“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.”
“I am rather surprised you employ him in that case,” I told her with a candor she mightn’t have appreciated.
But to her credit, she smiled. “He was recommended by another member of my staff. Besides, I believe in giving everyone a first chance, mademoiselle. Won’t you come and sit with me awhile? I should so like to speak with you, if yourcompagnon de la nuitcan spare you?” she asked with a coaxing tilt of the head.
As Stoker was nowhere in evidence, I could not use him for anexcuse. I inclined my head, smiling beneath my mask, and she opened the door to her sanctum. I followed her in, not surprised to find more of the elegant grey-and-pink color scheme used elsewhere in the house. She clicked her fingers and a giant hound rose from an enormous cushion and trotted over, rubbing its head against her hip.
“Good evening, my love,” she crooned to the dog. She turned to me. “Sit,” she urged. “Make yourself comfortable.”
I did as she bade, wondering how to work the subject of her diamond stars into conversation. As I wrestled with the question, she seized the conversational reins, speaking in her low and musical voice about a variety of things—the décor, the excellence of the champagne that she poured. She opened a barrel of biscuits and fed a few to the dog, breaking them into bits and dropping the crumbs to the carpet, where the hound retrieved them happily.
“This is Vespertine.”
“Named for the sweetest hour of the evening,” I observed. “A lovely parallel to your own chosen name.”
She gave me a long look. “He is my stalwart companion, are you not, my darling?” she said, scratching him behind the ears. He rolled his eyes ecstatically. “He has a Latinate name, but he is a very British dog,” she told me.
“A Scottish deerhound?” I asked.
“Just so. He was given to me by an admirer who noticed a dog that looks just like this in one of my paintings of the dawn goddess. Every goddess should have a proper companion, he said.” She scratched Vespertine again and he sighed. He was almost as enormous as Lord Rosemorran’s Betony, but his form was much leaner, his legs long and elegant, as was his nose. Wide, expressive eyes stared at me from under a thicket of long, shaggy hair at his brow.
After a very few minutes, a scratch on the door heralded a pagewith a plate of confectionery from the kitchens. There were assorted pastries, each more delicate and elaborate than the next. Some were filled with cream, others robed in a sheen of chocolate.
“This is my favorite,” Madame Aurore told me, gesturing towards a tiny puff wearing a candied violet at a rakish angle. I took one and bit into it, savoring the crisp pastry, the cream flavored with vanilla and honey.
“I order so many things with vanilla to be served that my chef imports more than any other household in London,” she confided. “But it is an aphrodisiac.”
“Is it indeed?” I darted out my tongue to catch the last crumb of pastry.
“Madame de Pompadour, the great mistress of Louis XV, used to dose herself with it in an effort to rouse her ardor.”
“Was he so exacting?” I inquired. I surveyed the little plate and helped myself to a small bun decorated with a swirl of chocolate marbled to look like Florentine paper. Vespertine, sniffing deeply, rose from his mistress’s side and came to sit beside me.
She gave a Gallic shrug. “No more than most men, I suspect. But La Pompadour suffered from the malady of coldness. Her passions could not be awakened sufficiently to satisfy her king. So she resorted to aphrodisiacs.”
“Were they successful?” Vespertine dropped his head to my lap, the weight of his head crushing against my thigh.
She smiled, revealing tiny, pearly teeth. “Not entirely. But she was clever. She made herself a friend to her king, and whatever needs she could not satisfy personally, she satisfied by proxy.”
