“She is handing over the star to a fellow conspirator!” I murmured into Stoker’s ear with suppressed rage. “She does mean to use it against Eddy! No doubt she has made arrangements with a newspaperman or some other unsavory type to sell it along with her story.”
We exchanged meaningful looks. If Madame Aurore had a meeting in her dressing room in an hour, it would be necessary for us to enter, retrieve the jewel, and leave undetected before she returned. Stoker tapped his pocket watch to indicate how much time we had remaining and I rolled my eyes towards the bedroom, where our friends still disported themselves. It might have been possible to creep out of the bathroom and into the corridor without being apprehended, but the chance was slim, and a successful escape would depend largely on not being remembered after the jewel went missing.
We shrugged and silently agreed to make the best of it, settling in to wait until Mr. Hilliard and his companion concluded their activities. A few audibly exuberant minutes later, we were sitting in the bathtub, fully clothed, entirely dry, and very much put out with one another.
“This is the most absurd situation,” I whispered.
Stoker held up a hand and whispered back to me. “If you wouldn’t mind saving your disapprobation for another time, we have work.”
“It is past midnight,” I reminded him. Just then, our companions in the adjoining room reached a sort of crescendo, the various moans and shrieks and trills rising to a pitch that I greatly feared would offend the ears of any respectable dog in the vicinity. Poor Vespertine, I thought. Then a sort of exhausted silence fell. For several minutes more there was only that silence, and my toes began to prickle again with pins and needles.
“Do you think they have fallen asleep?” I ventured.
Stoker put a finger to his mouth and eased himself from the bathtub. He crept to the door and knelt, laying his eye to the keyhole.
He rose, smiling. “They have gone.”
“Thank merciful heaven for that,” I muttered. I was exultant, perhaps a trifle too much so. I went to jump from the bathtub, but my still-leaden legs would not quite support me. My knees buckled and I careered into Stoker, knocking him to the ground. I landed on top of him, legs akimbo, his hips settled neatly under mine.
“Well, this is not entirely how I expected this would begin,” I said, his mouth a breath away from mine.
I paused and the world stood still. His bright sapphirine gaze held mine for a long moment and I felt the slow, steady drumbeat of his heart against my chest. His hands were tight on my arms, and I parted my lips, expectant.
“Oh well,” he said brightly, thrusting me off of him and springing to his feet. “No harm done.”
He bolted for the door and I followed, slowly, reflecting with some irritation that there was more than one mystery afoot at the Club de l’Étoile.
CHAPTER
11
We made our way hastily downstairs to the more public rooms. It made sense to discover Madame Aurore’s whereabouts before attempting to gain access to her private quarters, and we needed to compare notes without the possibility of another amorous interruption. Logic dictated to me that the later we made the attempt, the better. If we could effect our escape just as the guests were settling down to their most focused debaucheries, it would be almost impossible for anyone to follow us. In the meantime, we could conduct ourselves as any other guests at the club might—in a dance or a visit to the supper room.
As we made our way, I pondered Stoker’s new zest for our detective like activities. He was often a willing participant in our investigations, but never as enthusiastic as this. To throw himself so fully into my little schemes was a new development, and one that I could not divorce from his obvious—and entirely new—shyness.
Stoker had never been bashful before. When he was not working in dishabille, he was disrobing entirely to take advantage of swimming in the pond or taking a dip in the heated plunge pool, and he was seldom careful about who saw him, least of all me. In fact, it had become apparent during our Cornish interlude that he sometimes deliberately undressed in front of me because he knew the sight of his naked, masculine, utterly delectable form . . .
My mind was wandering. I forced my attention back to the question of why, now that we had decided to take our relationship to a more intimate footing, he should play the wallflower.
“Oh, you silly cow!” I muttered. “He is bashful because he knows it means something now.” The poor darling, I reflected with a smile. Madame Aurore had hit the proverbial nail squarely upon the head with her shrewd assessment that delay could bring only discomfort, but the sentiment applied not only to me. The attraction between us had been so strong for so long and this next step had been so long in the offing, it was little wonder he was finding himself suddenly reluctant. No doubt he was concerned about his ability to live up to my decidedly ambitious expectations. Of course, few men could, but that did not worry me in the slightest. I was, after all, a true daughter of Britannia, I reminded myself. I was the embodiment of the British spirit of putting one’s shoulder to the grindstone and getting on with it. I would simply have to make this clear to Stoker. The sooner we bedded, the better. The last thing he needed was more time to fret himself about it.
Unaware of the direction of my thoughts, he guided me through the ballroom, gliding us through a series of turns until we emerged into the next room, the supper room, looking like any other couple in search of refreshment. The caramel tarts had been replenished and Stoker helped himself with a gusty sigh of pleasure. He heaped a plate with them and poured a rich pool of crème anglaise around them before finding us a curtained alcove, discreet but unremarkable, in which to sit and make our plans.
Hurriedly, I informed him of exactly where I believed the diamond star to be, explaining what I had learnt from Madame Aurore during our intimate conversation.
“Of course,” I went on in a low voice, “we cannot be certain of how many we shall have to search before we discover the correct star. She might have dozens of the blasted things tucked away.”
He shrugged. “The case will be scarlet leather.”
“How in the name of seven hells do you know that?” I demanded.
He forked up a bit of tart with maddening calm. “My father always bought my mother something from Garrard after they quarreled. The boxes are scarlet.”
I tipped my head. “Tiberius’ safe is full of scarlet boxes.”
“They quarreled rather a lot.”
He continued to eat, placidly, intent upon the gustatory pleasure of the tarts. I watched his tongue dart out to claim a crumb from his lip and suppressed a moan.
“Veronica, are you quite all right?” he asked, peering at me in some concern.
“Entirely,” I told him, making a mental note to visit Lord Rosemorran’s cold plunge pool as soon as possible. “There is a point of difficulty in gaining access to Madame Aurore’s private quarters. There is a footman outside her rooms—an elderly fellow who sits guard. We will have to make our way past him and any other servants who might be about.”