I thought of J. J., my opportunistic friend who had, at least thus far, resisted spilling my secrets to the world. But how much greater a story it would be if it were revealed that the semi-legitimate daughter of the Prince of Wales not only existed but had a husband and was comfortably sharing her favors with another man. Perhaps even personal loyalty would not be enough to still J. J.’s pen. And I would not be the only one destroyed by the lurid headlines. Stoker had experienced the viciousness of the popular press, and it had nearly killed him. I would not permit the hounds to tear at him again.
My hands curled into fists. “You would not dare, you—” The exact word I used has no bearing on this narrative, but it was enough to cause Harry to adopt once more a wounded expression.
“That was entirely uncalled for,” he protested.
“You are blackmailing me,” I countered. “I think it entirely justified.”
“I am not blackmailing you—I would never do such a thing.” He seemed genuinely affronted. “Blackmail would require that I demand money or services in exchange for keeping your secret. In point of fact, I am asking you to keep mine.”
I opened my mouth and snapped it closed again. In that completely unnerving way he had, Harry had neatly turned the tables upon me.
“I had forgot,” I said slowly.
“Forgot what?”
“That talking to you is like staring into a carnival looking glass. Up is down, down is up. Nothing makes sense.”
“Of course it does.” His voice was gentle and his smile back in evidence. “Veronica, do you think I enjoy playing the villain? I loathe it. I want only to be left alone, but like any creature, I will fight if I am cornered. I know you do not trust me, but I wish, how I wish that you would! I have endured so much these past years. I long for peace. And you know, as well as anyone, peace can only be purchased at a price. I am destitute. Would you see me beg in the streets?”
“Of course not,” I murmured.
“Then let me have this chance,” he pressed. “I vow to you, on anything you hold sacred, that I will not take so much as a crust of bread that has not been given freely to me.”
“And Lady Hathaway’s jewels?” I asked, curling a lip.
“That is a question for another day,” he said smoothly. “She may change her mind. Charles and Mary may persuade her to keep them with the estate for the benefit of their children. Effie might coax her into giving them up as a dowry. Or the old dear might pawn them to take a holiday on the Riviera with Mrs. Desmond,” he added, his smile deepening to reveal the dimple at the side of his mouth. “For now, all I ask is that you do not interfere with me.”
“And in exchange you will not interfere with me?” I asked. “You will not speak to the newspapers?”
He reached out to take my wrist. His fingers wrapped around my cuff and he drew back with a sharp exclamation of pain as the minuten pierced his skin. Tiny drops of blood beaded his fingers. “Some things never change,” he said with a rueful look at the prick marks on his hand.
“I am never entirely without defenses, Harry. You should remember that.”
I stalked away from him, anger lending speed to my steps and distracting me from my footing. I walked for some time, over rises and down hillocks, until at last I had run out my rage. I set my foot down, expecting to find solid ground beneath me, but the earth itself seemed to shift. I had stepped into a puddle of mud, I realized, and made to withdraw my foot. Instead, it stuck fast, with all the tenacity of a hand gripped about my ankle.
“Blast and damnation!” I muttered, dropping my net to the firm path and bending over to plant my hands in such a manner as to gain purchase to pull my foot free.
But I had underestimated the strength of the suction of this little patch of bog. It crept up my nether limb, seizing foot, ankle, then shin in its embrace. The weight of the mud dragged at me, slowly, inexorably. I reached out for my net and drove it hard into the nearest bit of firm ground. Taking it in a firm grip, I pulled with all of my might, pushing down with my free foot in order to break the seal of the bog.
With a violent crack, the pole of the net snapped in my hands, sending me flying backwards as my free foot slid out from under me. I caught myself at the last second, wrapping my hands in a tuft of moor grass to prevent my body from being sucked entirely into the mire. My leg was now imprisoned up to the top of the thigh, and my free leg was inching perilously close to it. Something in the grasses I held gave way then, and I slid backwards, my second leg now firmly in the grip of the bog. I moved it experimentally and felt myself slide further still, the mud cold and heavy against my hips.
“This will not do,” I said severely. I still held half the pole in my hand, and with an Herculean effort, I plunged it once more into the ground, taking care to bury it deep enough this time. I wrapped both hands around the small portion that remained aboveground, pulling myself forwards, one painful inch at a time. Time moved with the slow thickness of treacle, but it was most likely only a few minutes before I was able to feel solid ground beneath my hips. Danger still lurked, I reminded myself. One false move and I should slip back into the welcoming embrace of the bog mud.
With infinite care, I pulled the makeshift stake free and drove it home again, stretching out my arms to secure it as far into safety as I could. I inched forwards again, this time hearing my feet come free with a decidedly loud sucking sound. A person with little experience of such places might have attempted to stand at this point, but I knew better. I pulled my legs to my chest and rolled, over and again, until I was on trustworthy ground. Then I sat, breathing hard and cursing myself for a fool. As I had explained to Effie Hathaway on our first day, I knew well enough how to care for myself in such situations. And yet. The first rule my guide had impressed upon me was the importance of avoiding such peril in the first place. “The easiest quicksand to get out of, Miss Veronica,” he had said with an emphatic gesture, “is the one into which one never gets.” I had always enjoyed his unique turns of phrase, and that was one that had remained with me always.
At least until now, I reminded myself with some bitterness. It has been my experience that when one is accosted by a lowness of spirits due to some failing in one’s character, it becomes a habit to seek out and prod any other failing. Self-loathing is a habit, and one I could not afford to indulge. I doubt I should have castigated myself so thoroughly on my mistakes in the bog had I not already felt akin to a worm in light of my association with Harry Spenlove. I was not entirely certain which I deplored more—the fact that I had married him in the first place? The knowledge that I had not been completely truthful with Stoker? The opportunity I had not seized to tell Stoker the full story the previous night? Or the sordid little scene in which I had just engaged with my erstwhile husband? I was tempted to keep his secret, not solely to protect Stoker, I reflected as I lay in the moor grass. My exertions had stripped me of my emotions and pretenses, leaving me to face the unwelcome truth: I was inclined to protect Harry because I believed there was a grain of truth to his story. It might well have been no more significant than a speck of sand in an hourglass, but it was enough to cause me considerable consternation.