“My dear Veronica, that would be entirely contrary to her own best interests. Talk about killing the goose that laid the golden egg! She makes thousands out of her clientele. If there were the slightest whisper of indiscretion, she would have to close her doors instantly. And, given the number of extremely notable government figures who have graced her doors, I daresay the lady would find herself on the receiving end of a lengthy prison sentence to boot.”
Before I could ask any further questions, Tiberius rose, rubbing his hands together briskly. “Come along, then. We haven’t much time to make Stoker look like a respectable gentleman of means, and God only knows how long that will take.”
CHAPTER
7
In the end, it took the better part of three hours before we assembled an appropriate wardrobe for Stoker. He objected to anything flamboyant of Tiberius’, and since the viscount had a flair for beautiful fabrics with dramatic cuts, the battles were many and heated.
“I look like a bloody magician’s assistant,” he protested at one point as he flicked the ruffle at the cuff of a particularly elegant ensemble.
“You are a magician,” I reminded him.
“Never professionally,” he retorted. “And I do not see the need forlace.”
Tiberius’ expression was pained. “That is Alençon, you philistine, and it was created for an exclusive fancy dress party given by the Queen of Bohemia.” The viscount stepped back, assessing him. “How do you do it?” he murmured. “You make the most exquisite tailoring look like something from the dressing-up box.”
“I feel ridiculous,” Stoker put in.
The viscount sighed. “You cannot carry it off, my boy. You haven’t the aplomb. Very well, a pirate you shall be. Your own trousers will have to do. I have a shirt with appropriately Elizabethan sleeves, andhere, take this shawl of India paisley to wear as a sash to hold your cutlass and pistols.”
Stoker rolled his eyes heavenwards. “I am not wearing a cutlass and pistols.”
“The more fool you,” Tiberius told him. “I daresay Veronica will be armed to her pretty teeth.”
The viscount thrust the garments at Stoker and beckoned me into the sitting room next door.
“We can have a coze while that Neanderthal is defiling my tailoring,” he said, pouring out a tiny glass of violet liqueur.
“Tell me what you think of this.” He presented it with a flourish and I took a sip, relishing the lush floral headiness that burst over my tongue.
“Crème de violette!” I exclaimed. “I recognize it. This is the handiwork of Julien d’Orlande.”
Julien was a Frenchman of Caribbean extraction, rigorously schooled in the traditions of the finest patisserie. Thanks to Stoker’s efforts, he had secured a position at the Allerdale Hotel and a reputation as one of London’s rising stars.
“I didn’t realize you were acquainted with him,” I told Tiberius after another decadent sip.
“Stoker introduced us and Julien has catered a number of private entertainments,” he told me. I thought he might say something more, but his lordship fell silent, a shadow over his eyes.
“Tiberius?” I said softly.
His mouth quirked into a mocking smile. “Ah, she wishes to play Florence Nightingale, to take the temperature of my soul and assess the state of my mind’s health. Tell me, Nurse, what is the prognosis? Shall I live? Give me your expert diagnosis of my ailment.”
“Heartbreak,” I said.
“Succinct and accurate,” he told me, downing the full measure ofhis violet liqueur and smacking his lips delicately. “I taste hay, fresh green hay, in that. Do you?”
“Tiberius,” I said again.
He put his glass aside and gave a deep sigh. “Veronica, do not ask me to drop the mask, not even for you.”
“Is it so terrible to be honest with one another? What do you fear?”
He rolled the dainty glass between his palms. “That if I let loose of the mask, I shall never find it again.”
“That would not be a catastrophe,” I told him. “You have played the part of the devil-may-care roué for long enough, don’t you think?”
The brow rose again. “My darling Veronica, if I am not he, then who am I?”
