The Butterfly Conspiracy Read online

  Uncle Rupert shook his head at what he probably considered a very inappropriate interest for a young lady and continued quickly, “The other gentleman is Lord Raven Royston.”

  He didn’t have to say more. Royston had been the unfortunate focus of talk and speculation for weeks now, as he had invested heavily in the presentation of a steam-powered coach that had failed to ride even half a mile. Rumors claimed that part of the engine had exploded and that the flying parts could have harmed an innocent bystander.

  “I suppose,” Uncle Rupert whispered, “that after the earlier disasters with the coach and the hair tonic, Royston learned his lesson and is here tonight to show us he can be serious as well.”

  “Hair tonic?” Merula asked. This was new to her.

  “Yes, apparently a friend of his developed a hair tonic that would give balding gentlemen their former locks back. Royston imagined it an overnight success, with thousands of vials selling throughout the country. However, those who volunteered to try this wondrous invention found that they lost the last of their remaining hair, gaining burns on their skulls in the bargain. The man who developed the dangerous liquid had to flee the country to escape arrest for fraud. Royston claimed he had never been involved in the actual creation of the tonic, so the police didn’t pursue him further. That is the official story at least. But I guess his brother put in a word for him and might even have thrown in some money to persuade the police not to charge him with anything.”

  “Royston’s brother bribed the police?”

  “That’s what some say. I suspect Royston’s family wished he would leave the country as well to try his disastrous business ideas in a place they wouldn’t hear of it. But he’s still here and, judging by his appearance tonight, angling for a degree of respectability by focusing on serious science.”

  Her uncle’s lips twitched again in that minimal betrayal of distaste. “Whatever he does now, he will always be associated with those incidents. Avoid him if you can, Merula. You don’t have to be outright hostile to him, of course, should he happen to speak to you. After all, he is a lord. But don’t encourage interest in any way, you understand? The man is a disaster magnet.”

  Merula nodded, inwardly hoping Royston would start a conversation with her so she could inquire as to what exactly had caused his steam-powered coach’s engine to explode. After all, steam-powered train engines didn’t explode, and they had to pull a much heavier load.

  “Welcome, welcome.” Their host Lord Havilock appeared by their sides. His gaze traveled down Merula’s outfit, taking in every detail, and a wolfish smile appeared round his mouth. He gestured for a footman. “Someone must carry that for you, my dear. It looks heavy.”

  “No, I must handle it myself. The contents are very fragile.” Merula was certain that Havilock wanted to rid her of her burden so he could kiss her hand. She wasn’t fond of this French custom in general, especially not when the man in question was rumored to be looking for his third wife. With a three-decade age difference and Havilock’s infamous roving eye, not even his beautiful house full of zoological treasures could persuade her to take an interest in him. It would take tact to remain polite and pleasant while dodging his attentions.

  Glancing past her solicitous host, she caught the amused look of Raven Royston. For a moment it was as if he had read her mind and seen right through her excuse for wanting to hold on to the contraption in her hands.

  Then Devereaux discerned a new arrival at the door and pushed his mounted monkey into Royston’s hands. Before Royston could protest, he was hugging the grinning monkey while Devereaux strode away to greet a statuesque woman dressed in pearl gray.

  Merula couldn’t help smiling at Royston’s murderous looks at his friend, who had saddled him with an ugly dead beast while Devereaux himself rushed to charm a female guest. A rich one at that, judging by the emerald necklace reflecting the light from the chandelier above. Merula wondered if some interesting history was attached to those jewels. Had they belonged to a German princess or the wife of the czar?

  “Don’t gawk.” There was an anxious look on Uncle Rupert’s face as he grabbed her elbow. “I hadn’t expected her to attend tonight. It’s better if we steer clear of her.”

  “Why?” Merula asked. “I don’t even know her. I hadn’t expected any other women to attend. Is she married to a member of the Royal Zoological Society?”

  “She used to be. Come, quickly.” Sounding rather nettled, Uncle Rupert directed her firmly into the room prepared for the lecture. Merula wanted to ask what they were hurrying for, but the sight of the room took her breath away.

  There were oil paintings of the English countryside on the walls, contrasting sharply with the exotic animals depicted in sketches standing on tables. She didn’t know which one to look at first: the giraffe with its long neck and legs, the sleek jaguar that prowled the South American jungle, or the many colorful birds, each with even more extravagant plumage than the last. Long tail feathers, strange collars around their necks that could be puffed up at will. A world away from the simple dark blackbirds and brownish sparrows she knew. Could such creatures even exist?

  Could they survive while being so conspicuous?

  In a corner was Havilock’s prize piece: a lion’s skin with the head still on it, the wide-open mouth big enough to put your hand in, the eyes gleaming with a ferocious light. Merula resisted the urge to draw near, feel the skin, determine if the fur was soft to the touch like a dog’s or stiff and resistant.

  “You can put it here.” Havilock cleared away a few sketches of birds to make room for her contraption. As soon as she had placed it, he reached for the sheet’s edge, pretending to want to lift it for a playful peek underneath.

  “Please don’t, my lord,” Merula said quickly. “I’d like everyone to see at the same time.”

  “Quite a natural wonder, hey.” Havilock let his gaze travel her figure again.

  Uncle Rupert distracted him with a remark about one of the bird sketches in which the bird didn’t seem to have any feet, and Havilock laughed heartily. “Bird hunters a century ago removed the feet before shipping the birds here. No idea why, but it did cause some confusion. Ah, if you will excuse me for a moment, I must welcome my guest of honor.” He strode to the door to welcome the woman in pearl gray and escort her through the crowd of men, who parted for her so she could stand right in the front. “You can see everything best, Lady Sophia,” Merula overheard Havilock saying.

  Lady Sophia was fanning herself with an ostrich-feather fan, her face reddish as if the room was too hot for her. Directly behind her came a brooding man in his midthirties whom Merula recognized at once. As his amber eyes brushed over her, she felt the chill that had touched her before when he’d confronted her. Why was Simon Foxwell here at some lecture instead of attending the ball Julia was going to? Her cousin would be so disappointed that she had missed her chance to waltz with him again.

  Foxwell quickly assessed the zoological items on display. A patronizing smile played around his lips as if he considered them inferior, and Merula caught herself hoping her butterfly would wipe that smile away.

  Havilock walked over to Merula, a glass in his hand, which he struck with a spoon.

  Immediately the murmur of voices all around died down, and everyone present focused on their host.

  “I’m delighted,” Havilock said, leaning back on his heels, “to receive all of you here tonight for an outstanding lecture by my good friend and renowned expert on spiders, Sir Edward Parker. But before we enter the world of these ravenous creatures, we will first strengthen our hearts with a look at beauty. DeVeere…”

  He gestured jovially at Uncle Rupert, who stepped forward, clearing his throat and fidgeting with his hands as if he didn’t know quite where to put them.

  Merula knew how much her uncle disliked being the center of attention and thanked him silently for doing this anyway.

  He said, “Dear friends, we all share a fascination for insects, and tonight we wil
l get a unique glimpse into the fascinating world of the butterfly. Although we know it comes from a cocoon, like a bird from an egg, many questions remain unanswered. Is it really true that this creature is born with wings, or does it have another form altogether at first? And if this is so, can we understand how it transforms from one into the other and truly accept that the caterpillar and the butterfly are one and the same animal?”

  “Impossible,” someone called, and another agreed with a tight, “They have been classified as different for generations.”

  The implication was clear. Will you tell us otherwise?

  Among the disbelieving and even hostile expressions in front of her, only one face carried genuine interest. Raven Royston looked at Merula and her contraption with narrowed eyes as if trying to determine something. His failed investments suggested he was a gullible man, easily deceived into investing at the promise of a quick return. But as Merula looked into his eyes, she didn’t see gullibility there, but rather intelligence and a challenge. As if he was quietly saying to her, Prove it to me.

  Uncle Rupert continued, “I brought something special for us tonight, straight from my conservatory. My niece, Miss Merriweather, will present it to you. Please…” He gestured to Merula.

  Her audience peered skeptically at the sheet cover.

  “Underneath this is a glass case,” she explained. She wanted her voice to sound strong, but it was breathless as her heart thumped under her breastbone. These men were experienced, jaded even, and what she considered a wondrous creature might not draw a second look from them. What had she been thinking when she had come here tonight?

  But steadying her shaking hands on the sheet, she pushed on. “It contains a creature that came to life only this morning. In its present form, that is. Previously it was a caterpillar, green and hairy, unusually large, certainly, but nothing you’d admire. Now, however…”

  She drew away the bed sheet with a flourish, and the light from the chandelier above fell on the glass container, illuminating the leaves and the large white flower inside.

  The men closest to her gasped as they spotted the enormous butterfly with its bright colors.

  People in the back whispered, asking one another what was under the glass.

  “I don’t see anything,” Lady Sophia said in an impatient, petulant tone. “Just plants. What on earth is it, Simon?”

  Simon Foxwell urged the woman to go closer, attempting to take her fan from her hand. But Lady Sophia continued waving it as she moved to the right, her steps hesitant.

  Royston was already leaning over the container. A flicker of appreciation passed over his features. Turning his head this way and that, he studied what was under the glass. “A clever creation of paper or fabric.”

  “Excuse me?” Merula said.

  “Collectors are duped on a daily basis.” Royston held her gaze. “Merchants out for a quick dip in a rich man’s purse stoop to anything, from painting feathers on birds to falsifying paperwork to prove an exotic ‘new’ find.”

  “You should know about being duped,” someone called out from the back of the crowd.

  Laughter resounded.

  Royston didn’t flinch, but Merula saw his jaw tighten. He spoke loudly, “The distortion of the glass gives it the illusion of life.”

  Merula heard him stall on the last word as the butterfly shifted a wing. He had seen that; he couldn’t deny it. The furrow in his forehead told her he was trying to get a better look to determine how a creation of paper and fabric could possibly move.

  The butterfly flapped its wings.

  Merula couldn’t suppress a smile of exultation at her luck. Skeptical Royston would have to believe this.

  Lady Sophia stepped back with a gasp, raising a hand to her throat as if she was startled that the huge creature inside the container could be an actual living thing.

  Royston’s expression was still doubtful, and suddenly determined, Merula lifted the glass container off the wooden board it rested on. Without warning, the butterfly took off, lifting itself amid stares and exclamations.

  Royston moved his head to follow the flight, even squatting to see the butterfly’s wings from below.

  “There are see-through patches in the wings,” Merula explained quickly. “You can see the ceiling’s gold leaf through them.” Her hands were no longer shaking, but her voice was still high-pitched with excitement.

  “I’m not looking for gold leaf,” Royston retorted, unperturbed, “but for threads or other devices to make this creature fly.”

  Disappointment stabbed her. “You still think it is not alive?”

  “It can’t be, not at this size.”

  The butterfly lowered itself and sat on Lady Sophia’s bare arm.

  The woman gasped again, turning even redder in the face. She moved her free hand, but the movement was languid, not determined.

  Havilock called out in a commanding tone, telling her to hold very still and let the other guests have their chance to see the creature up close.

  From the excited murmuring, a few words could be made out: “Extraordinary.” “Most novel.”

  The disbelief was fading to make way for amazement and even delight. Someone said a photograph should be taken for the newspapers.

  Merula clasped her hands together, then relaxed them. Her heartbeat slowed, and a luxurious feeling of triumph spread through her. She had proven herself right, in the face of all these men. Her hard work had paid off.

  Royston’s voice sounded at her ear, low and determined, “Is this butterfly breeding really your uncle’s doing? It always struck me as odd that Rupert DeVeere would spend time on zoology. History, yes; cartography, that he can talk about for nights on end, much to the annoyance of those who happen to be seated beside him at the dinner table. But when asked about animals, their habitats and customs, he is always vague, changing the subject quickly.”

  Merula’s face was on fire now, and she didn’t know how to respond. If she admitted it was her work, she’d humiliate her uncle. The man who had made all this possible for her.

  But Royston’s behavior tonight had also convinced her that he wasn’t someone to fob off with a lie. He had already drawn his own conclusions from her uncle’s evasive tactics. And if he had looked at her face just now, he might have glimpsed the elation that rushed through her veins, betraying her intense involvement.

  Lady Sophia made a rasping noise. Her eyes rolled, and she staggered back.

  The butterfly, startled, rose from her arm and fluttered away to sit on the back of a velvet chair. The bluish shine of the fabric filtered through the see-through patches in its delicate wings.

  Lady Sophia crashed to the floor and lay still, her eyes staring up at the ceiling, seeing nothing.

  CHAPTER 2

  “She fainted,” someone called. “Make some room, please, and bring smelling salts. Hurry.”

  A door slammed.

  An elderly man with a cane said, shaking his head, “Women should not be allowed at these gatherings.”

  Royston scoffed, whispering to Merula, “Fainting spells have become fashionable among ladies of the upper classes and have very little to do with the occasion at which they take place.”

  Merula didn’t reply, her eyes fixed on Lady Sophia’s rigid body.

  Simon Foxwell knelt beside her, touching her hand. The concern in his features convinced Merula that Lady Sophia had to be Foxwell’s rich aunt. She had never seen them together before, as the aunt in question was rumored to keep to herself and avoid what she called frivolous activities such as balls and theater performances.

  A footman carried in smelling salts and passed them to Foxwell, who held the silver container under Lady Sophia’s nose. Normally when the sharp scent of smelling salts invaded a fainting woman’s nose, she immediately came to, gasping or sneezing, but Lady Sophia didn’t stir at all. That horrible fearful expression seemed frozen on her mottled face.

  “This is not working.” Helplessly clutching the silver c
ontainer, Foxwell asked, “Is there a doctor here who can see what ails her?”

  Sir Edward Parker stepped forward. “I was a doctor in the army. It’s been a while, but one doesn’t forget.”

  “Good.” Havilock nodded and added, “Let the footmen bring the screen from my library so Edward has some privacy.”

  At once, two footmen carried in a large screen of painted silk and placed it so as to shield the motionless Lady Sophia from further probing looks. Sir Edward disappeared behind the screen.

  Merula stood with her hands folded together. A tickle of nerves danced in her stomach. When Lady Sophia had fallen, Merula had simply assumed the woman was of a nervous disposition and the confrontation with the giant insect had been too much. But the failure to respond to the smelling salts suggested Lady Sophia had not merely fainted. What had happened to her?

  All eyes were on the screen and on the sounds coming from behind it: a rustle of fabric, slapping as if Sir Edward was trying to revive Lady Sophia by gently striking her cheeks, then a muttered curse.

  Merula’s heart skipped a beat.

  Foxwell said, too loud in the silence, “What is going on behind that screen? How serious is it?” His amber eyes were narrowed, his hands clutched into fists by his side. Once again he struck Merula as being like a tiger waiting for his chance to pounce.

  Sir Edward appeared at the screen. “She doesn’t respond to any stimulus I’ve tried, and I can’t find a pulse. Is there someone here with more medical knowledge who can have a look at her?”

  Agitation had put red spots in his cheeks, and it was clear he wanted to relinquish responsibility to someone else as soon as he could.

  Havilock said, “I already sent one of my footmen to get the doctor who lives down the street. He has a Harley Street practice. A very pleasant, talented young fellow.”

  Nobody responded to his reassuring remark. There was a deep chill silence.

  Sir Edward glanced behind the screen again. “The mottled color of her face, her lips. I don’t like it.”