Still, how often had I used travel as a means of escaping my troubles? An untidy love affair, a thwarted professional commission, adisappointment of any sort—these had frequently provided the impetus for a fresh journey. How the spirits lifted with every embarkation! The sound of a steam engine roaring to life, the full-bellied sway of canvas sails, the sharp tang of hot metal rails or salt-scented sea. There was nothing more promising than the first stage of a new expedition. Everything was possible in that moment; there was no past, no future, only that hollow in time when everything paused.
But while I understood Tiberius’ desire to escape, Stoker was less sympathetic.
“You owe us, Tiberius. I saved your bloody life,” he began.
Tiberius held up an elegant hand. “After you endangered it, my dear boy. I rather think, under the circumstances, that you oweme.”
They stared each other down for a long moment, so alike in some respects, so different in others. They had inherited their mother’s bone structure, beautifully sculpted with a refinement any artist would envy. But while his lordship had chestnut hair and dark, flashing eyes, Stoker bore the coloring of his natural father, the black hair and bright blue eyes of the Welsh painter who had entertained the late viscountess for a short period of time during her unhappy marriage to Tiberius’ more conventional father. Watching them square off never failed to rouse distinctly primitive instincts, particularly as their battles occasionally deteriorated into fisticuffs. Stoker’s stitches were almost healed from their last such encounter, but the viscount’s face still bore the slightest violet traces of bruising from Stoker’s handiwork.
As I scrutinized them, I smelt a proper quarrel brewing and rose to stand between them, adopting my most governessy tone. “Boys, that is enough. Stoker, you should know by now that the gleam in Tiberius’ eye means he is amusing himself at your expense. He enjoys watching you fly into a temper. Do not oblige him. As for you, Tiberius,” I added with a repressive look, “stop torturing your brother. Youknow everyone in London, and I daresay you can tell us all that we wish to know in less time than it will take Collins to pack your collar studs. Don’t be difficult.”
“Collins, in point of fact, is on a leave of absence due to his lumbago—yet another reason for shutting up the house,” his lordship informed me. Then he smiled. “But as ever, my dear Veronica, I am putty in your capable hands.” He paired the remark with a courtly gesture, reaching out to clasp the hands in question before bringing them to his lips. “You are right, of course. Now let me get on with costumes. We haven’t much time.”
He paused to regard his brother’s physique. “The most obvious choice is a buccaneer, and if he means to be a pirate, he ought to at least look a successful one. I have a few things that will be suitable, although I daresay his thighs and shoulders will split the seams,” he added with a moue of distaste. “He has the muscular development of a peasant.”
Stoker snorted. “Says the man who never lifts anything heavier than a hand of cards.”
I intervened again. “You are both very attractive in your own way,” I temporized. While the viscount’s lean elegance would turn any woman’s head, I had a keen personal appreciation for Stoker’s more obvious musculature. “But Stoker’s physique is not peasantlike,” I corrected loyally. “His proportions are Praxitelean.”
Tiberius gave a little snort and turned his attention to me, scrutinizing my figure with the eye of a practiced connoisseur. “Boadicea,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument. “I quite like the idea of you, hair unbound, short tunic revealing shapely legs...” His voice trailed off suggestively. “Very tempting.”
“I would be very happy to go as the Queen of the Iceni,” I said.
“She likes it because it means she can carry weapons,” Stoker informed him.
Tiberius laughed, his peculiar sharp fox’s bark of a laugh. “I have no doubt. Well, I always did say Stoker ought to have a bodyguard. Do you mean to haul a spear around all night? I only ask because it might get in the way of your more intimate activities.”
“There are not going tobeany intimate activities,” Stoker said. “We are going there to work, not to participate in an orgy.”
Tiberius lifted his brows. “My dear boy, if you only ‘participate’ in an orgy, you are doing it incorrectly. One must join such endeavors with enthusiasm or not at all.”
Stoker ignored the jibe. “It occurs to me that the Vane parure might be suitable.”
“The Vane parure?” I asked.
Tiberius sprang to his feet. “Splendid notion! Oh, my sweet Veronica, it seems my benighted brother has been touched by genius. Come along.”
He led the way to his dressing room, a distinctly masculine room with dark wallpaper figured in green vines and a thick carpet. The room smelt of leather and whisky and vetiver. I sniffed appreciatively as Tiberius went to the portrait hanging over the narrow fireplace. It was a particularly good copy of a Boucher—or perhaps it was not a copy. The Templeton-Vanes had enjoyed a good deal of money for a good deal of time. This was brought home to me when Tiberius swung the painting aside to reveal a wall safe fitted neatly behind. He spun the dial and worked a swift series of numbers to open it. Inside were a number of leather portfolios—legal documents and deeds, no doubt. He pushed these aside and began to extract a succession of boxes, leather, kid, morocco, suede. Each was stamped with the name of a prominent jeweler from London or Paris. He sorted through them until he gave a little exclamation of satisfaction.
“Here,” he pronounced in triumph. “I have it.”
He came forwards bearing a case of red morocco, embossed onthe top with the Templeton-Vane coat of arms. He held it out to me with a flourish.
“For me to borrow?” I asked, hesitating.
“Of course,” Tiberius assured me. “It is precisely what Boadicea requires.”
He flicked the golden clasp of the box and, pausing just a moment with all the instinctive timing of a master showman, he lifted the lid.
I caught my breath and stared into the case. Nested on a bed of black velvet was the most astonishing jewel I had ever seen. It was a tiara of considerable size and obvious expense, set with rubies. It was unique and old and clearly valuable.
It was also the ugliest thing I had ever seen. I poked it with a reluctant finger. “What on earth is it made of?” I asked.
“Foxes’ teeth,” Tiberius informed me, grinning. “There is only one other in the British Isles, and ours is far more expensive.”
“I have never seen anything like it,” I told him truthfully. I darted a look to where Stoker was standing, a small smile playing about his mouth.
I bent to examine the tiara more closely. A series of foxes’ teeth—many,manyfoxes’ teeth—formed the circular base in crisscrossing motifs, rising to a height of some three inches. The tip of each tooth was studded with a small ruby, drops of blood captured in jewel form.
