A Murderous Relation

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

  He rose, smiling. “They have gone.”

  “Thank merciful heaven for that,” I muttered. I was exultant, perhaps a trifle too much so. I went to jump from the bathtub, but my still-leaden legs would not quite support me. My knees buckled and I careered into Stoker, knocking him to the ground. I landed on top of him, legs akimbo, his hips settled neatly under mine.

  “Well, this is not entirely how I expected this would begin,” I said, his mouth a breath away from mine.

  I paused and the world stood still. His bright sapphirine gaze held mine for a long moment and I felt the slow, steady drumbeat of his heart against my chest. His hands were tight on my arms, and I parted my lips, expectant.

  “Oh well,” he said brightly, thrusting me off of him and springing to his feet. “No harm done.”

  He bolted for the door and I followed, slowly, reflecting with some irritation that there was more than one mystery afoot at the Club de l’Étoile.

  CHAPTER

  11

  We made our way hastily downstairs to the more public rooms. It made sense to discover Madame Aurore’s whereabouts before attempting to gain access to her private quarters, and we needed to compare notes without the possibility of another amorous interruption. Logic dictated to me that the later we made the attempt, the better. If we could effect our escape just as the guests were settling down to their most focused debaucheries, it would be almost impossible for anyone to follow us. In the meantime, we could conduct ourselves as any other guests at the club might—in a dance or a visit to the supper room.

  As we made our way, I pondered Stoker’s new zest for our detective like activities. He was often a willing participant in our investigations, but never as enthusiastic as this. To throw himself so fully into my little schemes was a new development, and one that I could not divorce from his obvious—and entirely new—shyness.

  Stoker had never been bashful before. When he was not working in dishabille, he was disrobing entirely to take advantage of swimming in the pond or taking a dip in the heated plunge pool, and he was seldom careful about who saw him, least of all me. In fact, it had become apparent during our Cornish interlude that he sometimes deliberately undressed in front of me because he knew the sight of his naked, masculine, utterly delectable form . . .

  My mind was wandering. I forced my attention back to the question of why, now that we had decided to take our relationship to a more intimate footing, he should play the wallflower.

  “Oh, you silly cow!” I muttered. “He is bashful because he knows it means something now.” The poor darling, I reflected with a smile. Madame Aurore had hit the proverbial nail squarely upon the head with her shrewd assessment that delay could bring only discomfort, but the sentiment applied not only to me. The attraction between us had been so strong for so long and this next step had been so long in the offing, it was little wonder he was finding himself suddenly reluctant. No doubt he was concerned about his ability to live up to my decidedly ambitious expectations. Of course, few men could, but that did not worry me in the slightest. I was, after all, a true daughter of Britannia, I reminded myself. I was the embodiment of the British spirit of putting one’s shoulder to the grindstone and getting on with it. I would simply have to make this clear to Stoker. The sooner we bedded, the better. The last thing he needed was more time to fret himself about it.

  Unaware of the direction of my thoughts, he guided me through the ballroom, gliding us through a series of turns until we emerged into the next room, the supper room, looking like any other couple in search of refreshment. The caramel tarts had been replenished and Stoker helped himself with a gusty sigh of pleasure. He heaped a plate with them and poured a rich pool of crème anglaise around them before finding us a curtained alcove, discreet but unremarkable, in which to sit and make our plans.

  Hurriedly, I informed him of exactly where I believed the diamond star to be, explaining what I had learnt from Madame Aurore during our intimate conversation.

  “Of course,” I went on in a low voice, “we cannot be certain of how many we shall have to search before we discover the correct star. She might have dozens of the blasted things tucked away.”

  He shrugged. “The case will be scarlet leather.”

  “How in the name of seven hells do you know that?” I demanded.

  He forked up a bit of tart with maddening calm. “My father always bought my mother something from Garrard after they quarreled. The boxes are scarlet.”

  I tipped my head. “Tiberius’ safe is full of scarlet boxes.”

  “They quarreled rather a lot.”

  He continued to eat, placidly, intent upon the gustatory pleasure of the tarts. I watched his tongue dart out to claim a crumb from his lip and suppressed a moan.

  “Veronica, are you quite all right?” he asked, peering at me in some concern.

  “Entirely,” I told him, making a mental note to visit Lord Rosemorran’s cold plunge pool as soon as possible. “There is a point of difficulty in gaining access to Madame Aurore’s private quarters. There is a footman outside her rooms—an elderly fellow who sits guard. We will have to make our way past him and any other servants who might be about.”

  Stoker considered this a moment. “There will be a servants’ staircase. Let us attempt that and if necessary I suppose we could always garrote the old fellow and stuff him in a cupboard.”

  “He stinks of dirty feet and licorice. We would be doing Madame Aurore a favor,” I replied.

  I led the way, slowly so as not to betray we were anything other than ordinary guests. The entertainments had taken on a more forthright air, with men and women in various states of undress roaming the halls in search of partners. Lacy petticoats foamed at dimpled knees while the luscious curves of bared shoulders and half-revealed breasts rose over embroidered corset covers. The men were attired in various garments designed to show them to better advantage—Eastern robes, banyans, dressing gowns. I caught more than one glance of a bare, manly calf or a strong, supple pectoral muscle.

  “If you would be so good as to focus on the situation at hand,” Stoker said once, his consonants sharply clipped.

  “I am an admirer of the male form,” I replied with lofty disdain.

  A narrow passageway led through a series of small bowers, little rooms fitted with couchettes where couples—and sometimes more—were draped, limbs intertwined as sighs filled the air. The lights were low and each bower was imperfectly concealed behind gauze draperies, giving the whole arrangement the feel of a unique theatrical entertainment. We charged past the lovers, making for the end of the corridor where a perfectly normal door led into the domestic offices of the house. We emerged, in fact, into the pages’ hall, a large space with cubbyholes and benches and walls pegged for the hanging of livery. One fellow, with dark skin and a relaxed air, sat reading a newspaper and smoking a tiny cigarette that smelt of very good French manufacture.

  He rose immediately. His jacket was draped over the arm of his chair, but his shirtsleeves were immaculate and his breeches and waistcoat beautifully tailored. He inclined his head, his voice accented with the lilt of Haitian vowels.

  “I beg your pardon, sir, madam. This part of the house is not usually made available to guests, but if you wish, I suppose arrangements could be made,” he began.

  “No need,” I told him. “We could use your help, though.”

  He did not bat an eyelash, and it occurred to me only later that he no doubt believed we were in search of the fellow for some immoderate purpose.

  “We wish to know if there is a discreet way to the second floor,” I told him.

  He stroked his chin. “I suppose you mean the private staircase.” He gestured towards a cupboard whose door stood open, revealing a narrow staircase snugged inside. “The servants’ stairs.”

  I made towards them, but the page inserted himself neatly between my person and the open
door. “I am afraid the servants’ stairs are not permitted for guests.” His tone was apologetic but his manner was decisive. We should not be gaining entrance through him. The page’s pleasant expression never faltered. “Of course it is true that my duties require me to appear at all times at my best. This entails the most attentive brushing of my coat, and if I were engaged upon such a task, I should certainly do so with my back to the door. In which case I would be unable to see if anyone were to slip up the stairs.”

  I flicked a glance to Stoker, who sighed and extracted a notecase from his sash. He retrieved a banknote and held it up between two fingers.

  The page clucked his tongue. “I regret, sir, that I do not feel able to turn my back just yet.”

  Stoker extracted a further two banknotes and put them carefully in the pocket of the page’s coat.

  “Naturally, I would only turn my back once,” the page warned us. “If anyone were to return back this way, I should certainly feel obligated to remember such a thing.”

  Stoker gave him a sour smile and tucked two more notes into the pocket.

  The page picked up his clothes brush. “Goodness, what smuts are on this fabric. I daresay I shall be busy brushing my coat for some full five minutes and completely oblivious to anything else that may happen in the house,” he said. He applied himself to the tidying of his coat while Stoker grabbed my hand and hauled me towards the stairs.

  “You oughtn’t have given him so much,” I hissed. “We could have come back another way and you can hardly spare such a sum.”

  “Do not worry,” he instructed, grinning in the dim light of the stairs. “It was Tiberius’ notecase.”

  We hurried up the stairs, mindful of the page’s warning that his bribe had purchased us only five minutes’ time. We climbed for ages, creeping swiftly on silent feet to the third floor. There was a narrow landing before the stairs wound further up—towards the servants’ quarters, no doubt. We paused, waiting for any noise to betray a presence in the room beyond.

  Silence surrounded us, pressing softly against us on all sides. I eased the door open and found only blackness. It took a moment to realize we were concealed behind one of the long grey velvet drapes. I edged the fabric aside with two fingers to find the room was empty.

  I darted in, beckoning to Stoker. No sooner had we both entered than a movement from the sofa stopped us in our tracks. An enormous dark head rose from the other side and a low growl sounded.

  “Hello, Vespertine,” I crooned. “Stoker, give me something to eat. Hurry.”

  Without waiting for an explanation, Stoker stuffed something into my hand. I crept forwards, extending my palm to Vespertine. In it lay a crushed caramel tart.

  “You really are the most impossible man,” I muttered as the dog bent his head to lap up the treat in one motion.

  “Yes, well, I seem to have saved you from being devoured by that hell beast,” he retorted.

  “Nonsense. Vespertine and I understand one another, don’t we, darling?” I asked, scratching the hound gently behind the ears.

  He rolled over on his back, waving his long legs into the air. “Not now,” I told him firmly. He rolled back, his expression distinctly hurt as he returned to his position on the sofa.

  “He looks distraught,” I told Stoker.

  “He is a dog,” Stoker replied.

  “You of all people should respect that animals have emotions,” I began.

  He held up a quelling hand. “This is not the time for a rousing discussion on the questionable practice of anthropomorphizing domesticated animals, Veronica,” he reminded me. “Now, point me towards her dressing room so I can get on with playing the burglar.”

  I had no sooner lifted my arm than the knob of the outer door turned. We had just enough time to throw ourselves to the floor behind the sofa before the door opened. I landed on top of Stoker, and Vespertine, enormously confused, landed on top of me. If he had not been in search of more tarts, we might have remained hidden, but having sniffed out the location of Stoker’s pocket, the hound applied himself to the vigorous investigation of its contents.

  Stoker gave a muffled howl of pain and I heard a voice call out softly from the doorway. “I say, is anyone there?”

  It was the note of fear that decided me. Whoever our visitor was, it was most definitely not Madame Aurore. It was someone more afraid of us than we were of them.

  I pushed Vespertine off with some effort and rose. Just inside the closed door stood a familiar and hesitant figure.

  “Victoria!” I cried.

  I hastened to pull Stoker to his feet, dusting at the lavish display of crumbs that Vespertine had left on his shirt.

  My friend from the supper room gave me a nervous smile. “Hello. I suppose you are wondering why I have come here.”

  I gave a gracious inclination of the head, grateful that it had not occurred to Victoria to question our presence. “Not at all. I suppose anyone might get lost in this house. It is so vast.” I might have said more, but as I advanced towards Victoria, I saw her in the full glare of the gaslight. I had noted the Adam’s apple before, but now, absent the mask, I could clearly see the bright blue of the protuberant eyes, the full curve of the generous mouth. And the moustaches that her mask had imperfectly concealed. I stood in mute shock as Stoker moved forwards, pausing to give a smart and correct bow of the head.

  “Your Royal Highness,” he said, “permit me to present Miss Veronica Speedwell. Veronica, this is His Royal Highness, Prince Albert Victor of Wales.”

  The pause after Stoker’s words seemed to go on forever, and when I spoke it was with considerable effort. “Victoria,” I corrected softly. “She introduced herself earlier to me as Victoria. It is impolite to penetrate a person’s incognito.”

  Victoria peered at Stoker closely. “I know you.”

  “That depends, sir,” Stoker replied evenly, “upon whether I am speaking with a lady named Victoria or Prince Albert Victor. I have indeed met the latter.”

  I stared at Stoker in some astonishment. He had failed to mention that interesting titbit, and I made a mental note to interrogate him thoroughly on the matter at a more propitious time.

  The prince hesitated, then plucked off the crown and veil. “It appears I am discovered. I am indeed Albert Victor.”

  Immediately, the shoulders went square and the chin lifted, imperious as a future emperor.

  “All part of the masquerade,” he said, gesturing towards the ball gown. “I thought if I came as a woman, I mightn’t be discovered, but you have unmasked me. Fair play to you, sir,” he said, putting out his hand to Stoker.

  I stared stupidly at the prince, at my half-brother. He was not looking at me. His attention was fixed upon Stoker. I could not speak. Standing scant feet from my own half-brother had dealt my composure a blow. Stoker evidenced no such distress. He shook the prince’s hand and carried on as pleasantly as if we were having a conversation over a buffet supper.

  “Now, where exactly did we meet—I have it! I went with my tutor to inspect the ship after the Battle of Alexandria, oh, what was her name, dash it?”

  “The Luna, sir,” Stoker replied quietly.

  “Yes, of course! You were the surgeon’s mate with the habit of taxidermy. I remember, you were working on stuffing a rather glamorous-looking macaw, and I quite took a fancy to it.”

  “You have an excellent memory, sir,” Stoker said.

  The prince smiled. “Well, one does rather remember a macaw. One of Lord Templeton-Vane’s boys, are you not?”

  “My father died last year,” Stoker told him. “My eldest brother now holds the title.”

  “Ah, condolences and all,” the prince said, obviously losing interest. He shifted his gaze to me. “Miss . . . Speedwell, was it?”

  “Yes, Your Royal Highness,” I acknowledged.

  “But we have already met
! Downstairs,” he said with a puckish grin. “You were most helpful.”

  Stoker gave me a quizzical glance. “There was an incident with some lip rouge,” I explained.

  The clock on the mantel chimed the hour and the prince gave a start. “I do hope you will excuse me, but I am expected for a private meeting with Madame Aurore and the hour is upon us,” he said, making a polite gesture of dismissal.

  “We would leave you to it, sir,” I replied boldly, “but we are here at the behest of the Princess of Wales.”

  The round eyes grew enormous and his mouth went slack in dismay. “Motherdear? What on earth do you mean?”

  “She asked us to retrieve a gift you seem to have made to Madame Aurore,” Stoker said.

  He huffed a great sigh into his moustaches. “I cannot believe she did such a thing! Darling Motherdear. She must have been so upset,” he murmured. “But how on earth did she—”

  Conscious of the passing of time, I hurried on. “I rather think the details can be discussed at a later time, sir. The point is that Her Royal Highness was most insistent that we retrieve the jewel on your behalf.”

  “But that is why I am here,” he protested. “I have dashed all the way down from Scotland on a decidedly uncomfortable train—have you any idea what third-class accommodations are like on a train from Scotland? I had a note from Aurore promising to return it.” He gave a little laugh. “It appears Motherdear and I have been working at cross purposes.”

  I recalled the snippet of conversation Stoker and I had overheard through the ventilator, and we exchanged a quick glance. “It is possible, sir, that it was a ruse on her part to lure you here, for some as yet unknown purpose.”

  “It is not possible,” he said with considerable hauteur. “I know well the quality of my friends, Miss Speedwell, and Madame Aurore is numbered among them. She would never betray my trust. She is a devout woman.”

  “Sir,” Stoker began, but the prince held up an imperious hand.