Victoria Alexander - The Lady Travelers Guide To Scoundrels And Other Gentlemen

“I am at your service. Always.”

Usually, Martin’s droll comments were nothing more than mildly amusing, but on occasion, she had wondered if there was more to them than he let on. This was one of those moments. Not that she had time for sentimental speculation.

“I will meet the chaperones on the day after tomorrow, and we leave the day after that. I believe it would be wise to have more information about Mr. Saunders than I currently have.”

He nodded thoughtfully. “I will contact an investigator I know, very discreet and very efficient.” He paused, a look of resignation on his face. “You will be careful?”

She nodded. “I will.”

“I expect regular correspondence from you apprising me as to your progress.”

She nodded. “I shall do my utmost.”

“No, on further consideration...” He tapped his fingers on the desk thoughtfully. “I know you will not allow me to finance this endeavor—”

“I have savings as my salary is more than sufficient.”

“Given all your responsibilities, that is debatable. Regardless, as mere correspondence will take entirely too long to reassure me as to your safety, I shall provide you with funds so that you may telegraph me as to your whereabouts and progress.”

“Goodness, I really don’t think that’s—”

“Every third day will do.” She started to protest, but he held up a hand to forestall her. “I will not take no for an answer on this, India.”

“You don’t think every three days is excessive?”

“Probably, but with any luck you will not be gone long.” Resignation sounded in his voice. “I will expect you to telegraph me as well if there’s anything you need—including funds.”

“I doubt that will be necessary, but thank you.” She paused. “And thank you for your friendship as well. I value it, Martin.”

“As I value yours.” He stared at her for a moment as if there was something more he wished to say. At last he nodded. “That’s it then. We should get back to work. What is on our schedule for today?”

She picked up her notebook from its usual spot—precisely in the upper-right corner of his desk. “You wished to order supplies for the experiment you spoke of yesterday and we need to respond to the invitation from the Society of...”

While he could occasionally be somewhat perplexing, India was under no illusions about Martin. He was indeed her friend, and if he wished for more than friendship between them, well, he’d had eight years to do something about that. Not that she would welcome any overtures of a romantic nature. Certainly not from Martin. At this point in her life, India had no particular interest in romance. Any silly dreams she might have had as a girl were abandoned years ago when she’d realized dashing heroes were plentiful between the pages of books but rather lacking in real life. Besides, heroes did not ride to the rescue of heroines who were ordinary in appearance, sensible in nature and had little financial worth.

Without warning, flashing blue eyes and a wicked grin jumped to mind. She ignored it.

No, she had no interest in romance with Martin. Or anyone else.

CHAPTER FIVE

When choosing traveling companions, a lady traveler should be diligent in assessing compatibility in temperament, habit and nature. Nothing destroys the joy of a trip abroad faster than being in the company of a person one cannot abide. The rigors of travel have been known to turn mild annoyance into virulent loathing, even among the very best of friends.

—The Lady Travelers Society Guide

“I HAVE NO idea where Derek is.” Lady Blodgett refilled India’s teacup and smiled pleasantly. “But I’m certain he’ll be here at any moment.”

“No doubt,” India murmured. She resisted the need to scream in frustration and instead forced a smile of her own.

Mr. Saunders was late by a quarter of an hour thus far. It was not an auspicious beginning. Not that she’d expected promptness from him. Why, one could tell from just looking at the man he was not the sort to pay attention to the rules that governed the lives of everyone else in the world. One would think when one’s great-aunt invited one to her home promptly at four o’clock, one would arrive promptly at four o’clock. Aside from meeting the chaperones Lady Blodgett had promised, they had a great deal to discuss. Plans needed to be made.

“I would imagine he’s making arrangements.” Mrs. Greer piled a few more biscuits on her already-heaping plate. India wasn’t sure if the woman couldn’t make up her mind which of the delightful offerings to take or if she feared this was her last chance to ever have a biscuit again.

“As well he should,” Professor Greer said under his breath, reaching for another biscuit, although he had already emptied and refilled his plate at least once.

Lady Blodgett had presented the retired professor and his wife to India with something of a satisfied flourish. The couple was old enough to be suitable as chaperones but not so old as to impede speedy progress. As much as India would have preferred not to have them at all, they were necessary to abide by the dictates of proper behavior.

The Greers were not particularly objectionable and did seem pleasant enough. The professor looked exactly as one would expect a former professor to look—a bit portly, with graying hair, full beard and kind brown eyes behind wire-rimmed spectacles. Clad in expected tweed, he had the slightest air of pomposity that declared his superior intelligence. Whereas the professor exuded solid, English stock, his wife struck India as a more exotic creature. Or perhaps a wren disguised as something more akin to a tropical bird. She was obviously enamored of bright colors. Her hair was a fading shade of red, her round figure clothed in a startling chartreuse gown bedecked with ruffles and ribbons, and her hat, well, there was much to observe in her hat, including an array of peach-tinted flowers and, of course, feathers. But her blue eyes were bright and inquisitive and friendly.

The couple was more than pleasant. They were very nearly overwhelming in their eagerness over what Lady Blodgett kept referring to as their quest. India wasn’t at all sure she liked the term quest—it brought to mind grand adventures and legendary pursuits. She preferred to think of this as a serious search, even a mission of rescue. Although she did hope rescue would not be necessary. She hoped—she prayed—nothing had happened to Heloise and she was simply unable to write for whatever reason. A reason that might well turn out to be completely insignificant. Heloise did tend to be a bit scatterbrained and easily distracted. Still, as much as India tried to convince herself of that, the horrible weight of doubt still lodged in the pit of her stomach.

India glanced at the clock on the mantel in Lady Blodgett’s parlor and resisted the urge to shudder. The clock was a dark bronze and perhaps the most ornate thing she’d ever seen. Mythical figures cavorted about its base, and fictitious beasts writhed around the sides, climbing toward a goddess figure at the top. One could barely see the clock face for the embellishments. Matching urns supporting candelabra flanked the timepiece, the epitome of the current overindulgent style. But then everything in Lady Blodgett’s cluttered parlor—from the small Egyptian mummy case—apparently for a cat—in one corner to the Grecian statue centered between the front windows to the ancient Roman swords hanging on the far wall—was at once unique and far-fetched. And better suited to a museum than a home. There wasn’t so much as an inch of the ornately carved tabletops in the parlor not covered with a Dresden figurine, a knickknack of some sort or a souvenir from Sir Charles’s travels. Aside from the lack of poorly executed art on the walls, Heloise would have felt completely at home in this room. She would have described it as whimsical.