstoke, neither of which he enjoyed. For as long as I had known him, he was Stoker to friend and foe alike. He gave Sir Hugo a cool nod in return.
“It is rather too brisk for sitting,” Sir Hugo said. “Why don’t we walk and I will tell you why I have summoned you.” It was not a question. He put a hand under my elbow and propelled me forward. Stoker joined us on my other side and we moved onto a quiet path away from the nannies and their charges.
“We would have been happy to come to you at Scotland Yard,” I began.
Sir Hugo held up a hand. “No. This is a private matter, not police business,” he said. He paused a moment. “I should like to ask you for a favor. Of a personal nature.”
Stoker’s brows shot skywards, but he said nothing. “Go on,” I urged.
We began to walk again, slowly, as Sir Hugo spoke. “It concerns my goddaughter, Euphemia. Or rather, it concerns her entire family. They are called Hathaway and they live at Hathaway Hall on Dartmoor. Miss Speedwell, are you quite all right? I think you stumbled there.”
