Tiberius took no offence at the jibe. “No doubt, no doubt,” he agreed. “Have you finished the Megalosaurus?”
“Almost. Just a few little spots I want to touch up early tomorrow. It will be ready,” Stoker promised.
“Good. The flowers and entertainers I have ordered from London will be down on the first train.”
“Entertainers? Where will you put them?” I asked. “The Megalosaurus is hardly large enough to accompany a quartet.”
“They will disport themselves outside the beast, and we will be able to see them and hear the musicians. Food, music, flowers.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “And plenty of expensive wine. That should set the mood nicely.”
“I tremble to ask,” Stoker put in, “but set the mood for what, precisely? Surely you cannot intend to accuse your own guests of a spot of homicide during dinner.”
“I might,” Tiberius said, his expression suddenly inscrutable.
“How?” Stoker demanded. “A casual mention between the starter and the fish course? ‘Oh, do try the turbot, and by the way, did any of you happen to poison Kaspar von Hochstaden?’ ”
Tiberius gave him a repressive look, very much assuming once more the mantle of elder brother. “Do not, I beg you, lapse into vulgarity. I would never serve turbot.”
I held up a hand. “Boys. The guests will be down any moment.”
Tiberius grinned. “You know how arousing it is when you speak to us as though you were our nanny,” he said in a seductive growl.
“Having now met your nanny, I do not find that comparison remotely flattering,” I told him. “Now, I am not at all comfortable with the notion that one of your guests might be an experienced murderer intending to wreak some sort of vengeance upon you. I think one of us should stay with you tomorrow. At all times.”
Stoker thrust his hand into the air. “Not It.”
“I was going to suggest myself,” I told him, “but there will be times I cannot accompany Tiberius and you should make yourself available.”
“To act as his keeper?” Stoker asked, frankly incredulous.
“No,” I said sweetly. “His protector.”
At that, both brothers swore furiously. “I have a Megalosaurus to finish tomorrow,” Stoker said. “I shall spend the better part of the day inside my dinosaur. Tiberius, do try not to get yourself murdered.”
Before Tiberius could reply, Collins appeared, escorting the guests into the drawing room. Tiberius made the introductions as Merry slipped in, adjusting his collar and running a hand over freshly brushed hair. I scrutinised the guests carefully with an eye to who might most easily play the villain.
First, Pietro, the Conte di Salviati, and his American wife, Beatrice, entered. They were an extremely handsome couple, and the countess, a vivacious personality, was several years her husband’s junior. She was a brunette, beautifully dressed in a gown so fashionable, it could only have come from Paris and only within the last few months. It was cleverly cut in a shade of shimmering pearl grey that suited her complexion of pale olive and showed off her elaborate parure of garnet intaglios to perfection. Her only other jewel was a rosary worn at her belt, the beads polished onyx and the cross glittering with tiny diamonds. She had wide, dark eyes which went often to her lord and husband.
It was obviously a love match, I observed, for the count’s hand caressed his wife’s waist and his eyes rested adoringly upon her. His profile was his chief attraction, marked by a hawklike nose and high forehead punctuated by a sharp widow’s peak. It was an attractive, even a noble face, although his expression was watchful as his gaze lingered upon his wife. There was some anxiety in his manner, an unease about bringing her here, amongst these strangers. It was never easy to befriend the companions of one’s husband’s youth, and I noteda certain nervousness in her fluttering hands and quick glances. The count kept a steadying arm about her, and I found I liked him for his gentle attentions to her.
This pair were followed closely by another, Sir James and Lady MacIver, the very picture of Scottish aristocracy. He looked the sort of gentleman more at home in country tweeds than evening finery, and his formal black coat strained slightly at the shoulders, as if his presence were simply too large to be contained by seams. He had thick moustaches, very like those ofOdobenus rosmarus, save that his turned upwards at the ends, giving his expression the appearance of a perpetual smile. Some gingery hair remained on his head, brushed neatly over a gleaming pate, and his brows were lavishly tufted. In old age, they would wave about like the antennae of one of the livelier beetles, I had no doubt.
Lady MacIver was tall, her height nearly matching that of her husband, and she was only a few years his junior, I judged. Fine lines webbed her lovely blue eyes, and her figure was only slightly thicker than it must have been in girlhood. The result of childbearing, I supposed, thinking ruefully of Nanny MacQueen’s pronouncements on my own deficiencies. Lady MacIver moved with considerable elegance, a cool counterpart to the more animated American countess, and she was dressed in the silvery blue of newly bloomed periwinkles. I did not care for her gown—far too much lace for my taste, and one can bear only so much ruching—but it was obviously expensive, as were the enormous pearls hung at her throat and ears.
The introductions were made, and the greetings exchanged were of the convivial sort.
“Stoker,” the count said in lightly accented English. “I remember you, although you were just a boy in short pants. And Merryweather! Look at you, a man of the Church. You were still in skirts the last time I was here, scarcely out of your cradle.”
Merry flushed to the roots of his hair, but Stoker merely grinned and shook the count’s hand. “Come,” said the count, “you must meet my Contessa Beatrice,” he urged, giving her name the Italian pronunciation.
The lady smiled, revealing very even, white teeth. “How do you do?” She held a gloved hand to Stoker first, then Merry, as the count turned to me.
“Ah, the estimable and beautiful Miss Speedwell! How well Tiberius speaks of you, and yet he has done you no justice, for you are enchanting,” he said, sweeping a courtly gesture in my direction.
“Lord Templeton-Vane is too kind by half,” I replied.
“Nonsense, my dear,” said Lady MacIver, coming forward and extending her gloved hand. “Tiberius says the most remarkable things about you, and it is already apparent he has not exaggerated in the slightest. James, come and shake hands with Miss Speedwell,” she instructed her spouse. He shambled over and took my hand in his enormous, beefy one.
“How do, Miss Speedwell?” he said gruffly.
