“Crème de violette!” I exclaimed. “I recognize it. This is the handiwork of Julien d’Orlande.”
Julien was a Frenchman of Caribbean extraction, rigorously schooled in the traditions of the finest patisserie. Thanks to Stoker’s efforts, he had secured a position at the Allerdale Hotel and a reputation as one of London’s rising stars.
“I didn’t realize you were acquainted with him,” I told Tiberius after another decadent sip.
“Stoker introduced us and Julien has catered a number of private entertainments,” he told me. I thought he might say something more, but his lordship fell silent, a shadow over his eyes.
“Tiberius?” I said softly.
His mouth quirked into a mocking smile. “Ah, she wishes to play Florence Nightingale, to take the temperature of my soul and assess the state of my mind’s health. Tell me, Nurse, what is the prognosis? Shall I live? Give me your expert diagnosis of my ailment.”
“Heartbreak,” I said.
“Succinct and accurate,” he told me, downing the full measure of his violet liqueur and smacking his lips delicately. “I taste hay, fresh green hay, in that. Do you?”
“Tiberius,” I said again.
He put his glass aside and gave a deep sigh. “Veronica, do not ask me to drop the mask, not even for you.”
“Is it so terrible to be honest with one another? What do you fear?”
He rolled the dainty glass between his palms. “That if I let loose of the mask, I shall never find it again.”
“That would not be a catastrophe,” I told him. “You have played the part of the devil-may-care roué for long enough, don’t you think?”
The brow rose again. “My darling Veronica, if I am not he, then who am I?”
I covered his hand with my own. “A man who deserves to be seen for himself.”
He stared at our hands where they touched. “Bless you, sweet child.”
“You talk as though you were Methuselah. Shall I fetch your walking stick and slippers, Grandpapa?”
“I was right to call you a cheeky wench,” he said. He slipped his hand out from under mine. “I am fond of you, Veronica. Fonder than I have ever been of any woman I have not bedded. Do not make me question that.”
I had pressed him too far, but given all that we had endured together, I felt justified. I tipped back my head and drained the rest of the glorious purple concoction.
“Very well. Take refuge in your masquerade, if it gives you comfort. But when it fails you—and make no mistake, one dark, lonesome night, it will fail you—we will be here.”
“I could almost regret my decision to leave,” he told me as we rose.
“You needn’t go. You could stay and help. Stoker and I could use you.”
He smiled, a wicked grin that betrayed the good humor he so often hid under a pose of languor. “If Stoker cannot deduce what to do with you in a house full of beds, he does not deserve you.”
He dropped a kiss to my temple just as Stoker appeared in the doorway, a wrathful expression on his face. “Do not make me bruise you again, brother.”
Tiberius turned to examine his efforts. “He looks more a gentleman than I thought him capable,” he said. “Don’t you agree, Veronica?”
“I agree,” I said simply. The trousers were his own, fitting him snugly through thighs and elsewhere. The shirtfront was white as a virgin’s sheet, soft and flowing into lavish sleeves and opened at the throat. The paisley shawl was slung low upon his hips, knotted at the side, the fringes rippling over the solid length of his legs. His hair was tumbled and far too long—he had obviously not borrowed Tiberius’ hairbrush—and gold rings gleamed at his lobes, remnants of his past as a naval surgeon. But his tattoos were covered by the best of British tailoring and the scar that traveled a slim silver line from his temple to his cheek kept his appearance from bandbox perfection. He had donned his black eye patch, a square of silk meant to rest the eye that had once been damaged by a jaguar’s claws and which still tired easily. Draped over one shoulder was the wing of a heavy black cloak. The effect was one of extremely successful piracy.
“You hardly look like yourself,” I managed, although this was not strictly true. He looked as much Stoker as he ever had, only more polished and aristocratic. His mother’s blood was blue, after all, I reflected, and a thousand years of breeding does sometimes tell—no doubt due to the advantages of a healthy diet and good medical care, I noted.
“It will do,” Tiberius said at last.
“High praise indeed,” Stoker mocked.
Tiberius rolled his eyes heavenwards. “Sit down in front of the fire. Collins’ replacement will bring you sandwiches and tea. Consume them and for God’s sake, do not get butter or crumbs upon my garments or I will hang you from the nearest lamppost.” He turned to me. “Come, Cinderella. I have to play faery godmother and there isn’t much time.”
* * *
• • •
Tiberius took his role as costumier seriously. It took hours for him to achieve the effect he desired. To begin with, he instructed a footman to go immediately to a costume house and hire suitable apparel.
“A short tunic,” the viscount insisted. “Tights to match the color of Miss Speedwell’s dainty flesh and some very simple flat slippers with ribbons to the knee.”
“Tiberius,” I said repressively, “no woman has ever led an army in slippers that lace to the knee. I shall look like a chorus dancer.”
He gave me a stern look. “I am not creating a warrior, I am creating the fantasy of a warrior, and if you do not understand that, the least you can do is be quiet and sit very still until I am satisfied.”
I obeyed, occupying myself with reading the latest adventures of Arcadia Brown, Lady Detective, as he conjured his magic. When he was finished, I hardly recognized myself. He had unbound my black hair, shaking it free until it waved loose almost to my waist. From each temple he had gathered a lock to braid, weaving it back and into the other. A few more braids here and there were worked into my coiffure, each spotted with a tiny ruby bead borrowed from the Vane collection. Atop this he sat the fox-tooth tiara, the jewels in it glittering savagely in the lamplight. The armillae gleamed from my bare arms, just glints of gold beneath an enormous scarlet cloak topped with a leopard-skin cape.
The hired tunic was shorter than I would have liked, although it is no false pride to say my legs could bear the scrutiny. A wide belt at my waist was the perfect place to secure a short, sharp dagger borrowed from its usual place on his desk, where it functioned as letter opener. I was pleased to find the tunic had a pocket, and when Tiberius was busy searching out his supply of greasepaints, I quickly transferred my tiny good luck charm, a grey velvet mouse named Chester. The little fellow had been my constant companion as long as I could remember, nestling in my pocket through all of my travels and bringing comfort with just a touch of my fingertip to his soft fabric. He had even survived a near-fatal drowning, thanks to Stoker, who had mended him with careful stitches and replaced his black bead eyes with new ones of bright blue. He was all the dearer to me for his tribulations, and I gave him a reassuring pat as I tucked him into my pocket for one more grand adventure just as Tiberius reappeared.