Madame Aurore gestured vaguely towards a closed door on the opposite wall. “My dressing room. The rest are all tucked away in a safe. One cannot be too careful with so many strangers about,” she said sagely. Her expression was touched with sadness. “One cannot be too careful in any case as a woman in London these days.”
“The murders in Whitechapel,” I murmured.
“Horrifying. One thinks of those poor wretches . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“And one thinks how easily it mightn’t be them,” I finished. Her eyes locked with mine and I knew we understood one another. How easily it might be us.
“I am told you endured the siege of Paris,” I said softly. “That must have held its own terrors.”
She gave me a measured look. “I suspect you are acquainted with terror yourself, my dear.”
I thought of the perils I had endured, the near tragedies I had survived, and for all my brushes with disaster, I could not number amongst them a fate as awful as what had befallen the women in Whitechapel.
“I have been lucky,” I said simply.
“Yes,” she said in a slow voice, “I think luck has a great deal to do with our fates. Our destiny lies in our stars.” She traced one of her diamond stars with a fingertip. “But enough of this grim talk for the evening! You have come to enjoy yourself. We will not think of the sad ones just now.”
She rose then, shaking the folds of her chiffon gown and passing a hand over her unbound hair. “I hope you have refreshed yourself, mademoiselle?”
She nodded towards the plate of tiny pastries. We had scarcely made an impression upon them, but I was conscious of the heavy sweetness left on my tongue. I rose, nudging Vespertine gently out of the way. He yawned, his jaws opening wide, and I gave him a pat of farewell.
“He likes you,” she told me. “He does not take to everyone.”
“I suspect not everyone gives him cream buns,” I replied. “I have entirely enjoyed myself, madame. Thank you for your time.”
She inclined her head and shook my hand before walking me to the door. “I am sorry to bring an end to our little tête-à-tête, but I have an appointment with a gentleman in half an hour’s time and I must prepare to receive him,” she told me with a meaningful look.
“Of course,” I murmured. I was conscious then of a hope that had taken root during our conversation—a hope that Madame Aurore would not prove too great a villainess. That she had deliberately set out to seduce the prince, I had little doubt. One only had to glimpse her astoundingly expensive surroundings to know that guineas must run through her fingers like water. In an empire full of wealthy and illustrious prospects, a future king was the highest place to aim and she had been successful. I was not entirely happy at the idea of retrieving the star, by foul means or fair. It had been a gift, freely given and happily accepted, and I was conscious of a mulish determination rising within me to leave it with her. But I could not justify such a course of action unless I knew for certain she could be trusted not to use it against my half-brother.
Deep in such thoughts, I took my leave, noticing that the chair outside was once more occupied by the odiferous Robert.
“Learnt anything useful?” he asked with a waggle of his brows.
“What a nasty old devil you are,” I told him, conscious once more of the strong odor of licorice, which clung to him with something else, a chemical note I could not place.
“I ain’t nothing of the kind,” he said, obviously affronted. His feet were plunged into a basin of hot soapy water and he flapped a hand at me. “Go on, then. Unless you want to watch an old man soak his feet, and if that’s the sort of thing that lifts your skirts, I’ll ask a shilling because nothing in this house is free.”
I pulled a face at him and fled down the stairs, cape in hand.
CHAPTER
10
I made my way down the staircase to the floor below. I wandered through the rooms in search of Stoker, eager to relate to him my minor triumph in discovering the general whereabouts of the star. I turned a corner and found myself in a long corridor, thickly carpeted in deep, plush grey, the walls hung with figured silk. It was quieter there, the music from the ballroom not even audible at this distance. A series of doors opened onto the corridor, all of them firmly closed and some sporting the silver ribbons Madame Aurore had spoken of—the sign that the couples within would welcome additions to their party.
I paused, thinking hard. Knowing Stoker as I did, I had little doubt he would have found himself either the kitchens or a library, and neither of those were likely on this floor. Before I could decide which way to proceed, a door a little distance down the corridor opened and a gentleman emerged. His dark auburn hair put me in mind of a fox’s pelt. He paused when he saw me and gave me a long look as he came near.
“My goodness,” he said in the drawling accents of an American from one of the southern states, “it appears Madame Aurore has been hiding the most alluring of her guests.”
He reached a hand to touch something that no gentleman ought to touch without invitation. In a flash, he was flat against the wallpaper, his arm wrenched up hard behind his back, and gasping for breath as I gripped him hard in a place no polite memoir would name.
“Veronica, what in the name of seven hells are you doing?” Stoker inquired courteously from behind me.
“This gentleman caused me offense,” I told him.
The man in question stirred, making noises of faint protest.
“What was that?” I asked. He made another sound, mewling almost as tears gathered in the corners of his eyes. I turned to Stoker. “He touched me. Without my consent.”
“Most unmannerly,” Stoker agreed.
“But it is an honest misunderstanding,” the fellow whimpered into the wallpaper. “Most ladies in such an establishment are open to such direct overtures.”
I blinked at him. “Are they indeed? How uncivilized.” I raised up on tiptoes, tightening my grip slightly. “You really oughtn’t go around grabbing unsuspecting women, you know. Even if they are open to erotic liberties. It isn’t polite.”
He nodded, the tears falling freely now, and I released him. He staggered, then dropped to his knees, giving a deep groan.
Stoker bent to look him in the face. “He seems all right. I suppose a few minutes on his knees won’t do him much harm.”
The man drew in a few deep, shuddering breaths before mopping his face with a handkerchief and staggering to his feet. His face had gone an alarming shade of puce.
I peered at him, then poked Stoker. “Are you quite certain he is all right? He looks as if he were about to have a fit.”