Stoker stared at me. “I have never become hysterical. I have, upon every occasion, reacted with perfect candor and appropriateness to the situation at hand.”
“You shout a great deal,” I reminded him.
“Because I am usually in pain,” he retorted. “I have been chained, stabbed, shot, beaten, nearly drowned, and subjected to every possible insult regarding my upbringing, breeding, conduct, appearance, and intelligence. I think that is quite enough to send any man into a froth of emotion.”
“See, you admit. You are prey to your emotions. And you, a man of science,” I added, tutting audibly.
My remarks, as the clever reader will no doubt have already deduced, were designed to distract Stoker from the predicament at hand. The fact that we had been abducted was not in itself surprising or particularly alarming. That sort of thing had been occurring with such regularity, I had almost come to expect it. But during the courseof our investigations the previous October, Stoker had been the recipient of some particularly nasty attentions on the part of our abductors. Ribs had been broken, a cheekbone fractured, a lung punctured, along with various and sundry abrasions and contusions, any one of which might have felled a lesser man. He had not even begun to recover from the depredations when he had been shot, a wholly unnerving experience on my end and one I did not wish to repeat. (Stoker will protest that his was the more harrowing ordeal, but as he was unconscious for most of it whilst I was left to worry, I think I may claim the greater share of distress.)
Malefactors, I had observed, were seldom as unchivalrous as one would expect. Despite often being deprived of my liberty, I had yet to be boiled in oil, stretched upon a rack, poked with hot pins, or subjected to whatever tortures were in fashion at the time. I was usually left to worry through the long, lonely hours of darkness when Stoker was off being tormented, and the experiences had left me with nerves flayed to ribbons. I did not anticipate this new ordeal with any great fortitude, I must admit. The Swede was a tall and muscular fellow with a neck like that of a slightly malnourished ox, and I did not like the gleam in his eye when he looked at Stoker. He would take his time with it, I feared, and perhaps even subject Stoker to a few new experiences. He looked entirely too fond of his knife, I decided, and whilst I cherished each and every scar upon Stoker’s excellent physique, there was no great need to add more.
There was no way to anticipate precisely when the tortures would commence, but the time would pass more quickly in spirited conversation, thus the prick to Stoker’s temper. I thought to distract him, and I did a masterful job. He spent a good while giving vent to his various resentments, cataloging his numerous umbrages until his voice was almost hoarse, and he suddenly broke off in mid-rant.
“You are doing this on purpose,” he accused.
“Of course I am,” I returned calmly. “There is no possibility of escape at present, and we needed to pass the time.”
“How do you know there is no possibility of escape?” he demanded.
“We have been in similar peril upon enough occasions that I know how to evaluate a makeshift prison when I see one,” I said. “To begin, the floor and walls are stone, solid and immovable. There is no window to permit egress, and the door is six inches of good English oak, locked from the outside. That leaves the coal doors,” I said, pointing upwards, “which are no doubt padlocked from the outside even if we could reach them, but there are no handy bits of furniture or ladders, and the stone walls are too smooth to permit even the tiniest fingerhold in order to climb them.”
He grunted his agreement. “I don’t suppose you have a weapon stuck somewhere on your person?”
I glowered a little. “No.”
His brows steepled upwards. “Not even a corset stay you’ve sharpened into a stiletto?”
“I am, for your information, wearing a new corset and I have not had the opportunity to alter it to my satisfaction,” I replied in considerable annoyance. It was a new fashion, the ribbon corset, and had been the product of a Parisian corset maker’s atelier. I had swooned at the delicate latticework of the satin ribbons, and I had taken immense pleasure in the greater liberty of movement it permitted.
His eyes took on a significant brightness. “Is it the rose-colored one from Paris?”
“It is,” I replied. He stared off in the middle distance for some time, the rose corset having proved a particular favorite of his—in fact, on the occasion of its first appearance, he had not removed it at all, preferring to tender his attentions while it and the matching rose garters remained in place—until I snapped my fingers to get his attention.
He came to with a start, but a smile of fond reminiscence stillplayed about his lips. “And you are quite certain you have nothing upon your person which you can use against our captors?”
“I do hate to dash your hopes, but I am afraid I am dressed for calling at the Sudbury, not my working costume,” I said, plucking at the heavy violet velvet of my day dress. “I have no knives, no pins, not even a handy bit of garrote wire.”
“Garrote wire?” he asked in a choked voice.
“I purchased it during our trip to the Alpenwald,” I explained. “I was studying a cheese wire one day, and it occurred to me what a nice garrote it would make with those lovely little wooden handles. And so easy to tuck into a pastille tin! Unfortunately, it is in my reticule,” I added darkly. “Which that woman has taken.”
Stoker looked distinctly unnerved. “Do you really mean to strangle someone with a cheese wire?”
“No one ever thinks it will be necessary until it is,” I replied calmly.
“Touché. But as to your assessment of our predicament, you are entirely correct. And they have left us here a few hours, enough time to come to terms with our situation and become a little uncomfortable. Soon, they will come, either to bring food or to take me out and begin their interrogation.”
“To which I say, give them what they want,” I told him.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Give them the Eye of the Dawn. You know where it is hid. I do not. Therefore, it is up to you to tell them the truth. The diamond is what they want. And possibly Harry. Give them both and let us go and have a nice dinner.”
His laugh was incredulous. “Veronica, do you really expect them just to let us go after that? We have seen their faces. We can identify them. Hardened criminals do not let witnesses live.”
“How do we know they are hardened?” I countered. “They engagein financial schemes and plots. They may be most reluctant to actually shed blood. Besides, I am quite certain they are anticipating trouble from us. If we are amenable and cooperative, it might prove profitable for all of us.”
“And the diamond? Are we simply to hand over a jewel of immense wealth that does not belong to us?”
