A Curious Beginning by Deanna Raybourn Page A

adventure,
I reminded myself. And perhaps this was the beginning of one, I supposed, for I did not believe myself to be in any material danger from Mr. Stoker, no matter how filthy his temper. I relied upon my instincts, excellent as they were and sharply honed by years of travel among uncertain folk. Not everyone was content to let explorers traipse about their property in the pursuit of butterflies, and my excursions had brought me among some quite uncivil characters. A certain bandit chief in Corsica came to mind. But I had eluded his attempts either to murder me or make me his wife, and we had parted on excellent terms. In fact, he had even been gracious enough to give me a series of lessons on how to defend myself with some skill. I was entirely convinced I could enjoy similar success with Mr. Stoker. Besides, he clearly had very little experience in menacing women. He had not even thought to confiscate my hatpin.
    So I resolved myself to be cooperative, and for several minutes Mr. Stoker busied himself about the workshop, rummaging through various boxes and tins to scrape together the remaining coins that comprised his modest treasury. He ruffled the pages of several books and a few banknotes of very small denominations fluttered free. He pocketed the money, then doused the lamps and the fire in the stove, leaving only one slender candle to banish the gloom. He slipped a knife into a leather sheath depending from a lanyard that he looped about his neck, buttoning it securely under his shirt. I might have raised an objection, but again came that instinctive certainty that no matter how angry, no matter how enraged he became, his fury—even armed—would never be directed in any meaningful way at me. I resumed counting as he walked. I had just reached six hundred and eighty-two when Badger returned, brandishing a pair of telegrams.
    â€œI have them, Mr. S.!” Badger thrust the papers into Mr. Stoker’s hand, and he read them over swiftly.
    â€œGood lad.” He handed over another palmful of coins. “There’s a good fellow. I know I can rely upon you.”
    â€œYes, sir, Mr. S.! And I will take care of Huxley, never fear.” The boy coaxed the bulldog out from under the sofa and tied a bit of string to his collar for a lead. Mr. Stoker took up a slouchy, low-crowned hat, which he jammed upon his head before hefting his bag. He turned and gestured sharply to me.
    â€œCome on, then.”
    I made a point of pausing to scratch the dog behind the ears before we left. It was better for Mr. Stoker to comprehend fully that I was no one’s captive but my own.

CHAPTER SEVEN
    M r. Stoker chose not to share the details of where we were bound, and I knew better than to ask. Although I had remarked upon his loss, he was not yet grieving for the baron, I reflected. That would come later, after the finality of death sat with him during some long moment of quiet contemplation. Then, and only then, would it become real to him. For the present, Mr. Stoker was a man of action, propelled by his fear and his rage, moving ever forward and towing me ruthlessly in his wake. I saw no point in giving any impression other than peaceful compliance, so I purposefully took up my bag and net and accompanied him through the darkening streets. He walked swiftly, with the smooth-hipped, rolling gait of a man who has spent a great deal of time on horseback or at sea. He walked with his hand clamped to my arm, but he needn’t have bothered. I had no thoughts of escape. The puzzle of the baron’s untimely death was too intriguing to be ignored. And if, as Mr. Stoker assumed, there was anything I could possibly do to shed light upon the subject, I now realized it was my duty to do so. It had further occurred to me that in losing the baron, I had lost the one remaining connection to my mother. In finding the answers to his end, I might well find the answers to my beginning, although it would be the rankest of bad