A Murderous Relation

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  Stoker swallowed hard. “Shall we dance?” he managed.

  I nodded and he swept me into a waltz. For the first pass down the ballroom, I simply stared at him in astonishment, scarcely able to remember the steps. As we reached the dais and he guided me into a turn, he noticed my surprise.

  “What? You are surprised I know how to waltz?”

  “No, I am surprised that you are so skillful at it,” I told him truthfully. He grinned at me then, and for a moment, the constraint that had settled over him ebbed a little. His arm tightened and he executed a series of complicated turns flawlessly, sweeping me along past the silvery lengths of the mirrors. The room was a riot of color and music and glamour, and for just this moment, I permitted myself to surrender to it. When the dance was finished, I should remind myself that we were there with a purpose, tasked with the impossible, and in danger of exposure. But not this moment, I told myself. For now, I would throw myself into the pleasure of the waltz, twirling and gliding until I was giddy with the motion. To hold my balance, I kept my eyes fixed upon his, my arms resting lightly where his clasped firmly. He was my anchor, my sole point of reference in a world that spun too fast, that would have thrown me off my balance if he had let go of me.

  But he did not let go. He kept me upright, anchored, and that was the moment that I understood how he had changed me. I had been so long on my own, so apart from everyone, that I had not realized how he had pierced my solitude. I had finally acknowledged that I loved him, but it was not until that moment that I understood I needed him.

  It was that revelation more than the physical exertion of the dance that threatened my equilibrium. The music drew to a close and we stopped, arms still held in a dancers’ embrace. I stepped back sharply.

  “Veronica?” he murmured.

  “We will never find the right star if we keep getting distracted,” I told him. “We should separate. Divide and conquer.” My voice was firm, a good deal more decisive than I felt. His hand tightened at my waist.

  “Veronica, this is not exactly the queen’s drawing room. You cannot go haring off by yourself. You will invite trouble.”

  “Then let us see if trouble responds,” I retorted. “Meet me on the staircase under the chandelier in an hour.”

  I turned on my heel and left him then. I think he started after me but thought better of it. His hand fell to his side, and I saw in the mirror a buxom Viking maiden sidle up to him. I strode away, feeling every inch the ancient Queen of the Britons, warlike and implacable.

  Just then the orchestra struck up a new waltz, this one with a Gypsy lilt, demanding, insistent. The mood in the ballroom changed subtly. Invitations made with eyes and lips were accepted. Kisses and light caresses were freely exchanged, and the sounds of sighs and slightly tipsy laughter filled the air. As I made to leave the ballroom, my way was blocked by a young woman with gauzy skirts and a bared belly who was eating fire for a group of rapt gentlemen.

  As I moved around them, one of the gentlemen stepped back—no doubt to avoid singeing his whiskers on her charms—and I nearly collided with him. From behind me, a strong arm slipped around my waist to draw me out of the path of danger. I whirled in surprise to see the face of my savior—the young porter who had admitted us to the house, blue eyes dancing behind her mask. Before I could thank her, she clasped me firmly and drew me into the dance, leading me expertly. Her gaze never left mine as we danced, the music urging us on, from a lazily sensual pace to something faster and more reckless. Her feet never faltered, and her grip never loosened. I matched her, turn for turn, my toes scarcely touching the ground at one point, my grand cape flowing behind us like a scarlet river.

  At last, some breathless minutes after it began, the waltz ended in a climactic crash of cymbals and violins. My partner had guided me to the center of the room, dozens of couples pressed firmly around us. I opened my mouth to thank her for the dance, but before I could speak, she seized the moment.

  She kissed me then, a light brush of the lips just at the corner of my mouth. She drew back her head, smiling. “Good night, Veronica Speedwell,” she said in a hoarse whisper. Without another word, she set me back upon my feet and vanished into the crowd, gone as quickly and mysteriously as she had come.

  One of the fire-eater’s admirers jostled me then and I recollected myself, moving out of the frantic doings in the ballroom and thinking furiously. In spite of the house rules on anonymity, in spite of my mask, my enigmatic partner had called me by name. Someone in the Club de l’Étoile knew exactly who I was.

  CHAPTER

  9

  I left the ballroom, reeling a little at this latest development. There was no sign of Stoker, for which I was both grateful and annoyed. Grateful, as I did not particularly wish to face him until I had recovered my composure after both the hectic dance and the unsettling notion that someone had penetrated my disguise. And I was annoyed that he was not at hand when I needed him. (The fact that I had sent him away with some vehemence was entirely immaterial. He ought to have known to stay in the general vicinity, I thought, a touch irrationally.)

  I made my way up the next flight of stairs without quite thinking the matter through. I had some vague idea of finding Madame Aurore’s rooms and inspecting her collection of diamond stars. Surely the lady could not be wearing all of them, I reflected. If I were very lucky indeed, I might find the prince’s offering sitting comfortably in her jewel box.

  The gentle reader will no doubt be asking at this point if I had taken leave of my usual prodigious common sense. Surely it was sounder logic to attempt such an undertaking with my partner, particularly given his skill with lockpicking and weaponry. If nothing else, two pairs of eyes keeping watch would be more efficacious than one, and a couple bent upon wrongdoing can easily plead the demands of passion as an excuse for trespassing in a private space. I have no excuse. I am a scientist, seldom given to the vagaries of emotion, but that night my usual good sense had deserted me. The heightened atmosphere of the Club de l’Étoile was invigorating, and I was unsettled by my own response. I was accustomed to acknowledging and even encouraging my appetites; I had long believed that exercising a vigorous libido was a necessity for good mental health as well as physiological well-being.

  And if I had examined my own heart more thoroughly, I would have found an even greater reason for my confusion. Less than a fortnight before, Stoker had risked his life to save mine in a daring and very nearly hopeless attempt to rescue me from peril. I had awakened the next morning with a conviction that I loved him as I had never loved anyone. The rest of our days in Cornwall had been passed in a delirious haze of anticipation, the memory of it tinged pink and dreamlike.

  Yet now that we had returned to London, I had been aware of a creeping sensation of doubt. That a physical union between us would be gratifying I had no doubt. I was only too aware of Stoker’s many attractions. But this new and burgeoning habit to rely upon him terrified me to my marrow. I had learnt not to be dependent through the harshest of circumstances. Could I now alter that practice? Could I really throw my hard-won independence to the wind and lean upon him?

  It was a question that drove me to act that night with reckless bravado. I had to prove to myself that I was still the same explorer who packed her petticoats and her parasol and set off to see the world. I had to peer into the looking glass of my soul and see once more the intrepid spirit that burned within. If I lost her, who then would I be? A mere appendage of Stoker’s?

  Never! I vowed. I took up the tail of my queenly cape and set off to find Madame Aurore’s private rooms. The corridors were full of people, some in couples, some in larger groups. Most were conversing, but a few were engaged in more obvious flirtations, whispering and giggling together, pressing fervent kisses to receptive throats. I passed them swiftly, calculating that I needed to climb up another floor to find Madame Aurore’s sanctum, but no sooner had I darted down one corridor and around
another than I became hopelessly lost. I could navigate the thickest rain forest with aplomb, but the Club de l’Étoile was a different thing altogether, designed to arouse and befuddle the senses. This floor was given over to the public reception rooms and Madame Aurore had evidently enjoyed planning out the most labyrinthine configuration. There was no grand corridor on this side of the house, only rooms opening one onto another in a long enfilade like pearls strung upon a chain. Each room had been furnished in a different style, setting an entirely different mood as one moved from chamber to chamber. I had just passed from a lush jungle habitat (created from an enormous number of potted palms and the odd caged tropical songbird) to an elegant if slightly hysterical interpretation of ancien régime Versailles hung with pink velvet and gilded furniture carved with ripe-breasted sphinxes. The air was thick with the signature scent of Madame Aurore’s perfume, the same blend of sandalwood and vetiver and violet that pervaded the rest of the house. The effect was otherworldly, aided by clouds of incense smoking gently from jars upon the hearths. The smoke smelt of roses, and a deeper, muskier scent filled the air.

  “It is chestnut,” said a voice in my ear. I turned to see a tall, unlikely-looking woman standing beside me. She was dressed in an unflattering gown of harsh pink taffeta. A wig of lavish blond curls was topped by a lace veil, and enormous diamonds—paste, no doubt—glittered at her throat and ears and wrists. Perched atop the lace veil was a miniature crown, little bigger than a pudding dish and a perfect replica of the queen’s tiny Jubilee diadem, sparkling with more false jewels. She wore a full mask of dark blue velvet, and this, coupled with the sooty kohl darkening her lids, brightened her eyes to the color of cornflowers.

  “Is it?” I asked politely.

  She nodded and the diamonds at her ears swung like chandeliers. “The flowers,” she added, pointing with her fan towards the enormous vases of wide white blossoms. “Madame Aurore puts them out to remind us of why we are all here,” she said with a little titter. “Because they smell of male effluvia.”

  I gave a sniff, recognizing a scent that had accompanied some of my most tender and pleasant recollections. Male ejaculation, once smelt, is never forgot. “Now that you have drawn my attention to it, the odor is most distinctive.”

  She gave me a long look from tiara to slipper tips. “I do not recall seeing you here before. Are you quite new?”

  There was something appraising in that glance, but not unkind. “I am,” I told her truthfully. “I am here with a companion. And yourself?”

  I glanced around the room, where several dozen other guests were gathered, many of them women of various states of attractiveness. I had not expected to see so many ladies and I told my companion so. She laughed, and for the first time I noticed her Adam’s apple, bobbing up and down above her diamond collar.

  The kindly blue eyes met mine and she put out a long, very slender hand encased in pristine white kid and took mine in a gentle clasp. “You may call me Victoria.”

  “Veronica,” I replied, seeing no need for pretense. “Are all the rest of the ladies like yourself?”

  She smiled and I saw a tiny bit of lip rouge on one of her teeth, barely visible below the concealment of her mask. “Most. But a masquerade is the chance to become what one isn’t,” she said. “Besides, why should you ladies have all the joy of wearing something pretty?”

  “Why indeed? Pardon me for the observation, but you have a little smeared lip rouge on your tooth.”

  She sucked her teeth vigorously before baring them at me. “Better?”

  “No,” I said. She reached into her bosom—padded, I realized—for a handkerchief, thrusting it into my hands.

  “Be a dear and help me,” she instructed with a touch of imperiousness.

  I reached forwards with the handkerchief and wiped away the smudge of lip rouge from her tooth. “There, now. Much better.” I showed her the stained handkerchief and she smiled.

  “You are an angel,” she said. I made to return the handkerchief but she waved me away, blowing a kiss as she went. I thrust the handkerchief into my pocket.

  Having bade farewell to the charming if unorthodox Victoria, I made my way upstairs via another grand staircase. My costume excited only a little attention. A flash of thigh and a low scoop of décolletage were as nothing to this crowd, I reflected. My crown of fox teeth was possibly the most interesting thing about me. I fended off a not unreasonable number of invitations, most issued quite politely, and slipped up the stairs. As Madame Aurore had indicated, a black velvet rope marked the boundary between the public spaces and her own private apartments.

  Unfortunately, she had not mentioned the guard. It was the same elderly fellow who had met us at the door earlier, but now I had the chance to look him over properly. He was so greyed and bewhiskered, I might have thought him a wizard out of a fairy story. An enormous nose protruded from the nest of hair upon his face, and above his half mask met two eyebrows of such enormity, they reminded me of a variety of particularly furry moth. He was sitting upon a chair, one stockinged foot in his hand as he massaged. His eyes were bright, sharply alert, and I fancied he rather enjoyed his employment.

  He puffed out his shoulders and spoke in a rasping voice. “You’ll not go a step further, madam, and that’s the truth,” he told me.

  I fluttered my lashes. “Oh, have I wandered into someplace . . . forbidden?”

  He leered a little at my neckline, his chubby cheeks puffing in and out furiously. “There’s precious little forbidden in this house, and that’s no lie,” he informed me. “But you’ll get nowhere with your feminine tricks. I’m immune.”

  “Feminine tricks?” I widened my eyes in apparent shock. “I wouldn’t dream of such a thing. Besides, what tricks could I work upon such an experienced fellow as yourself?”

  He made a bizarre little noise, halfway between a cough and a giggle. Then he doubled over, hacking deeply and unpleasantly. “You’re a right minx, you are,” he said, waggling his brows at me. He jerked his shoulder towards the closed doors behind him. “What you want with the mistress’s rooms, then?”

  “Oh, are these Madame Aurore’s rooms?” I asked, innocent as a vestal virgin. “I was simply looking for a place to attend to lady’s needs.” I primmed my mouth and said nothing more, counting on the usual man’s antipathy to anything related to a woman’s personal requirements.

  But he merely waggled his brows again. “Got your monthlies, then? That’s inconvenient in this house. Although ’tis better than the alternative and that’s God’s own truth,” he pronounced.

  I gaped at him. For all my travels, for all my experience, it was the first time in the whole of my existence that a man had inquired about my monthly courses. “As it happens,” I said tartly, “I am not, at the moment, experiencing my menses, but thank you very much for your kind inquiry. I merely wanted a place to powder my nose and tighten my garters.”

  He puffed his cheeks in and out, apparently thinking. Suddenly, he thrust his large foot in its grubby stocking towards me. “Rub me corns and I’ll let you pass.”

  I looked at the noisome stocking. There was a hole in the seam and one malignant toenail was making an appearance. He wriggled the toes at me, and I reeled backwards from the odor.

  “I think I shall decline your offer,” I told him politely. “Perhaps a corn plaster from the chemist would help. And a nice soak in some salts with a little rub of castor oil.”

  He thrust out his lower lip. “What has the world come to, I ask myself, when a comely lass won’t get her hands proper dirty for the sake of her elders?”

  I tipped my head. He was being willfully outrageous. He might be my elder, but I was, by every possible measure of society’s standards, his better, and I wondered if he might be intoxicated. I leant closer, in spite of the smell. There was, beneath the lowering odor of his feet, the slightest whiff of something sharp. Licorice, I decided.
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br />   His mouth worked a moment as he removed something he had tucked between cheek and gum. He spat into his palm, lifting it to offer me a half-sucked licorice drop.

  “Want a suck, missus?”

  “You must know better than to behave that way towards one of Madame Aurore’s guests,” I told him sternly. “Are you an ancient retainer of hers from her former life? Did you know her in Paris?”

  His whiskered mouth worked furiously. “Maybe I did and maybe I didn’t. Who are you to ask me such questions? Meddlesome jade,” he muttered.

  “You are a frightfully rude old man,” I told him.

  “And if you really needed the amenities, you would be back down those stairs, looking for the water closet,” he informed me smugly, crossing one leg over the other and flapping that disgusting foot at me.

  He was right enough there. I could not keep up the pretense of being a lost guest any longer, and further questions would only ensure that I was remembered, not an eventuality I desired when Madame Aurore discovered her diamond star was missing.

  I bared my teeth in a smile. “Very well. I will withdraw. It was quite a diverting experience to make your acquaintance.” I inclined my head and he flapped the foot again, imperious as a lord as he stared down his ridiculous nose at me.

  I had just made up my mind to leave when a melodious voice sounded behind me.

  “Robert, are you being tiresome to one of my guests?” I turned to see Madame Aurore smiling at us. She pronounced his name in the French fashion, and amusement twitched the corner of her mouth.

  He muttered something, but she waved him off. “Send to the kitchens for a little refreshment. I would like to speak with my guest alone.”

  He hurried off with his peculiar crablike gait as Madame Aurore turned to me. “You must forgive him. He is a new acquisition and not entirely au courant with the ways of politeness.”