The prince smiled. “Well, one does rather remember a macaw. One of Lord Templeton-Vane’s boys, are you not?”
“My father died last year,” Stoker told him. “My eldest brother now holds the title.”
“Ah, condolences and all,” the prince said, obviously losing interest. He shifted his gaze to me. “Miss... Speedwell, was it?”
“Yes, Your Royal Highness,” I acknowledged.
“But we have already met! Downstairs,” he said with a puckish grin. “You were most helpful.”
Stoker gave me a quizzical glance. “There was an incident with some lip rouge,” I explained.
The clock on the mantel chimed the hour and the prince gave a start. “I do hope you will excuse me, but I am expected for a private meeting with Madame Aurore and the hour is upon us,” he said, making a polite gesture of dismissal.
“We would leave you to it, sir,” I replied boldly, “but we are here at the behest of the Princess of Wales.”
The round eyes grew enormous and his mouth went slack in dismay. “Motherdear? What on earth do you mean?”
“She asked us to retrieve a gift you seem to have made to Madame Aurore,” Stoker said.
He huffed a great sigh into his moustaches. “I cannot believe she did such a thing! Darling Motherdear. She must have been so upset,” he murmured. “But how on earth did she—”
Conscious of the passing of time, I hurried on. “I rather think the details can be discussed at a later time, sir. The point is that Her Royal Highness was most insistent that we retrieve the jewel on your behalf.”
“But that is whyIam here,” he protested. “I have dashed all the way down from Scotland on a decidedly uncomfortable train—have you any idea what third-class accommodations are like on a train from Scotland? I had a note from Aurore promising to return it.” He gave a little laugh. “It appears Motherdear and I have been working at cross purposes.”
I recalled the snippet of conversation Stoker and I had overheard through the ventilator, and we exchanged a quick glance. “It is possible, sir, that it was a ruse on her part to lure you here, for some as yet unknown purpose.”
“It isnotpossible,” he said with considerable hauteur. “I know well the quality of my friends, Miss Speedwell, and Madame Aurore is numbered among them. She would never betray my trust. She is a devout woman.”
“Sir,” Stoker began, but the prince held up an imperious hand.
“I will show you. Come,” he ordered, leading the way towards the dressing room.
I said nothing, but a keen rebellious edge had sharpened itself on the whetstone of my resentment. He really was the most impossibly naïve creature, I decided. He had confided a scandalous secret on little more than the strength of my kindness in wiping away a little lip rouge. He had no real reason to trust us other than the fact that he knew of Stoker’s family. Perched as he was on the top of the pyramid of privilege, he simply could not imagine that another soul from that world would harbor republican tendencies. Moreover, he had nonotion that I was more closely connected to him than Stoker would ever be.
He passed me and I felt the brush of his lush pink skirts against mine, the whisper of a fragrance. Did he feel no strange kinship with me? No pull of blood to blood?
“Veronica,” Stoker called softly from the doorway to Madame Aurore’s sanctum. “Are you coming?”
“Of course,” I said, hurrying to join them. The door was unlocked and Stoker pushed it wide. For an instant, we stood, grouped like a tableau, and no one spoke.
“It is not what I expected,” I said quietly. It was as far from the luxurious elegance of the rest of the house as possible. Here no silk hung on the walls; no velvet upholstered the furniture. In fact, there was no furniture at all save a narrow bed made with a plain white linen coverlet. The only decoration was a simple painting of the Virgin Mary worked in heavy Renaissance oils. The room was curiously shaped, an imperfect octagon, and another door opened off of it.
“Its simplicity surprised me the first time she invited me here,” the prince said. He nodded towards the closed doors. “That is her private exit,” he explained. “It leads to the mews, so she can come and go with complete discretion. It is how I sometimes depart.”
Stoker glanced at the small, nondescript room. “It’s as tidy as a monk’s cell,” he observed.
“She was brought up in an orphanage outside Dieppe,” the prince told him. “At least I think she was. She can be a trifle vague about her past.”
We advanced towards the picture of the Virgin Mary. Beneath it were a candle, marked with the hours, and a small vase of flowers. None of the hothouse beauties from the public rooms; these were delphiniums and pinks, the blooms of a humble cottage garden. I was conscious then of a foul smell and wondered how long it had been since the water in the flowers had been changed. Apparently MadameAurore had greater trouble with her domestic staff than an insolent porter, I reflected.
“I am no churchman, but it seems a desecration to touch it,” Stoker told me with a nod towards the makeshift altar.
I paused, considering. “It is supposed to. Most people are religious to some degree or another. They would hesitate to disturb something sacred.”
“You, I presume, have no such qualms?” he challenged.
I pulled a face. “Neither do you. And if we are wrong, we can make God an apology.”
