I turned to the legal document. It was the marriage lines Stoker had spoken of—a record of my wedding to Harry Spenlove. And my eyes fell upon the space where the attending clergyman ought to have signed. It was blank. So too were the spaces for witnesses. Without those, there was no marriage, I realized with a dizzying rush of emotion. I had married him in good faith, but Harry, ever the opportunist, had—through some sleight of hand—ensured the proper legalities were not fulfilled. I had, it seemed, lived in sin with him in Sumatra. Delicious, liberating, unfettered, and unbinding sin. Whatever his intentions in keeping the document, in giving it to me, he had ensured that I knew I was free. It was thoroughly typical of him to keep the information from me and then present it as though bestowing a royal favor. I was conscious of relief, deep and profound—with an equal certainty that if ever I saw Harry Spenlove again, a smile was not what he could expect.
My gaze fell then to the postscript. “I must thank you for the loan of the cameos. I needed traveling money in order to retrieve my nest egg, but have now done so and am happy to enclose the pawn ticket and sufficient funds for their retrieval.”
Wrapped neatly in a sheet of paper was the ticket from the pawnbroker and a thick stack of fifty-pound notes. As soon as I restored the cameos, I could consider my obligation to Lord Rosemorran at an end, I realized with another rush of happiness, followed almost instantly by irritation that Harry had not simply asked for the loan of some traveling money. If he could only be bothered to deal forthrightly, I reflected, he would be a good deal less irritating.
The last items in the envelope from Harry were a handful of banknotes in exactly the amount that I had made him a loan of for a suit of new clothes and a shave. A small slip of paper read, “Debt discharged.”
The parcel was wrapped in brown paper and bore the label of Wycherly & Sons in Bloomsbury, the purveyors of the highest quality impedimenta for natural historians. I opened it to find a butterfly net. Fashioned of ash, it was elegant and lightweight, each ring painted with a narrow, smart stripe of hyacinth pink. The handle fit my grip perfectly, and the net was dark green silk, supple as a flower petal. I gave it an experimental swish and it cut through the air with a whisper. At the end of the handle, my initials had been embossed in gold.
It was not a mere love token, I realized, but a gift from someone who truly understood what mattered to me. Any man might present orchids or jewels, but Stoker had given me back my joy.
In the wrappings was an envelope marked only with the letter “V” in a bold, familiar hand, the paper smelling of honey drops and smeared in one corner with dried glue, and I smiled as I anticipated some line of Keats.
Instead, it began without preamble, and it was no poetry.
I have accepted an invitation to survey a collection of mounted wolves in Bavaria on Lord Rosemorran’s behalf. I expect to be gone for some weeks. I have had word from Charles Hathaway that the butterflies he promised are en route, and I am certain you will enjoy the study of them.
I stared at the page, then turned it over, certain I would find more writ upon the back. There was nothing.
My hands trembling only slightly, I laid the net carefully aside and picked up the third envelope. The letter inside was headed with the Templeton-Vane crest. It was from Tiberius, Viscount Templeton-Vane and Stoker’s eldest brother. He, too, began without preamble—a family trait, I thought in some irritation.
I am in Rome and have discovered the most exciting collection of birdwings—Southern Tailed, Ornithoptera meridionalis—which my hostess is willing to donate to Lord Rosemorran’s burgeoning museum provided they are treated with the utmost care by an accomplished lepidopterist. You have only to come and claim them.
I picked up Stoker’s note and sat for a moment, holding the letters—Stoker’s in my right, Tiberius’ in my left. Then I pulled out the atlas, turning the pages from Bavaria to Rome and back again.
After a long while, I rose, whistling for George, the hallboy. He trotted in, his expression expectant.
“Yes, miss.”
“You will need to watch the dogs, George,” I told him as I unearthed my carpetbag and began to pack. “I am going on a journey. Excelsior!”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Much love and many thanks to everyone who helps keep my particular ship afloat and on course: my family, my friends, my writer pals, my professional team, and all of the readers, booksellers, librarians, and reviewers who share their book love.
To the Berkley/Penguin team, I send bouquets of thanks with particular gratitude to: Craig Burke, Loren Jaggers, Claire Zion, Jeanne-Marie Hudson, Jin Yu, Jessica Mangicaro, Jenn Snyder, Ivan Held, Tara O’Connor, Alaina Christensen, and Candice Coote. The art, marketing, publicity, production, sales, and editorial departments have been Veronica’s stalwart champions from the beginning, and she would not be here without them. Special thanks to Ellen Edwards for bringing Veronica to her Penguin home, and to Eileen Chetti for deft and elegant copy edits.
This book is dedicated to Danielle Perez and Pam Hopkins. To have an editor or an agent with such talent, integrity, and warmth would be a gift. To have both is an embarrassment of riches.
AN IMPOSSIBLE IMPOSTOR
READERS GUIDE
Deanna Raybourn
QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION
Veronica embarks upon this adventure because Sir Hugo Montgomerie makes a request of her. Do you think it was reasonable of him to ask? Was it right for Veronica to agree?
Lady Hathaway is convinced the man who appears at Hathaway Hall is her long-lost grandson. What does this say about how she has coped with her loss?
Harry Spenlove is a significant person from Veronica’s past. How would you characterize their relationship? What does he have in common with Stoker?
Veronica finds it difficult to share some aspects of her past with Stoker. Why? And is she wrong to hold some things back?
Harry Spenlove used a natural disaster—the eruption of Krakatoa—to walk away from his old life and begin again. Would you do the same in his circumstances?
There are a number of very strong, capable women in this book—Veronica, Euphemia Hathaway, Isabel de Armas MacGregor, the Maharani, Anjali. What makes them stand out? What outlets do they find for their talents? And how are they limited by the expectations of the times?
Stoker asks for time to consider the ramifications of this adventure upon their relationship. Was he right to do so?