Beatrice shrugged. “A book of poetry I acquired some time ago.”
“Poetry,” Augusta said, making a slight moue of distaste. “I can never bring myself to like poetry. Far too much aboutfeelings, I always think.”
Before Beatrice could reply, we heard a shout—a sort of muted roar that echoed through the gardens.
“That sounded like Pietro!” Beatrice exclaimed. She rose to her feet, but before we could move towards the sound, Pietro appeared, waving his hand in the air and declaiming loudly in Italian.
“A bee has stung you? Caro mio, I am so sorry,” Beatrice said, hurrying to his side. He brandished his hand for all of us to see. There was a large red weal, puffing angrily around what looked like a thorn.
“The stinger is still in his hand,” I pointed out.
“It hurts,” he said, puffing his breath and groaning.
“Because so long as the stinger is there, it will continue to envenomate you,” I explained. “Do hold still and I will try to help.”
With the encouragement of his wife, who held his other hand and murmured gentle words of solace, he let me minister to him. I retrieved the tweezers from my lepidoptery kit and made short work of extracting the stinger. He moaned gently as it came away from the swollen flesh.
“You will want to clean that immediately,” I advised. “And a bit of honey might help the pain.”
Beatrice put her arm around her husband’s waist. “Come, my darling. Let us go up to the house and take care of this.”
He moaned again as she coaxed him away, and I turned to Augusta. “Such a fuss over a tiny bee sting!” I exclaimed.
She smiled. “I do not know Pietro well, but I can tell you he has always been a man with a propensity for dramatics.” She suddenly gave a start. “Oil of lavender! I have some in my room. One of our boys is forever being stung. He simply will not keep out of the heather and it is fairly awash with bees in the summer. I should go and search it out for Pietro. Do excuse me, Veronica.”
As she turned to go, she paused. “And Beatrice has forgot her book in all the excitement.”
“Take it to her,” I suggested. “She may not be back for some time, judging by Pietro’s histrionics. And it might be spoilt if rain comes later.” I pointed to the clouds gathering on the horizon.
Her lips thinned a little in obvious distaste at handling the book. “I rather think a good dousing would do it little harm. It is filthy.” She lifted it with her fingertips, wrinkling her nose. “Enjoy your hunt,” she added with a nod towards my butterfly net.
“Thank you, Augusta. I intend to.”
CHAPTER
17
I decided my next target should be Sir James, and I deduced that the count must have left him somewhere on the grounds before seeking out the tender ministrations of his wife for his bee sting. I made my way to the cliff path, striking out with a long stride, filling my lungs with the fresh salt air. Out on the cliffs, the glory of the day was even more apparent, the late summer sun glittering and glimmering on the sea with just enough wind to whip the waves to a froth. Without Merryweather’s caution to hamper me, I ventured near the edge a time or two, testing the ground carefully. It was possible to find sound footing even quite close to the precipice, and I stood right at the earth’s end, perched precariously but exultantly on the brink of disaster. It is a heady thing to test oneself thus, to push one’s mettle to the sharp point of endurance, but it is essential to know one’s limitations. I am never giddy at heights, but even a steady constitution can take a turn when faced with such a prospect.
I suspected that is precisely what happened to my quarry. When I came upon him, Sir James was perched on St. Frideswide’s seat, looking a trifle peaked, his expression distracted.
“Good morning!” I called brightly. He gave me a nod, raising ahand in greeting as I joined him. “Sir James, if you will forgive the observation, you seem unwell.”
I had designed my hunting costume with the utmost practicality in mind, but Stoker had made improvements. Wherever possible, he had carefully picked open the seams and inserted capacious pockets. I carried about my person not only the impedimenta of my occupation but various oddments, such as a book—a pocket edition of Ovid’sArs Amatoriadoes wonders for passing the time when one is forced to wait out a sudden storm in the shelter of a friendly grotto or hollowed-out tree—a compass, needle and thread, a sandwich of thick-cut bread laid tenderly with slices of rosy ham and good Cheddar, and a basic kit for attending to various minor medical emergencies. (I had also about my person assorted weapons, a waterproof tin of vestas, and the flask of aguardiente I had shared with Merryweather. It had been my habit to carry also a cheese wire until Stoker confiscated it. I do not admit to carrying it for the purposes of garrotting should circumstances necessitate, but I will concede that it was this possibility that caused Stoker to remove it from my person.)
“Are you giddy? I have strong liquor if the height has affected you.”
He roused himself to respond. “What’s that? No, no. Nothing like that,” he murmured. He looked about the windswept bluff and shook his head. “I have not been on this path in twenty years.”
“The late Lord Templeton-Vane forbade it, I hear,” I offered.
He nodded. “Yes. It was far too dangerous at the time.”
“A pity it isn’t shored up. With the proper engineering, it might be usable again, a shortcut from the village down to Lyme. That might be a convenient thing for the local folk when the road floods.”
“They would not want to walk here,” Sir James put in suddenly. “Not after what happened to Lorenzo.”
“Lorenzo?” I enquired, pretending innocence.
