“And who could make one more lavish than Garrard’s?” Stoker put in.
“Precisely. And one that is patterned after the prince’s own mother’s jewels? Can you imagine the newspapers?” Archibond shuddered visibly. “If they get their teeth into this, they will harry it to the death, running down every sordid detail.”
“And you are certain that it is this Madame Aurore who has the jewel?” I asked.
“Oh yes, quite,” Archibond said. “The princess approached me in some distress a fortnight or so ago. She confided that her lady-in-waiting had had a curious communication from Garrard. It seems the jewelers were keen to alert the princess to a possible mésalliance on the part of the prince.”
“A bit above and beyond the purview of one’s jeweler,” I observed.
“The princess is a very good client,” Archibond said with a shrug. “They would do almost anything to avoid losing the future Queen of England as a client.” He went on. “She was naturally anxious to avoid troubling the Prince of Wales, so she came to Lady Wellie and asked for her help. Lady Wellie tasked me with discovering what I could about the prince’s purchase of the star and its whereabouts. I had precious little time to devote to the matter, but luckily for me, His Royal Highness is not terribly devious,” he said with an indulgent smile. “His notion of discretion is having his driver take a turn around the block before going inside.”
“He wore no disguise?” I asked.
Archibond sighed. “Not only did he fail to wear a disguise, he took one of the Prince of Wales’ coaches.”
“Oh dear,” I murmured.
The three of us exchanged glances, our lips twitching in suppressed mirth.
“Heaven help us,” Stoker said, shaking his head. “The future King of England is a simpleton.”
“He is not quite so hopeless as that,” Archibond said with a fond expression warming his features, “but I will admit he is considerably less adroit than his father in managing his affairs.” He retrieved the thread of his narrative. “We had known for some time that the prince frequented this establishment and that knowledge—coupled with Madame Aurore’s penchant for diamond stars—made it easy enough to guess who was in possession of the jewel. I reported my findings to the princess and Lady Wellie, and only then did I discover why Her Royal Highness was so keen to retrieve the star.”
“That poor child,” I said, “Princess Alix of Hesse.”
Archibond spread his hands. “No one will force her to marry him,” he assured me. “But she is a princess. She will marry from a very small, very exclusive circle of dolts and simpletons. At least if she chooses to throw her lot in with Prince Eddy, she will be most tenderly loved. He is capable of great affection, if not great intellect.”
“She is sixteen,” I reminded him. “How can she know what she wants?”
“She might not,” he agreed. “But whoever he marries, his mother is quite correct—she will be the making of him. He wants a strong character beside him.”
“A rather tall order for a young girl,” Stoker said.
“Show me an aristocratic girl who doesn’t know she’s meant for such things from the cradle,” Archibond replied. “But this one may be what he needs. If she demands he refine his character to her standards, then he will be worthy of her.”
“I begin to think you are a romantic,” I teased.
“My greatest secret is that I am an idealist who will never relinquish my ideals,” he said simply.
I ventured a question. “Out of curiosity, how did you expect us to even retrieve this jewel? Presumably it is secured in a bank vault.”
“Oh no,” he said quickly. “That is part of her mystique, this Madame Aurore. She wears her collection of stars several times in the course of a month. Every Wednesday, she holds a sort of masquerade where her regular guests are permitted to bring visitors in hopes of attracting newcomers. One need only know when and where and one can easily gain admittance.”
The inspector’s gaze suddenly fell upon the tickets to the Savoy. “The Yeoman of the Guard!” he exclaimed. “I do love Gilbert and Sullivan, but I fear it is to be quite some time before I can spare an evening for this. Enjoy yourselves,” he said, rising to his feet. “Do send for me if Lady Wellie takes a turn,” he urged.
I promised that we would and Stoker rose, shaking hands with him. The inspector turned to me. “I am glad to know you a little better, Miss Speedwell. Lady Wellie thinks very highly of you, very highly indeed. I begin to see why.”
CHAPTER
5
His departure left a heavy silence as Stoker occupied himself with finding a sausage to break up for the dogs.
“Shall we quarrel now or later?” I asked pleasantly.
He gave a heavy sigh and pitched a bit of herbed pork to Huxley. “We shall not quarrel at all.”
I blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Veronica, you might give me a little credit for knowing you as well as I do. We might argue back and forth about this ridiculous endeavor and it will end with you haring off into danger and me trotting obediently after like your very own mastiff.”
“Not a mastiff,” I protested. “A partner.”
“A sidekick, as you have informed me upon occasion,” he reminded me.
“Yes, well, I was wrong to say so. We are equal partners in these enterprises. We have both benefited from them, both been harmed by them. We have undertaken them at your instigation and at mine. We are both of us worthy of the blame and the credit.”
“Exactly. And I do not much feel like quarreling with you at present,” he said, his eyes bright with meaning.
“Oh,” I told him, feeling suddenly breathless. “I would rather do otherwise as well.”
I took a step forwards, but he moved quickly, putting the sarcophagus between us. “That is not a good idea.”
“What isn’t?”
“Proximity,” he said through gritted teeth. “I have spent the last years in strictest control of my baser instincts, but when I am with you, I find myself rather less able to keep my mind on loftier matters.”
I swallowed hard. “I understand. I share your difficulties,” I reminded him. “And there is no need to fight such impulses any longer. We have decided upon that.”
“Veronica,” he said flatly, “I am not going to take you on top of a moldy sarcophagus. I do not require love poems and fireworks, but kindly grant me a better audience than a stuffed wildebeest and a pack of sausage-breathed hounds.” (For accuracy’s sake, I should note that he did have a fondness for Keats, and the hounds did have sausage breath, but the wildebeest was, in point of fact, a gnu.)