“Not in the minds of the British public,” I told him. “We are a nation of priggish shopkeepers and you know it. Give the upright middle class a crumb of scandal and they will make a banquet of it, as you know to your cost,” I said. He made a low growl of acknowledgment. Stoker’s own divorce—itself something of a novelty in semi-aristocratic circles—had lit the fires of gossip for months, the flames fanned by the salacious details of his wife’s abandonment of him in an Amazonian jungle while he lay waiting for death. His subsequent debaucheries in the brothels of Brazil had not helped. But the thrust had gone home, and I pressed my advantage.
“We know the star is at the club,” I said. “And it is as good a place as any to start our investigation. Perhaps there is someone there who might think to use the prince’s presence in such an establishment as a means of whipping up opposition to the royal family itself with an eye to political change.”
“Is such a thing even possible?” Stoker asked.
“Marie Antoinette did nothing worse than play at being a milkmaid and the French called her Messalina,” I reminded him. “It is not the reality that matters, it is the perception.” I smiled. “And today is Wednesday—the night each week when Madame Aurore welcomes prospective members to her masquerades. We have only to present ourselves as interested clients and we will be welcomed, I have no doubt.”
Stoker stirred. “You realize you are suggesting we take ourselves to a club devoted to the most sophisticated and elaborate debaucheries,” he said.
“I have survived murder attempts, shipwrecks, abductions, and the eruption of Krakatoa. I do not think I will falter at a little exuberant nudity.”
He sighed heavily. “We would need costumes. And we must learn whatever we can about the Club de l’Étoile and Madame Aurore before we hurl ourselves into this endeavor.”
“And I know exactly where we can go to remedy both of those deficiencies,” I informed him as I pinned on my favorite hat. “Tiberius.”
CHAPTER
6
Good God, I have only just got rid of the pair of you,” his lordship grumbled. But he said it with a flicker of a smile, and I knew he was rather glad to see us. Well, one of us.
“Good day to you too, Tiberius,” I said with a grin. Stoker’s eldest brother, Viscount Templeton-Vane, had been engaged in a lazy afternoon at home with a pot of chocolate and a mildly pornographic French novel. He wore a dark dressing gown over his trousers and shirt, and his chin was freshly barbered.
“Veronica, my dear, I am always delighted to see you, but I have had my fill of Stoker for the present. Perhaps you might come alone next time,” he suggested, his eyes alight with mischief.
Stoker swore a little under his breath, but it was a distinct improvement on their last disagreement, which had ended with a light stabbing. They had made up after a particularly harrowing and almost fatal experience, but it was apparent that their rapprochement was going to be of the oceanic variety; it would ebb and flow with their moods.
But Tiberius had come to think of me as a confidante and friend—more than family, he had assured me—and I hurried to explain to him the barest essentials of what we required. He listened intently, and as I finished, he tipped his head towards his brother.
“Let me understand you correctly, Stoker,” the viscount said silkily. “You require costume pieces and information because you mean to escort Veronica to one of the most notorious sex clubs in London?”
“Those are the broad strokes,” Stoker affirmed.
The viscount crossed one leg over the other and sat back in his chair.
“And why, precisely, are the pair of you embarked upon this bacchanal? One can only presume you are venturing once more into the mysterious and dangerous realms of detection.”
“Something like that,” I told him. “But we cannot share the details. You understand the necessity for discretion.”
“Better than most,” he said with a rueful expression. His own peccadilloes had come to light more than once in the course of our investigations. “But it is not convenient. I am in the process of shutting up the house,” he told us with an airy wave towards the ceiling. From above there was the racket of shutters being fitted into place.
“You’re going away?” I ventured.
His smile was humorless. “I thought a change of scene was in order after our latest little adventure.”
Tiberius had a talent for understatement. The “little adventure” had nearly cost us our lives and had handed him a devastating revelation.* It would take him time to recover, I had no doubt, but it was decidedly inconvenient that he had chosen this moment to leave town.
Still, how often had I used travel as a means of escaping my troubles? An untidy love affair, a thwarted professional commission, a disappointment of any sort—these had frequently provided the impetus for a fresh journey. How the spirits lifted with every embarkation! The sound of a steam engine roaring to life, the full-bellied sway of canvas sails, the sharp tang of hot metal rails or salt-scented sea. There was nothing more promising than the first stage of a new expedition. Everything was possible in that moment; there was no past, no future, only that hollow in time when everything paused.
But while I understood Tiberius’ desire to escape, Stoker was less sympathetic.
“You owe us, Tiberius. I saved your bloody life,” he began.
Tiberius held up an elegant hand. “After you endangered it, my dear boy. I rather think, under the circumstances, that you owe me.”
They stared each other down for a long moment, so alike in some respects, so different in others. They had inherited their mother’s bone structure, beautifully sculpted with a refinement any artist would envy. But while his lordship had chestnut hair and dark, flashing eyes, Stoker bore the coloring of his natural father, the black hair and bright blue eyes of the Welsh painter who had entertained the late viscountess for a short period of time during her unhappy marriage to Tiberius’ more conventional father. Watching them square off never failed to rouse distinctly primitive instincts, particularly as their battles occasionally deteriorated into fisticuffs. Stoker’s stitches were almost healed from their last such encounter, but the viscount’s face still bore the slightest violet traces of bruising from Stoker’s handiwork.
As I scrutinized them, I smelt a proper quarrel brewing and rose to stand between them, adopting my most governessy tone. “Boys, that is enough. Stoker, you should know by now that the gleam in Tiberius’ eye means he is amusing himself at your expense. He enjoys watching you fly into a temper. Do not oblige him. As for you, Tiberius,” I added with a repressive look, “stop torturing your brother. You know everyone in London, and I daresay you can tell us all that we wish to know in less time than it will take Collins to pack your collar studs. Don’t be difficult.”