The viscount rummaged in his case of greasepaints—kept specially for his frequent attendance at masquerade balls and other less wholesome entertainments—and touched my lids with a bit of silvery salve to make them glisten. A similar concoction with a ruby hue was applied to my lips. He took a stick of kohl and outlined my eyes, making them huge and dramatic, ringed with smoke from a watch fire.
“There,” he pronounced. “I have made a Briton queen of you, my dear.”
He led me to a looking glass and I peered at my reflection.
“Tiberius, no one has ever looked less like a Briton queen. To begin with, I have no spear or short sword. I have no blue woad for my face. My tunic should be ankle length for this climate, and I will not even begin to discuss the impracticality of leaving one’s hair loose for battle.”
“You look perfect,” said a low voice from the doorway.
Stoker stood motionless, wearing an expression I had never seen before.
Tiberius gave a smile of satisfaction. “And that is my work done.”
The viscount took up the greatcoat that lay over his chair. “I am taking my leave, children. Behave yourselves.”
He shook hands with Stoker and kissed me again. “I do not know when I will return.”
“Will you write?” I asked.
“Probably not. The pen is a demanding mistress. I take delight in thwarting her expectations.”
“Go already,” Stoker told him. But there was an anxious line in his brow, and I realized that in spite of their brawls, some new common ground had been found between them thanks to our shared adventure. Our experiences in Cornwall had wounded Tiberius deeply, exposing old heartbreak and inflicting unimaginable pain that would take years to ease. I could only hope that his travels would mend his wounds as they so often had mine.
“Godspeed, Tiberius,” I told him.
He took his leave in a swirl of black greatcoat, like a pantomime demon disappearing through the smoke. Stoker breathed a sigh of relief or sadness, I could not tell. He grinned and slipped a hand into his pocket. He retrieved a paper twist of honey drops and popped one into his mouth, crunching hard with his lovely white teeth.
“Some things do not change,” he assured me.
I returned the grin. “Shall we embark upon our next adventure, then?”
He linked his arm through mine. “Excelsior!”
* * *
• • •
Tiberius had given us the use of his town carriage for the evening on the grounds that it might be difficult for Boadicea, Queen of the Iceni, and her pirate companion to hail a cab. We settled against the squabs—bottle green velvet discreetly stamped with Tiberius’ arms in silver—and fell into silence. We had left in good spirits, but a whiff of constraint hung in the air. Was it proximity, I wondered, our nearness in the dark, close space of the carriage? I could smell him, warm flesh, lightened with leather and honey and a touch of brandy. It was a heady combination. The seat was luxuriously plush and generously proportioned. It would be an easy matter to tell the driver to make his way slowly around the park a time or two before moving on. What things might we get up to in the velvet shadows of that intimate darkness?
My fingers crept near his across the expanse of the seat, but just before they would have touched, he raised his hand and scratched his cheek. He was turned to face the window, in profile to me, a black and inscrutable silhouette against the glass.
I glanced out and saw an elderly woman, leaning upon her walking stick, and was instantly put in mind of Lady Wellie. I dropped my hand into my lap. This was not the time for erotic pursuits, I told myself severely. We had a mystery to solve and would need all of our wits about us. There would be ample opportunity later for the amatory arts.
There was little traffic and the pace was brisk, the lights a streaming blur as we drove smartly from the refined elegance of Mayfair through the stolid respectability of Westminster to the more subtle charms of Bloomsbury. We crossed this neighborhood, almost to the edge of Clerkenwell. This part of London offered endless variety, from placid streets snug in their quiet prosperity to livelier roads that offered more rustic entertainments. One could turn a corner and move from silken security to homespun hardship. Here and there, small, tidy green squares were tucked away, remnants of the days when the great aristocratic families owned huge swathes of the land beyond the gates of the City proper. These had all been broken up and sold, developed into shops and houses, schools and offices, but the odd pocket of verdure remained, and the most expensive houses always stood clustered around them, protective of their privilege. They might be residences or private clubs, offering seclusion within the urban surroundings and more anonymity than one might enjoy in a similarly situated property in Mayfair—and certainly at less expense.
It was a superb choice for Madame Aurore’s establishment, near enough to the great and good that they could make an easy evening of it, and yet sufficiently far to ensure the casual bystander would not recognize those who wished to enjoy their pleasures unobtrusively.
“Interesting that Madame Aurore has opened her club to ladies for membership,” I remarked to Stoker. “I suppose that sets her apart from other such entrepreneurs. She provides complete discretion for those who wish to disport themselves, male or female.”
“How very modern of her.”
“Indeed. And clever of her not to tie herself to one man,” I observed.
He turned his head swiftly, blinking at me in the dim light. “What do you mean?”
“Limiting herself to her first protector nearly got her killed in the siege of Paris. It was wise of her to diversify her interests.”
“You have got cynical in your old age,” he said.
“Don’t be testy,” I ordered. “Have you eaten recently? You are always so frightfully prickly when you are hungry.”
He said nothing but retrieved the paper twist of honey drops from his pocket and crunched a few as I went on. “She seems to have pursued Tiberius as a member of her club. I wonder if she ever entertained your father.”
“I wonder if she ever entertained yours.”
“Oh, you are in a nasty mood,” I said in a tone of mild reproach. But he was correct. If there was a crumb of salaciousness to be had, the Prince of Wales could usually be found with a seat at the table. I sighed. “But you are not wrong. The more I hear of him, the less I understand how the princess bears him.”
“Because it is what wives have done for centuries,” he reminded me. “They turn a blind eye and take up needlework. Or découpage. Or flower arranging. Or they throw themselves into their children as Her Royal Highness has done. It is not healthy.”
“You don’t think a mother ought to be devoted to her children?”