“Collins, in point of fact, is on a leave of absence due to his lumbago—yet another reason for shutting up the house,” his lordship informed me. Then he smiled. “But as ever, my dear Veronica, I am putty in your capable hands.” He paired the remark with a courtly gesture, reaching out to clasp the hands in question before bringing them to his lips. “You are right, of course. Now let me get on with costumes. We haven’t much time.”
He paused to regard his brother’s physique. “The most obvious choice is a buccaneer, and if he means to be a pirate, he ought to at least look a successful one. I have a few things that will be suitable, although I daresay his thighs and shoulders will split the seams,” he added with a moue of distaste. “He has the muscular development of a peasant.”
Stoker snorted. “Says the man who never lifts anything heavier than a hand of cards.”
I intervened again. “You are both very attractive in your own way,” I temporized. While the viscount’s lean elegance would turn any woman’s head, I had a keen personal appreciation for Stoker’s more obvious musculature. “But Stoker’s physique is not peasantlike,” I corrected loyally. “His proportions are Praxitelean.”
Tiberius gave a little snort and turned his attention to me, scrutinizing my figure with the eye of a practiced connoisseur. “Boadicea,” he said in a tone that brooked no argument. “I quite like the idea of you, hair unbound, short tunic revealing shapely legs . . .” His voice trailed off suggestively. “Very tempting.”
“I would be very happy to go as the Queen of the Iceni,” I said.
“She likes it because it means she can carry weapons,” Stoker informed him.
Tiberius laughed, his peculiar sharp fox’s bark of a laugh. “I have no doubt. Well, I always did say Stoker ought to have a bodyguard. Do you mean to haul a spear around all night? I only ask because it might get in the way of your more intimate activities.”
“There are not going to be any intimate activities,” Stoker said. “We are going there to work, not to participate in an orgy.”
Tiberius lifted his brows. “My dear boy, if you only ‘participate’ in an orgy, you are doing it incorrectly. One must join such endeavors with enthusiasm or not at all.”
Stoker ignored the jibe. “It occurs to me that the Vane parure might be suitable.”
“The Vane parure?” I asked.
Tiberius sprang to his feet. “Splendid notion! Oh, my sweet Veronica, it seems my benighted brother has been touched by genius. Come along.”
He led the way to his dressing room, a distinctly masculine room with dark wallpaper figured in green vines and a thick carpet. The room smelt of leather and whisky and vetiver. I sniffed appreciatively as Tiberius went to the portrait hanging over the narrow fireplace. It was a particularly good copy of a Boucher—or perhaps it was not a copy. The Templeton-Vanes had enjoyed a good deal of money for a good deal of time. This was brought home to me when Tiberius swung the painting aside to reveal a wall safe fitted neatly behind. He spun the dial and worked a swift series of numbers to open it. Inside were a number of leather portfolios—legal documents and deeds, no doubt. He pushed these aside and began to extract a succession of boxes, leather, kid, morocco, suede. Each was stamped with the name of a prominent jeweler from London or Paris. He sorted through them until he gave a little exclamation of satisfaction.
“Here,” he pronounced in triumph. “I have it.”
He came forwards bearing a case of red morocco, embossed on the top with the Templeton-Vane coat of arms. He held it out to me with a flourish.
“For me to borrow?” I asked, hesitating.
“Of course,” Tiberius assured me. “It is precisely what Boadicea requires.”
He flicked the golden clasp of the box and, pausing just a moment with all the instinctive timing of a master showman, he lifted the lid.
I caught my breath and stared into the case. Nested on a bed of black velvet was the most astonishing jewel I had ever seen. It was a tiara of considerable size and obvious expense, set with rubies. It was unique and old and clearly valuable.
It was also the ugliest thing I had ever seen. I poked it with a reluctant finger. “What on earth is it made of?” I asked.
“Foxes’ teeth,” Tiberius informed me, grinning. “There is only one other in the British Isles, and ours is far more expensive.”
“I have never seen anything like it,” I told him truthfully. I darted a look to where Stoker was standing, a small smile playing about his mouth.
I bent to examine the tiara more closely. A series of foxes’ teeth—many, many foxes’ teeth—formed the circular base in crisscrossing motifs, rising to a height of some three inches. The tip of each tooth was studded with a small ruby, drops of blood captured in jewel form.
“Why on earth was such a thing commissioned?” I demanded.
Tiberius gave me its history. “Our grandmother Vane was an heiress, more money than the Rothschilds, and our Templeton grandfather, in spite of his very old title, was poor as the proverbial church mouse. He needed her pots of cash. Unfortunately for him, every other regency buck was in pursuit of her, writing her sonnets and sending her pretty baubles.”
Stoker picked up the tale. “But Grandmama did not care for titles or poetry or jewels. She lived to hunt. Grandfather sold everything he could get his hands on to buy her a gift to persuade her to marry him.”
“And he bought her this?” I asked, incredulous.
“Good God, no,” Tiberius corrected. “He bought her the best hunter in Ireland, an enormous brute of a horse called Tewkesbury. No one in that country could ride him, but he was fast as the wind and beautiful to boot. Grandmama sent back every other gift but that hunter and she eloped with Grandfather to Gretna on that very mount. But a viscountess must have a tiara, so Grandfather thought he would commemorate her favorite sport. He commissioned this monstrosity with her money and had it set with the teeth of every fox she had run to earth as well as the last of the Templeton rubies.”
He lifted it from its velvet nest and set it on my head. “Have a look, my dear,” he urged. I went to the looking glass perched over his washstand. The tiara was formidable, gruesome, teeth grinning even as the rubies winked in the lamplight.
“Frightful, isn’t it?” Tiberius asked with a smile.
“It is the most dreadful thing I have ever seen,” I told him truthfully. “I both loathe and adore it.”
“I thought you might,” Stoker told me. He glanced at Tiberius. “The armillae too, don’t you think?”
Tiberius nodded. “Yes, there is something quite savage about them.” He rummaged in the boxes until he unearthed a pair of armillae. Wide cuffs of gold, they were heavily figured in a triple spiral pattern, the triskelion, an ancient and feminine symbol of power. He fitted them over my sleeves, just above the elbows. “You will want to wear these on bare arms, of course. But they will do nicely.”