Stoker considered this a moment. “There will be a servants’ staircase. Let us attempt that and if necessary I suppose we could always garrote the old fellow and stuff him in a cupboard.”
“He stinks of dirty feet and licorice. We would be doing Madame Aurore a favor,” I replied.
I led the way, slowly so as not to betray we were anything other than ordinary guests. The entertainments had taken on a more forthright air, with men and women in various states of undress roaming the halls in search of partners. Lacy petticoats foamed at dimpled knees while the luscious curves of bared shoulders and half-revealed breasts rose over embroidered corset covers. The men were attired in various garments designed to show them to better advantage—Eastern robes, banyans, dressing gowns. I caught more than one glance of a bare, manly calf or a strong, supple pectoral muscle.
“If you would be so good as to focus on the situation at hand,” Stoker said once, his consonants sharply clipped.
“I am an admirer of the male form,” I replied with lofty disdain.
A narrow passageway led through a series of small bowers, little rooms fitted with couchettes where couples—and sometimes more—were draped, limbs intertwined as sighs filled the air. The lights were low and each bower was imperfectly concealed behind gauze draperies, giving the whole arrangement the feel of a unique theatrical entertainment. We charged past the lovers, making for the end of the corridor where a perfectly normal door led into the domestic offices of the house. We emerged, in fact, into the pages’ hall, a large space with cubbyholes and benches and walls pegged for the hanging of livery. One fellow, with dark skin and a relaxed air, sat reading a newspaper and smoking a tiny cigarette that smelt of very good French manufacture.
He rose immediately. His jacket was draped over the arm of his chair, but his shirtsleeves were immaculate and his breeches and waistcoat beautifully tailored. He inclined his head, his voice accented with the lilt of Haitian vowels.
“I beg your pardon, sir, madam. This part of the house is not usually made available to guests, but if you wish, I suppose arrangements could be made,” he began.
“No need,” I told him. “We could use your help, though.”
He did not bat an eyelash, and it occurred to me only later that he no doubt believed we were in search of the fellow for some immoderate purpose.
“We wish to know if there is a discreet way to the second floor,” I told him.
He stroked his chin. “I suppose you mean the private staircase.” He gestured towards a cupboard whose door stood open, revealing a narrow staircase snugged inside. “The servants’ stairs.”
I made towards them, but the page inserted himself neatly between my person and the open door. “I am afraid the servants’ stairs are not permitted for guests.” His tone was apologetic but his manner was decisive. We should not be gaining entrance through him. The page’s pleasant expression never faltered. “Of course it is true that my duties require me to appear at all times at my best. This entails the most attentive brushing of my coat, and if I were engaged upon such a task, I should certainly do so with my back to the door. In which case I would be unable to see if anyone were to slip up the stairs.”
I flicked a glance to Stoker, who sighed and extracted a notecase from his sash. He retrieved a banknote and held it up between two fingers.
The page clucked his tongue. “I regret, sir, that I do not feel able to turn my back just yet.”
Stoker extracted a further two banknotes and put them carefully in the pocket of the page’s coat.
“Naturally, I would only turn my back once,” the page warned us. “If anyone were to return back this way, I should certainly feel obligated to remember such a thing.”
Stoker gave him a sour smile and tucked two more notes into the pocket.
The page picked up his clothes brush. “Goodness, what smuts are on this fabric. I daresay I shall be busy brushing my coat for some full five minutes and completely oblivious to anything else that may happen in the house,” he said. He applied himself to the tidying of his coat while Stoker grabbed my hand and hauled me towards the stairs.
“You oughtn’t have given him so much,” I hissed. “We could have come back another way and you can hardly spare such a sum.”
“Do not worry,” he instructed, grinning in the dim light of the stairs. “It was Tiberius’ notecase.”
We hurried up the stairs, mindful of the page’s warning that his bribe had purchased us only five minutes’ time. We climbed for ages, creeping swiftly on silent feet to the third floor. There was a narrow landing before the stairs wound further up—towards the servants’ quarters, no doubt. We paused, waiting for any noise to betray a presence in the room beyond.
Silence surrounded us, pressing softly against us on all sides. I eased the door open and found only blackness. It took a moment to realize we were concealed behind one of the long grey velvet drapes. I edged the fabric aside with two fingers to find the room was empty.
I darted in, beckoning to Stoker. No sooner had we both entered than a movement from the sofa stopped us in our tracks. An enormous dark head rose from the other side and a low growl sounded.
“Hello, Vespertine,” I crooned. “Stoker, give me something to eat. Hurry.”
Without waiting for an explanation, Stoker stuffed something into my hand. I crept forwards, extending my palm to Vespertine. In it lay a crushed caramel tart.
“You really are the most impossible man,” I muttered as the dog bent his head to lap up the treat in one motion.
“Yes, well, I seem to have saved you from being devoured by that hell beast,” he retorted.
“Nonsense. Vespertine and I understand one another, don’t we, darling?” I asked, scratching the hound gently behind the ears.
He rolled over on his back, waving his long legs into the air. “Not now,” I told him firmly. He rolled back, his expression distinctly hurt as he returned to his position on the sofa.
“He looks distraught,” I told Stoker.
“He is a dog,” Stoker replied.
“You of all people should respect that animals have emotions,” I began.
He held up a quelling hand. “This is not the time for a rousing discussion on the questionable practice of anthropomorphizing domesticated animals, Veronica,” he reminded me. “Now, point me towards her dressing room so I can get on with playing the burglar.”
I had no sooner lifted my arm than the knob of the outer door turned. We had just enough time to throw ourselves to the floor behind the sofa before the door opened. I landed on top of Stoker, and Vespertine, enormously confused, landed on top of me. If he had not been in search of more tarts, we might have remained hidden, but having sniffed out the location of Stoker’s pocket, the hound applied himself to the vigorous investigation of its contents.