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 ofthe 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’shand 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?”
“TheLuna, 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.
