Read more
Informationen zum Autor Deanna Raybourn is the New York Times bestselling and Edgar® Award–nominated author of the Veronica Speedwell Mysteries, the Lady Julia Grey series, and several standalone novels including KILLERS OF A CERTAIN AGE. She lives in Virginia with her family. Klappentext While investigating a man claiming to be the long-lost heir to a noble family, Veronica Speedwell gets the surprise of her life in this paperback reprint from New York Times bestselling and Edgar® Award–nominated author Deanna Raybourn. London, 1889. Veronica Speedwell and her natural historian beau, Stoker, are summoned by Sir Hugo Montgomerie, head of Special Branch. He has a personal request on behalf of his goddaughter, Euphemia Hathaway. After years of traveling the world, Euphemia's eldest brother, Jonathan, heir to Hathaway Hall, was believed to have been killed in the catastrophic eruption of Krakatoa a few years before. But now a man matching Jonathan’s description and carrying his possessions has arrived at Hathaway Hall with no memory of his identity or where he has been. Could this man truly be Jonathan, back from the dead? Or is he a devious impostor, determined to gain ownership over the family's most valuable possession—a legendary parure of priceless Rajasthani jewels? It's a delicate situation, and Veronica is Sir Hugo's only hope. Veronica and Stoker agree to go to Hathaway Hall to covertly investigate the mysterious amnesiac. Veronica is soon shocked to find herself face-to-face with a ghost from her past. To help Sir Hugo discover the truth, she must open doors to her own history that she long believed to be shut for good. Leseprobe Chapter 1 Somewhere between Paris and London April 1889 I do not care for infants, and even if I did, I should not care for this one. It is decidedly moist," I protested to Stoker, thrusting the child towards him. He took it with good grace and it emitted a sort of cooing sound. "It seems to like you," I observed. I could not find fault with the child on that score. From his thirst for adventure to his avid intelligence, Stoker was an eminently likeable man when he was in good spirits. (The fact that he was superbly fit and partial to reciting Keats in moments of tenderness entered into my assessment of him not in the slightest. I am, after all, a woman of science.) Stoker dandled the infant on his knee and it regarded him solemnly, eyes wide and round. I use the word "infant" in its loosest interpretation. It had, in fact, been born some nine or ten months before and possessed the appropriate number of teeth and skills for a child of that age. If we had permitted, it would have roamed the first-class compartment where we were comfortably ensconced en route from Paris to London. The fact that the journey included a Channel crossing via boat train was one of a dozen considerations in bringing along the child's nurse, a stout matron of something more than forty years. She was a calmly capable woman who managed her charge with a combination of ruthless efficiency and dollops of real affection. I had taken the precaution of purchasing leather leads to attach to the infant to prevent it from getting loose, but Madame Laborde assured me she was entirely capable of running it to ground should it escape. Escape seemed the last thing on its mind as it wound its chubby fist around Stoker's index finger. As usual, the digit in question was stained with ink and smelt of honey and tobacco thanks to Stoker's inveterate habits. We had been in the child's company for only a few hours, but it had already ascertained that Stoker's pockets were a veritable hoard of sweets. It put out an imperious hand and Stoker shook his head. "You have had two already and you must eat your luncheon first." The small person,...
