“I suppose I was rather preoccupied with what punishments your inamorata might be inflicting upon him,” I admitted. “How is it that she did not discover the substitution at once?”
“I was careful to unwrap the thing in poor lighting and she was in a hurry. Like most people I have deceived, Veronica, she saw what she wanted,” he finished with an inscrutable expression that I might have interpreted as sadness. “If she examines it closely, she might well notice its relative lightness and wonder, but she will not know for certain until she decides to sell it.”
“What reputable jeweler would touch such a stone?” Stoker asked.
Harry shrugged. “Most, I should think. Isabel could present herself as a grieving widow or bereaved daughter fallen upon hard times, trying to sell a bit of her inheritance for a fraction of its value simply to have money in hand. Or she will go to a receiver of stolen goods, the sort of fellow who has little interest in provenance because he already knows the jewel has been pilfered. It will be discovered for a fraud immediately, but she will have no means of finding us.”
“She has tracked you before,” I pointed out.
“I underestimated both her skills and her commitment,” he said dryly. “I have taken precautions now that I did not when I was in America. London is an excellent place to lose oneself, although I do not mean to remain here for long.”
“What are your intentions?” I asked.
He looked at the diamond still glittering on Stoker’s palm, and a light flickered in his eyes, something unholy and avaricious. I knew then that he was tempted, and badly so, to reach out and snatch it.
Stoker must have intuited the same, for he gave me a long look. IfHarry made any intemperate move to seize the jewel, we were both prepared to defend it.
Instead, Harry closed his eyes and, after a moment, opened them. He smiled, a small melancholy smile. “Do you know, that is the single most valuable item I have ever had in my possession, and what I want most is to see it restored to its rightful owner.”
“The rightful owner is not Lady Hathaway,” Stoker pointed out.
“I did not mean Lady Hathaway,” Harry said with new resolve. “I mean the maharani. Let us right an old wrong.”
CHAPTER
30
And so our peculiar little band of adventurers made our way to the Sudbury Hotel. We had taken a few moments to wash and make ourselves presentable, but there was only so much one could do about the bruises and visible wounds. Stoker’s chest was so thickly wrapped, he seemed to be wearing a breastplate of bandages, and one eye was blooming into a spectacular bruise of violet and mauve. He had donned his eye patch, a sure sign that his sight was fatigued, and I saw fresh lines at the corners of his mouth.
As for me, the cut on my cheek was still vivid scarlet and inclined to drip onto my clothes. I dressed in a two-piece ensemble of heavy black silk. It fastened smartly up the front with a row of tiny buttons that led to a narrow, fitted collar, neatly concealing the wound Mrs.MacGregor had inflicted upon my throat. The ensemble was appropriately sober for the occasion, and I had instructed the dressmaker to include wide, hidden pockets inside the seams of the skirt. Into these I slipped a few of my favorite weapons and one or two new finds, including the cheese wire. Stoker stared as I patted it into place.
“Do you really plan on garroting someone in the Sudbury?” he asked pleasantly.
“One can never anticipate when one will be forced to garrote,” I informed him as I pinned my hat into place. I favored wide brims when I butterflied, but in town I preferred smaller confections, wisps of feathers or flowers to suggest a head covering. But on a whim, I had asked the dressmaker to fashion a sort of soft cap of the silk left from sewing the dress. The result was a type of tam-o’-shanter, the headwear much favored by the Celt. To the narrow band I had pinned a small feather and the effect was jaunty. I looked like the sort of woman who could keep her composure in difficult circumstances, I decided. There was nothing frivolous or unserious about my costume; even the feather was narrow and stiff, no voluptuous plumes or lacy ruffles for me.
Harry dressed in a suit borrowed from Stoker, artfully pinned to hide the extra length. He had padded out the extra breadth with a bit of stuffing, arranging it to appear as though he had a comfortable and prosperous belly rather than Stoker’s admirably developed musculature. He stood with rounded shoulders, and the effect was to make him appear older and shorter. But the greatest change was in his face. I poked the ginger hair glued to his face with a tentative finger.
“Where on earth did you find that set of moustaches?” I inquired.
“I took a leaf from Stoker’s book and searched the costume boxes,” he informed me happily. “I have decided it is far safer to go about in disguise until I am able to take my leave of London.”
“It looks as if you skinned a gnome,” I told him. “And those moustaches do not even match your hair.”
He smoothed his moustaches and pulled his cap low. “Do not touch what you cannot appreciate,” he said loftily. “I intend to present myself as an Irishman visiting London on matters of business,” he added in a nearly impenetrable brogue.
“Heaven help us all,” I muttered.
•••
In spite of the lavish red moustaches, we looked, from a distance, like a perfectly respectable trio. Up close, we were disreputable as pirates, and I could only hope we would not frighten the maharani.
We rode in silence to the Sudbury, none of us inclined to conversation. It had, after all, been an exceedingly long and tiring day, but none of us would rest easily until the diamond was safely in the maharani’s possession. I could not know what thoughts occupied Stoker’s mind, but I was considering Harry’s contradictory actions. He had conspired with Mrs.MacGregor, but he had returned to help us escape. For every stroke of red I lettered in his ledger, I must, in fairness, add one in black. It was a distinctly unsettling experience to think anything but the worst of him, and I was not pleased at the ambiguity. I had long ago put him firmly in the category of villain, and it was unreasonable of him to try to weasel out of it.
Such were my thoughts as we drew up in front of the hotel. In spite of the lateness of the hour, the beau monde was just beginning its pleasures. The hotel was ablaze with artificial lights and the lobby was thronged with people, most dressed far more grandly than we—the women bedecked in satin with perfumed and powdered décolletages draped with jewels, whilst the men fussed with their satin-lined capes and pearl tiepins. We garnered one or two curious looks from the more fashionable, but I ignored them, striding through the crowd and directly to the front desk. The night manager, a fellow I did not know, was standing with an expectant expression, his moustaches neatly waxed, his shirt front starched to perfection.
“How may I be of service, madam?” he inquired in a low voice.
“I wish to see the Maharani of Viratanagar,” I replied.
