We fell to talking of other things—the natural beauties of the island, the difficulties of living in so remote a place—and although we turned at times to talk to our partners, we conversed easily upon a variety of topics. The food was excellent, the consommé being followed by several courses of fish. From fried soles sauced delicately with lemon we proceeded to roasted turbot and curried lobster, all of it freshly drawn from the sea around the Isle, our host assured me with obvious pride.
“Our waters are some of the most bountiful in all of England,” he boasted. “Luckily for us.”
“Indeed?”
He smiled. “We are a Catholic family, Miss Speedwell, and it is Friday,” he reminded me.
We were partnered again during the sweet course, and after we had finished it, I remarked upon how clever the confection had been.
“Clever?” he asked.
I gestured towards my empty crystal dish. A sorbet had been served with tiny plates of the most elegant cakes I had seen outside of a patisserie. “The rose sorbet. It is a perfect complement to the roses in the centerpieces. Rosa mundi, are they not? The rose of the world?”
• • •
As luck would have it, my remark came during lulls in the other conversations, and I distinctly heard the sharp rasp of a spoon scraping over china.
“Rosamund,” Helen Romilly whispered.
Malcolm Romilly gave her a thin smile. “It seems Miss Speedwell is the only one to notice my tribute. It is fitting, is it not? A mass of roses to commemorate Rosamund.”
The rest of the company was silent, expressions varying from numb horror (Helen Romilly) to acute boredom (Mertensia). Only Tiberius was smiling, a small, cruel smile.
I looked to our host. “Who is Rosamund?”
He did not look at me, staring instead at one of the striped roses. Unlike the others, this one must have been imperfectly arranged, for it drooped away from the epergne, brushing wilting petals against the tablecloth.
“She was my wife, Miss Speedwell. At least, she was my bride,” he corrected in a still, small voice.
“She disappeared on their wedding day,” Mertensia supplied bluntly. “It’s been three years and no one has seen or heard from her since.”
Stoker turned to her, his brow furrowed. “You do not know what has become of her?”
Mertensia’s laugh was brittle. “You don’t know the story?” She glanced from Stoker to me and back again. “Goodness, where have the pair of you been? On the moon? It was the most shocking scandal of 1885.”
“In 1885, my brother was fighting for his life in the jungles of Amazonia,” Tiberius told her with a quiet sternness I had not expected.
“And I was somewhere in the foothills of the Himalayas,” I added. “I am still not entirely certain of the exact location. The maps of that region are imprecise at best.”
Mertensia was not cowed. “Still, newspapers do exist,” she replied. “And poor Malcolm was on the front page of every one. It isn’t every day an English gentleman misplaces his bride.”
“That will do, Mertensia,” her brother murmured.
“I should say so,” Helen Romilly put in. “This entire conversation is in very poor taste.”
“I’m surprised you should think it in poor taste to speak of the dead,” Mertensia riposted.
A delicate flush touched Helen’s cheeks as she looked unhappily at her plate. Whatever Mertensia had meant by the barb, it had clearly struck home, and I found myself intrigued by the relationship between the two.
“I say,” Caspian said, stirring himself to his mother’s defense. “That isn’t entirely fair, Aunt M—”
Helen made a gesture of restraint at her son, and Mertensia bridled. “Do not call me that. The very notion of being an aunt is lowering. Aunts should be withered old women of seventy with spaniels called Trevor who lie at their feet as they knit antimacassars.”
“We have wandered a little far from the subject,” Tiberius put in, giving a thoughtful look in Malcolm’s direction.
Malcolm dragged his eyes from the wilting rose. “Yes. Thank you, Tiberius.” He forced a smile. “My dear guests, it has been a long day for everyone who has traveled so far to get here, and I think a good night’s sleep is in order. We will retire directly. But first, raise your glasses once more, if you will. To the woman I loved, to my bride. To Rosamund.”
“To Rosamund,” came the various murmurs around the table. Malcolm Romilly finished off his wine, drinking deeply while the rest of the company sipped politely. We made noises of good night and sleep well, and in the dispersal of the group to bed, no one but I noticed that Tiberius put his glass down untouched.
• • •
I am an excellent sleeper but that night I tossed and turned as if on a bed of nails.
“Blast the man,” I muttered as I thrust my bedclothes away. I meant Stoker, of course. I had traveled to a fascinating place in the company of an intriguing aristocrat who was wildly skilled in the flirtatious arts. There were diverting undercurrents of tension and mysterious things afoot. Best of all, the prospect of my own colony of glasswings danced in my head. I ought to have been held fast in the arms of Morpheus, slumbering sweetly as I dreamt of butterflies and blue seas. Instead, whenever I closed my eyes, I saw only him.
With a few elegant curses, I wrapped my dressing gown about me and made my way up the staircase that wound, tight as a snail’s shell, to Stoker’s room. I did not bother to knock and he did not look surprised to see me. He was sitting in the embrasure, looking into the black night. I sat beside him, noticing the spangle of stars and the bright pearl gleam of the moon as it hung, full and low.
“I suppose you think I owe you an explanation,” I began ungraciously.
He did not turn to face me. “You owe me nothing,” he said, his voice
