{"product_id":"a-treacherous-curse-isbn-9780451476180","title":"A Treacherous Curse","description":"\u003cb\u003eMembers of an Egyptian expedition fall victim to an ancient mummy’s curse in this thrilling Veronica Speedwell novel from the\u003ci\u003e New York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of the Lady Julia Grey mysteries. \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eLondon, 1888. \u003c\/i\u003eAs colorful and unfettered as the butterflies she collects, Victorian adventuress Veronica Speedwell can’t resist the allure of an exotic mystery—particularly one involving her enigmatic colleague, Stoker. His former expedition partner has vanished from an archaeological dig with a priceless diadem unearthed from the newly discovered tomb of an Egyptian princess. This disappearance is just the latest in a string of unfortunate events that have plagued the controversial expedition, and rumors abound that the curse of the vengeful princess has been unleashed as the shadowy figure of Anubis himself stalks the streets of London.\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e But the perils of an ancient curse are not the only challenges Veronica must face as sordid details and malevolent enemies emerge from Stoker’s past. Caught in a tangle of conspiracies and threats—and thrust into the public eye by an enterprising new foe—Veronica must separate facts from fantasy to unravel a web of duplicity that threatens to cost Stoker everything...\u003cb\u003e“A ruthlessly intelligent heroine.”—NPR\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for A TREACHEROUS CURSE\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“While readers of Elizabeth Peters’s ‘Amelia Peabody’ mysteries will enjoy this title, it is fans of Jane Eyre who will truly appreciate the third volume in Rabyourn’s historical series (following A PERILOUS UNDERTAKING). Her intricately plotted and dramatic story features a strong-willed, independent woman who is the intellectual equal of the brooding Stoker.”—\u003ci\u003eLibrary Journal\u003c\/i\u003e (Starred review)\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“As always, Raybourn writes with verve and wit….A Victorian Phryne Fisher, Veronica is an irresistible, modern, engaging woman who uses scientific observation and natural charm to guide her investigations.”—\u003ci\u003eBooklist \u003c\/i\u003e(Starred review)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eA Treacherous Curse\u003c\/i\u003e [is] a funny, feminist, historical fiction mystery series that I love….If you haven’t started this series yet now’s a perfect time to get caught up!\"—Book Riot\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“[E]xhilarating third mystery featuring Veronica Speedwell and her colleague, Revelstoke “Stoker” Templeton-Vane….In audacious, decidedly un-Victorian Veronica, Raybourn has created a delightful cross between real-life reporter Nellie Bly and Phryne Fisher.”—\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePraise for the Veronica Speedwell Mysteries\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\"I love this series! Veronica Speedwell is utterly unique--a lady with an intriguing past and some rare kick-ass skills--definitely not your standard historical mystery detective. Her relationship with the brooding and equally mysterious Stoker is fascinating. The plots are clever and fast-paced. I can't wait for the next adventure.\"—Amanda Quick, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of \u003ci\u003eThe Girl Who Knew Too Much\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003cb\u003e \u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e “Veronica Speedwell is sure to join the greats of mystery fiction.”—Alan Bradley, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of the Flavia de Luce series\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Veronica Speedwell might just be one of the most endearing heroines in mysteries, period...[a] woman ahead of her Victorian times. She’s smart, dashing, and entirely capable....Her sense of humor and chemistry with Stoker, her counterpart, just make this series even better.”—Bustle\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Wickedly clever and devilishly amusing.”—Susan Elia MacNeal, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling author of the Maggie Hope series\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “I love this book! Brings us the powerful Veronica Speedwell, who triumphs over adversity and danger with wit, charm, and uncanny determination. A real find.”—Robyn Carr, #1 \u003ci\u003eNew York Times \u003c\/i\u003ebestselling author of the Virgin River series\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “A smart, plucky, way-ahead-of-her-time heroine....The ending left me looking forward to Veronica’s next exploits.”—\u003ci\u003eFort Worth Star-Telegram\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e \u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003e“\u003c\/i\u003eA fun heroine who defies convention and embraces intrigue.”—\u003ci\u003eBooklist\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “A fine combination of detective story and character study...sure to interest mystery lovers and Anglophiles alike.”—\u003ci\u003eHistorical Novels Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e  \u003cbr\u003e “Full of innuendo and amusing repartee, Deanna Raybourn's sly wit will be appreciated by readers of romance and historical fiction alike...a fun read, reminiscent of Elizabeth Peters's novels, whose cross-genre charm is sure to appeal to readers.”—Shelf Awareness\u003cb\u003eDeanna Raybourn \u003c\/b\u003eis the author of the award-winning, \u003ci\u003eNew York Times\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling Lady Julia Grey series, currently in development for television, as well as the \u003ci\u003eUSA Today\u003c\/i\u003e bestselling and Edgar Award nominated Veronica Speedwell Mysteries and several standalone works.Chapter\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e 1\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e London, 1888\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I assure you, I am perfectly capable of identifying a phallus when      I see one,\" Stoker informed me, clipping the words sharply. \"And      that is no such thing.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He pointed to the artifact I had just extracted from a packing      crate. It was perhaps three feet in length, carved of some sort of      exotic hardwood, and buffed to a smooth sheen. Bits of excelsior      dangled from it like so much whimsical decoration. It was oddly      festive.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Of course it is,\" I said. I brandished the item in question at      him. \"Just look at the knobby bit on the end.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Stoker folded his arms over the breadth of his chest and looked      down his nose at me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Consider, if you will, the length. Improbable, you must admit.      Most improbable.\" He was doing his best to avoid the appearance of      embarrassment, but a touch of rose still bloomed in his cheeks. I      found it winsome that such a hardened man of the world could have      gained so much experience as scientist, explorer, natural      historian, naval surgeon, and taxidermist and still manage a      maidenly blush when confronted with a fertility icon.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Stoker,\" I said patiently, \"both male and female genitalia have      been celebrated in ritualized art since the beginning of time. And      frequently their proportions are exaggerated in order to convey      their importance to the peoples in question.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He curled a handsome lip. \"Do not invoke ethnography, Veronica.      You know how I feel about the social sciences.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I shrugged. \"There are those who maintain the study of culture is      just as important as the examination of a bit of bone or a      fossilized snail. And do not pretend that you are immune to the      seductive siren call of the humanities. I have seen you mooning      over journal articles about the role of religious ritual in the      decreasing populations of certain South Sea turtles.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I do not moon,\" he retorted. \"And furthermore, those journal      entries-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He proceeded to lecture me for the next quarter of an hour, about      what I cannot say, for I turned my attention to the contents of      the packing crate. I had long since discovered upon my travels      that men are largely the same no matter where one encounters them.      And if one is prepared to let them discourse on their pet topics      of conversation, one can generally get on with things quite      handily without any interference.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e The packing crate was the newest arrival at the Belvedere, the      budding museum Stoker and I had been commissioned to organize      under the aegis of our friend and benefactor, the Earl of      Rosemorran. Situated on the grounds of his lordship's Marylebone      estate, Bishop's Folly, the Belvedere was either a glorious trove      of undiscovered treasures or the storehouse of a family of madmen,      depending upon one's perspective. The earls of Rosemorran had been      an acquisitive lot, haring around Europe to amass a collection of      art, artifacts, zoological specimens, books, manuscripts, jewels,      armor, and a thousand other things that defied description. How we      came to live amongst such treasures is a story that merits its own      volume.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e To investigate one murder is a curiosity. To investigate two is a      habit. Stoker and I had fallen into the practice of murder when      our mutual friend, the Baron von Stauffenbach, had been slain the      previous summer. We had uncovered some difficult truths and made a      cautious alliance with Sir Hugo Montgomerie, the head of Special      Branch, Scotland Yard's most prestigious division. When, at the      end of that investigation, Fate had proven to be an unkind hussy      and left us without home or employment, the current Lord      Rosemorran had graciously invited Stoker and me to work for him,      living on the grounds of Bishop's Folly and cataloging his      collection with an eye to one day opening the Belvedere as a      public museum. It was arduous work, consisting of unpacking,      inspecting, reviewing provenance, cleaning, and registering each      item-the beetles alone could take years-but it was enchanting.      Every day offered its own surprises, and as word spread of our      undertaking, donations to the collection began to arrive. It      seemed that Lord Rosemorran's project was the perfect opportunity      for his friends to rid themselves of items they no longer wanted.      They would never send anything truly valuable-the English      aristocracy are nothing if not sharply attentive to financial      advantage-so we received instead a steady stream of decrepit      hunting trophies and wretched oil paintings. They were of no use      to us, so Stoker regularly burnt the moth-eaten trophies in the      garden whilst I arranged the portraits into a grim sort of family,      giving each a pet name and taking particular delight in each      baleful new addition.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e But the shipment that arrived that morning had been the most      peculiar yet. The large packing crate had been stuffed with      excelsior to cradle an array of phalluses, each more impressive      than the last. Clay, leather, marble, wood-the materials were      nearly as varied as the objects themselves, and the assortment of      sizes was frankly extraordinary. From a modest little fellow about      the width of my handspan to the enormity I brought to Stoker's      attention, they represented a thorough study of that particular      piece of anatomy. At the bottom of the crate nestled a leather box      with a piece of card affixed to the lid.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Personal gift to Miss Veronica Speedwell. I have not forgot my      obligation. With my compliments and heartfelt gratitude. Miles      Ramsforth\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Suddenly, the mysterious collection made perfect sense. Our second      investigation had saved Miles Ramsforth from the hangman's noose,      and I was not surprised he had chosen to repay the debt with part      of his extraordinary array of erotic art.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Understandably, Ramsforth had quitted England immediately upon his      release from prison and we had never met in person, but he had      sent an effusive letter of thanks with a splendid silver watch      chain for Stoker and a promise to remember me with something even      more noteworthy.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e My curiosity piqued, I extracted the box carefully and opened it      with a rush of anticipation. I was not disappointed. Wrapped      lovingly in cotton wool was yet another phallus, this one a      masterpiece of the Venetian glassmaker's art. Of clear blown      glass, it was striped with luscious violet color that gleamed like      a boiled sweet as I held it to the light. I remembered it well. I      had admired it when Stoker and I first studied the collection,      although how Ramsforth happened to know of my appreciation was a      mystery. It was a testimony to both his gratitude and his puckish      sense of humor that he would present me with the costliest      specimen from such a deliciously lurid collection.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I brandished it at Stoker. \"I was quite right about the hardwood      piece,\" I told him. \"This was at the bottom of the crate. It is      the doing of Miles Ramsforth. A personal gift,\" I added with a      waggle of my brows.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Stoker blushed furiously. \"For the love of God, put that thing      away.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I cannot imagine why you are so bashful on the subject of the      male genitalia of Homo sapiens when you are the only one of us who      can boast of owning it,\" I muttered as I replaced the offending      item carefully into its box with a mental note to examine it more      thoroughly in private.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"I heard that,\" he said as he returned to the task at      hand-hollowing out the remains of a badly mounted platypus. The      task was messy but not arduous, so he had kept on his shirt, a      rare occurrence given his penchant for working stripped to the      waist. I regretted the fact that he was fully clothed, but I      contented myself with the occasional appreciative glance at his      muscular forearms, bared to the elbow. His shirt was open at the      neck, and he seldom wore a waistcoat and never a coat if he could      help it. His hair, black and waving and badly in need of a      barber's attentions, was punctuated by a slender streak of silvery      white, a souvenir of our most recent foray into detective      pursuits. It had ended when he had been shot in the temple in a      ridiculous attempt to shield me from a murderer, and the result      was a single snowy lock where the bullet had struck him. Gold      rings glinted at his earlobes, and one of his many tattoos, relics      of his days as a surgeon's mate in Her Majesty's Navy, peeped from      the edge of his rolled sleeve. He wore a patch over his left eye,      a habit since an accident in the Amazon had nearly taken it from      him, leaving him with slim pale ribbons of scars that marked him      from brow to collarbone and beyond. He looked like precisely what      he was: a man in his prime with a good deal of experience and      precious little regard for Society's expectations.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Stop scrutinizing me as if I were one of your damned      butterflies,\" he said in a conversational tone.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I sighed. \"It has been a year since my last indulgence in physical      congress,\" I reminded him in a wistful tone. \"Admiring your      physique is my only consolation.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He snorted by way of reply. I had made no secret of my perfectly      sensible approach to relationships between the sexes-namely that      marriage was a ridiculously outmoded institution and that sexual      exercise was both health-giving and revivifying to the spirits. In      the interest of respectability, I never indulged whilst in      England, preferring to satisfy my urges during my trips abroad, a      discreet and wholly efficient arrangement. The fact that it had      been more than a year since my last expedition had begun to try my      resolve. Stoker did not judge my predilections any more than I      judged him for living as chastely as any medieval monk. A brief      and hellish marriage followed by a period of Bacchanalian      overindulgence had soured him on romance, although I regularly      recommended to him a restorative bout of coitus, preferably with a      strapping dairymaid-a course he had yet to embrace.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I considered the various phalluses, uncertain of where to begin.      \"Ought I to arrange them by size? Or shall they be grouped      according to geographical region of origin? Or material?\" I asked.      Stoker and I frequently quarreled about various methods of      organization within the collection. I preferred a chronological      approach whilst he maintained a firm preference for theme.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This time he merely flapped a hand, clearly finished with the      subject of phalluses. I hefted the largest, the hardwood piece      from the Pacific, scrutinizing it with a practiced eye. \"You know,      I am rather reminded of a charming American fellow I met in Costa      Rica,\" I said with a nostalgic sigh. I made a point of never      keeping in contact with my paramours once I had finished with      them, but I had very nearly made an exception for the American . .      .\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I did not pursue the conversation. Stoker was in a good mood for      once, something that had been sorely lacking of late. February had      been thoroughly nasty, with snowfall of apocalyptic proportions      and temperatures that would have caused a polar bear to shiver. We      had made the best of the situation, applying ourselves diligently      to our work, but both of us had suffered bouts of ennui, longing      for balmy climes and        sea-scented winds. Our planned expedition with Lord Rosemorran to      the South Pacific to search for new specimens had been thwarted by      accident-namely his lordship's unfortunate collision with his      Gal‡pagos tortoise, Patricia. She lumbered around the estate with      all the grace and speed of a boulder, so how the earl managed to      fall over her was a matter never fully explained to my      satisfaction. But the result had been a broken femur and months of      recuperation. We sympathized with his lordship and told him we did      not mind in the least, but I drank a significant amount of strong      spirits as I unpacked my bag, and I suspected Stoker sniffed back      a manful tear or two as he put away his maps and charts.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Saving Miles Ramsforth from the noose had been a diverting      occupation, but a Christmas spent with Lord Rosemorran's unruly      brood of children underfoot and the rigors of a perilously long      winter had nearly undone us both. Stoker had amused himself by      unearthing the most ludicrous of the taxidermy mounts while I had      taken to reading sensationalist newspapers. One, The Daily      Harbinger, had proven useful during the Ramsforth case, and I had      resorted to bribing the hall boy, George, to bring me the copy      each morning before his lordship had a chance to read it.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e This morning he skipped in, bearing the newspaper and the first      post, whistling a merry tune. George broke off as he caught sight      of the object in my hand, his eyes round with interest and his      errand forgotten.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Here, now, miss, that looks like-\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"We know what it looks like,\" Stoker cut in ruthlessly.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e George peered into the packing crate. \"Where are these from,      miss?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"All around the world,\" I told him. \"They were amassed by a      gentleman named Miles Ramsforth, a famous patron of the arts and a      suspected murderer.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He blinked. \"Imagine that.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e I put out my hand. \"Harbinger, please.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e He gave me the newspaper before wandering to where Stoker was bent      over his trophy. \"That's a funny old stoat.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It isn't a stoat,\" Stoker corrected. \"It is a platypus.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Why has it got a duck on its face?\" George put out a tentative      finger and Stoker flicked it aside.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"This is Ornithorhynchus anatinus, the duck-billed platypus,      native to Australia.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"But why has it got a duck on its face?\" George persisted.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"It hasn't got a duck on its face. That is just its face.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Are you taking the duck off its face?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Stoker's nostrils flared slightly and I knew he was about to say      something unpleasant.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"George,\" I called as I skimmed the front page of the newspaper.      \"What is the latest news of the Tiverton Expedition?\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e George trotted over, his face bright with interest. He had a      penchant for the most outrageous stories in the Harbinger-and the      Harbinger's stories were already more outrageous than most. But he      was a good lad and took great pride in his budding literacy, so I      encouraged him.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Oh, miss, you ought to read it. They say the expedition is      cursed,\" he said with an unholy gleam in his eye.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e From behind his platypus, Stoker gave a snort.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"You don't believe in curses, sir?\" the boy asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e Stoker opened his mouth-no doubt to hold forth on the subject of      superstition-but I anticipated him. \"Curses are not rational,      George. There is no scientific basis for them. However, there is      good reason to think that the belief itself in a curse can create      deleterious effects.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Dele-what?\" the boy asked.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \"Deleterious. It means bad. I was saying that the mere belief in a      curse can give it power.\"","brand":"Berkley","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46303495651557,"sku":"NP9780451476180","price":17.0,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780451476180.jpg?v=1767720881","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/a-treacherous-curse-isbn-9780451476180","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}