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, whatisthis 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 quiteaware 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 aboutfood?”
“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.
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.
