A Curious Beginning by Deanna Raybourn Page B

manners to admit so selfish a motive to Mr. Stoker in his time of bereavement.
    I trotted on obediently, turning down this street and then that, following Mr. Stoker’s guiding hand until we reached the looming enormity of Paddington Station. With its spacious arches and exuberant iron lacework, Mr. Brunel’s pride and joy had persuaded me that in spite of their reputation for stodginess, engineers were in possession of truly flamboyant imaginations.
    But Mr. Stoker had no eyes for this marvel of modern engineering. Instead he ducked into a shadowy corner and studied a timetable intently, peering up at the station clock as he made his calculations.
    â€œSurely that was a circuitous route,” I ventured, half expecting him to ignore me.
    â€œA necessity. I wanted to make certain we were not followed.”
    Before I could ask him to elaborate, he nodded towards the ticket counter. “We have a quarter of an hour before our train leaves. Come along.”
    I did not move and he turned back, his expression darkening. I forestalled him. “You may purchase the tickets. I will avail myself of the ladies’ accommodations while you do so.”
    He opened his mouth—to swear at me, I had no doubt—but I lifted a hand to silence him. “I have no intention of eluding you, even though you must see now how absurd it is to attempt to abduct a lady in a public place.” I nodded towards the portly figure of a bobby striding into the station. To my astonishment, Mr. Stoker lifted the timetable as he pulled the brim of his hat lower, shielding his face.
    Clearly he had no wish to attract the attention of the constabulary, and I pressed my advantage. “Now, my dearest possession is my butterfly net,” I told him. “It is the foundation of my profession and my most beloved tool. I will give it to you as a pledge that I will meet you on the platform before the train leaves.”
    He made a strangled sound, but I was already shoving the net into his hands. I walked briskly away, leaving him to secure the tickets. The lavatory was some distance, past the bookstall and confectionary stand, and I felt my stomach give a hungry little lurch as I strode past the refreshment rooms and the wafting scent of roast beef. I completed my errand quickly, emerging with clean hands and smoothed skirts. I was just tweaking my cuffs into place when a gentleman fell into step beside me. I was not unaccustomed to such approaches, and in my experience, a frosty look of gravest hauteur is the best method of discouragement.
    But as I turned to give him my most withering glance, I faltered. The gentleman was a stranger to me; of that I was certain. Yet he regarded me with an expression akin to that of Moses beholding the Promised Land. I hesitated a mere second, and in that second, he had his opportunity. He took my elbow and whirled me to a stop behind the tobacconist’s stand.
    â€œSir!” I protested, and instantly he dropped his hand.
    â€œYou must forgive my importunate approach, Miss Speedwell,” he said, giving a swift glance around us. The milling travelers passed us by without a second look, and he stared at me, his gaze avid as it roved my face. “A thousand apologies. I had no wish to startle you,” he said, his voice low and earnest and beautifully modulated. He was perhaps a few years above forty, well dressed, and smelling faintly of green spices. No grey yet threaded his black hair, and I wondered for a moment if he had resorted to boot black to retain an impression of youth.
    But no. There might be a line or two at the corners of his eyes, and his jaw might have softened a touch beyond first youth, but his mouth curved into a smile of such dazzling charm, I knew this was a fellow who would retain his appeal well into old age.
    â€œYou have the advantage of me, sir,” I replied coolly.
    â€œAgain, I can only ask your forgiveness,” he said, but I marked he did not