A Murderous Relation

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  “My goodness,” he said in the drawling accents of an American from one of the southern states, “it appears Madame Aurore has been hiding the most alluring of her guests.”

  He reached a hand to touch something that no gentleman ought to touch without invitation. In a flash, he was flat against the wallpaper, his arm wrenched up hard behind his back, and gasping for breath as I gripped him hard in a place no polite memoir would name.

  “Veronica, what in the name of seven hells are you doing?” Stoker inquired courteously from behind me.

  “This gentleman caused me offense,” I told him.

  The man in question stirred, making noises of faint protest.

  “What was that?” I asked. He made another sound, mewling almost as tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. I turned to Stoker. “He touched me. Without my consent.”

  “Most unmannerly,” Stoker agreed.

  “But it is an honest misunderstanding,” the fellow whimpered into the wallpaper. “Most ladies in such an establishment are open to such direct overtures.”

  I blinked at him. “Are they indeed? How uncivilized.” I raised up on tiptoes, tightening my grip slightly. “You really oughtn’t go around grabbing unsuspecting women, you know. Even if they are open to erotic liberties. It isn’t polite.”

  He nodded, the tears falling freely now, and I released him. He staggered, then dropped to his knees, giving a deep groan.

  Stoker bent to look him in the face. “He seems all right. I suppose a few minutes on his knees won’t do him much harm.”

  The man drew in a few deep, shuddering breaths before mopping his face with a handkerchief and staggering to his feet. His face had gone an alarming shade of puce.

  I peered at him, then poked Stoker. “Are you quite certain he is all right? He looks as if he were about to have a fit.”

  The fellow waved his handkerchief. “Perfectly all right,” he managed in a breathless voice. “I must offer my apologies, madam. Sir, is this lady in your keeping?”

  Stoker leveled a narrow look at him. “As far as you are concerned she is. Although as you have just seen, she is more than capable of looking after herself.”

  The man winced, locking his knees together as his eyes rolled a little. “Indeed. I wonder if she might oblige me with a second round of castigation.” He gave me a hopeful look.

  “I beg your pardon?” I said.

  “I have upon occasion found ladies here willing to engage in the disciplinary arts, but not one of them has proven as skilled as yourself,” he told me. “You have a rare gift.”

  I flicked a glance to Stoker, who was barely managing to smother his laughter. I smiled politely. “That is very kind of you, I am sure. But I do not customarily engage in such practices, Mr. . . . ?

  He retrieved his card case and extracted a calling card. “Francis Clay Hilliard, of the Charleston Hilliards. At your service, ma’am.”

  I took the proffered card and started to speak. “How do you do? I am Boadicea, Queen of the Britons.”

  We exchanged handshakes as civilly as if we had been introduced at a tea party, and Mr. Hilliard dusted off the knees of his trousers with his handkerchief.

  “Am I to understand that you are here for the purposes of gratification, Mr. Hilliard? Physical gratification?” I asked.

  “I am indeed, ma’am. A gentleman of esoteric tastes has, by definition, a limited number of opportunities for such indulgence, as I am sure you can appreciate.”

  “Certainly. And Madame Aurore’s guests have been unable to assuage your desires?”

  He held up his hands, light sparking off the signet ring on his little finger. Now that I had a proper peep at him, I could see he was thirtyish, extremely prosperous-looking, and not unattractive.

  “Now, ma’am, I would never like to imply such a thing. Madame Aurore has done her level best to supply my needs. I have been whipped, flogged, restrained, and ridden by half a dozen different beauties, and every one of them left bruises,” he said in obvious appreciation. “But not one of them has your natural talents for bringing a man so quickly to the very edge of endurance. I did believe I was going to fall unconscious,” he finished with an admiring nod.

  Stoker had apparently had enough of Mr. Hilliard’s praise. “Yes, her talents are legion,” he agreed, taking me firmly by the elbow. “But unfortunately she is already spoken for. I am afraid we are otherwise engaged.”

  Without waiting for a reaction, Stoker propelled me firmly down the corridor and through a closed door, which he shut decisively behind us.

  “That was not entirely necessary,” I told him. “I did have the matter well in hand—Good gad, what is this place?” I demanded. We were in a private room, rather like a costly suite in an exuberantly overpriced hotel, but with a most unique décor.

  “It is meant to be a garden in hell,” Stoker informed me, pointing to a card pinned to the door: Jardin d’Enfer. I turned slowly, taking in the surroundings, mouth agape.

  Every surface was upholstered in some shade of scarlet. Crimson hangings covered the walls; bloodred cushions softened the chairs. A wide bed had been made up with black satin sheets and a ruby satin coverlet. A thickly piled garnet carpet stretched from wall to wall, cocooning the room in color and softness. Even the marble fireplace was the color of good claret.

  “It is extraordinary,” I told him truthfully. I was suddenly quite aware of him standing just behind me, not touching me, but near enough to raise the hair on the back of my neck. I pulled off my mask and stepped into the room, towards fate, I decided.

  “It will suit our purpose well enough,” he told me. I marveled at the change in him. He was suddenly quite matter-of-fact about what we were about to do. I licked my lips as he removed his own mask and consulted his pocket watch.

  “It is very nearly time,” he said with some satisfaction. “He should be arriving at any moment.”

  “He?” I blinked. “I rather thought we would do this alone the first time.”

  He stared at me in mystification. “Veronica, what are you on about? I mean Madame Aurore’s caller.”

  “What caller?”

  He rolled his eyes. “There was a rather delectable little caramel tart in the supper room,” he began.

  “This is about food?”

  “I was hungry,” he put in pettishly. “I’ve had nothing but sandwiches since breakfast, if you will remember. I require sustenance. As it was, there was only one wee tart left, and a plateful of crumbs. I went belowstairs to see if there might be more on offer, and I overheard Madame Aurore direct a page to show a visitor up to her rooms as soon as he arrives.”

  “I had a tête-à-tête with her myself. She ushered me out on the same grounds. But if she means to entertain him in her private rooms, what are we doing here? We are on an entirely different floor.”

  Stoker preened a little. “By process of pacing out the interior architecture, I discovered that this suite, in particular the bathroom, is directly below her dressing room. I hoped we might overhear something through the ventilators,” he added, pointing to the ornate rectangular grille set into the wall.

  “Oh,” I murmured, feeling a little deflated. I paused, then ventured to raise the doubts I had experienced after I had spoken with her. “Stoker, I am not entirely certain we ought to steal the star at all—” I began. But he had already darted into the bathroom, muttering about the likeliest listening post. “Later,” I muttered.

  It was just as well, I reflected. My usual decisiveness had deserted me, and I did not relish the notion of explaining my disordered thoughts to Stoker before I could make sense of them myself. Everything in my life seemed to have turned topsy-turvy in the past few days, and I had the strangest sensation of rowing after a sailboat that disappeared over the horizon. No matter how hard I pulled at the oars, I would never catch it, I thought in some dismay.
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  But this would never do! I gave myself a sharp mental shake and explored the suite. Between the door to the corridor and that to the bathroom stood a tall piece of chinoiserie lacquered in black. I opened it to find an assortment of accoutrements: whips, floggers, blindfolds, and restraints as neatly and tidily arranged as if they were no more exotic than a toast rack or stack of blotting paper.

  I peered into the cabinet and extracted a dainty little whip of black suede, striking it smartly against my palm. It was exquisitely fashioned, leaving a stinging sensation but no mark.

  A drawer in the cabinet held a collection of bottles, each carefully labeled in an elegant hand, unguents and aphrodisiacs, all crafted to heighten the sensations. The bottom drawer held various props—fans, feathers, and a gown large enough to accommodate Stoker should he be so inclined.

  Like the rest of the house, the air here smelt of roses and vetiver and something darker, more sensual, simmering just beneath the surface. I gave a little sigh of pure delight, wondering if Stoker and I might arrange to have the room to ourselves for just a little while. The bed, I noted, was large and extremely sturdy.

  “It’s rather a nice house,” I called to him.

  “It bloody well is not,” Stoker contradicted. “It might have escaped your notice, but it is Paddington Station for perverts out there.”

  “Perversion is in the eye of the beholder,” I returned mildly. “These are adults free to choose their pastimes. Your judgments are both archaic and unkind.”

  Stoker gave an audible snort. “There are men roaming these rooms who pay extortionate amounts of money to have people do extraordinary things to them for purposes of sexual gratification and you are behaving as if it were nothing more than a Sunday picnic by the Serpentine.”

  “Prostitution is, not for nothing, the oldest profession, and you are behaving like a provincial. What difference does it make if a person is willing to pay for a service if another, quite obliging, person is agreeable to perform it? It is no different than buying the expertise of a chef or a tailor,” I finished.

  “Intimacy should not be transactional,” Stoker said flatly.

  “Provincial,” I repeated in a mutter. I opened another drawer to find a series of heavy enameled eggs whose purpose I could only surmise.

  “What was that?” Stoker called.

  “Nothing,” I called, slamming the drawer closed.

  “Honestly, Veronica, what sort of woman are you? You can divest romance from the most intimate of connections and think nothing of it?”

  “You are a romantic,” I called back. “Of the incurable variety.”

  “You needn’t make it sound as if it were a dread disease,” Stoker retorted, coming to the door to give me a disapproving look. “It is a bloody nice thing that someone around here still believes in things like love and sentiment and—” He broke off, blushing furiously. “I do not know why in the name of Satan’s seraphim I bother.”

  He turned on his heel and went back into the bathroom, leaving me to poke about the room, exploring its more esoteric delights. I was about to point out to him that half an hour’s interruption to our investigative activities would not be entirely a dereliction of our duty, but before I could there was a noise from the corridor, a smothered giggle and the sound of a hand groping for the doorknob. I dove into the bathroom, closing the door swiftly behind me just as the door from the corridor opened.

  Stoker, standing upright and fully clothed in the dry bathtub, his ear cocked to the ventilator in the wall, gave me a curious glance.

  “I say—” he began, but he got no further. I hurled myself at him, clapping my hand firmly over his mouth. I jerked my head towards the bedroom and he gave a nod, taking my meaning at once.

  Through the closed door we could hear the clink of champagne glasses and the rumble of voices, a man and a woman, I thought. There were merry laughs and a few groans and then the distinctive creak of bedsprings. I put my eye to the keyhole and saw our new acquaintance, Mr. Hilliard. He was undressed to his long underwear, flannel and striped. His moustaches were quivering with anticipation as a lady garbed as Helen of Troy strapped his hands together and picked up a small cat-o’-nine-tails. He gave a happy little sigh and turned himself over, derriere upwards, his face in the pillows.

  I turned away before the first blow fell but I heard the singing of the little whip as it arced through the air and the sharp smack of the leather against the flannel-draped flesh. There was a happy sigh and his companion gave a brisk instruction. “Now, if ever it gets too much, you’ve only to say, love.”

  I pantomimed to Stoker the identity of the fellow being soundly disciplined in the next room and he rolled his eyes again. He gestured fiercely, suggesting we leave, but I shook my head. If he meant to eavesdrop on Madame Aurore’s meeting, we would have to keep ourselves hid away in our porcelain prison. I removed my hand from his mouth, giving him a wary look.

  He cocked his head, then put his lips to my ear, causing the pulse in my throat to quicken. “We might venture a whisper. They seem mightily distracted.”

  More blows and moans, louder now, along with Mr. Hilliard’s cries of encouragement to his tormentor. I looked around the bathroom, admiring the porcelain fittings, the bright brass fixtures, beautifully modern and highly polished. Stoker made a brisk gesture with his fingers and I realized he was hearing something through the ventilator. I gathered up my cloak and joined him in the bath, pressing my cheek to the metal grille. The voices were muffled—and it was not easy to hear anything with the frankly exuberant noises coming from the adjoining bedroom—but I could just make them out. One of them—Madame Aurore, I surmised—spoke a few indistinct words. A male voice countered, speaking quickly and with some vigor.

  “Whoever he is, he’s angry,” I murmured. I shifted a little, attempting to get more comfortable. The sides of the bath were angled, throwing us awkwardly together, with my back pressed to Stoker’s front so that we could both listen through the ventilator.

  Stoker nodded, his chin brushing my temple. From the other room, Mr. Hilliard had achieved some sort of resolution to his excitement, culminating in a series of high yelps, like the bark of a fox. I worried for a moment that he and his companion might avail themselves of the room where we were concealed, but after only a moment, distinctive noises resumed and I realized they were bent on another bout of congress.

  Stoker and I returned our attention to the ventilator. The discussion upstairs continued for some minutes, the woman’s voice even and calm as the man’s voice continued to rage. I heard the pop of a cork and the sharp, bright clink of crystal.

  “A toast,” Stoker whispered, his mouth touching the edge of my ear.

  I shifted uncomfortably, flexing my ankles to try to get the feeling back into my feet.

  “Do stop that,” he ordered in a harsh whisper, his hands suddenly firm on my hips as he gripped them, forcing me to stand still.

  “I cannot help it,” I protested. “I am half numb from the cold porcelain.”

  He made no reply but turned to listen again, shaking his head after a long moment.

  “I think they have finished,” he began.

  It was my turn to fling up a hand. “They are still speaking,” I hissed.

  Their voices were pitched low and fast, as if they were pressed for time. Madame Aurore must have moved nearer to the ventilator at some point, for I heard her say, “He has sent word. We are to meet here in an hour so that I can hand over the star. Trust me.” Then nothing for a long moment.

  Afterwards, the unmistakable exchange of partings, the man’s voice calmer now and even a little laugh from the woman. And then an odd little noise, half gasp, half moan, ending on an eldritch sigh. There was a long moment of quiet, then a few bumps and thumps. Finally, the slam of a door and silence.

  “She is handing over the star to a fellow conspirator!” I murmured in
to Stoker’s ear with suppressed rage. “She does mean to use it against Eddy! No doubt she has made arrangements with a newspaperman or some other unsavory type to sell it along with her story.”

  We exchanged meaningful looks. If Madame Aurore had a meeting in her dressing room in an hour, it would be necessary for us to enter, retrieve the jewel, and leave undetected before she returned. Stoker tapped his pocket watch to indicate how much time we had remaining and I rolled my eyes towards the bedroom, where our friends still disported themselves. It might have been possible to creep out of the bathroom and into the corridor without being apprehended, but the chance was slim, and a successful escape would depend largely on not being remembered after the jewel went missing.

  We shrugged and silently agreed to make the best of it, settling in to wait until Mr. Hilliard and his companion concluded their activities. A few audibly exuberant minutes later, we were sitting in the bathtub, fully clothed, entirely dry, and very much put out with one another.

  “This is the most absurd situation,” I whispered.

  Stoker held up a hand and whispered back to me. “If you wouldn’t mind saving your disapprobation for another time, we have work.”

  “It is past midnight,” I reminded him. Just then, our companions in the adjoining room reached a sort of crescendo, the various moans and shrieks and trills rising to a pitch that I greatly feared would offend the ears of any respectable dog in the vicinity. Poor Vespertine, I thought. Then a sort of exhausted silence fell. For several minutes more there was only that silence, and my toes began to prickle again with pins and needles.

  “Do you think they have fallen asleep?” I ventured.

  Stoker put a finger to his mouth and eased himself from the bathtub. He crept to the door and knelt, laying his eye to the keyhole.