Stoker gave a muffled howl of pain and I heard a voice call out softly from the doorway. “I say, is anyone there?”
It was the note of fear that decided me. Whoever our visitor was, it was most definitely not Madame Aurore. It was someone more afraid of us than we were of them.
I pushed Vespertine off with some effort and rose. Just inside the closed door stood a familiar and hesitant figure.
“Victoria!” I cried.
I hastened to pull Stoker to his feet, dusting at the lavish display of crumbs that Vespertine had left on his shirt.
My friend from the supper room gave me a nervous smile. “Hello. I suppose you are wondering why I have come here.”
I gave a gracious inclination of the head, grateful that it had not occurred to Victoria to question our presence. “Not at all. I suppose anyone might get lost in this house. It is so vast.” I might have said more, but as I advanced towards Victoria, I saw her in the full glare of the gaslight. I had noted the Adam’s apple before, but now, absent the mask, I could clearly see the bright blue of the protuberant eyes, the full curve of the generous mouth. And the moustaches that her mask had imperfectly concealed. I stood in mute shock as Stoker moved forwards, pausing to give a smart and correct bow of the head.
“Your Royal Highness,” he said, “permit me to present Miss Veronica Speedwell. Veronica, this is His Royal Highness, Prince Albert Victor of Wales.”
The pause after Stoker’s words seemed to go on forever, and when I spoke it was with considerable effort. “Victoria,” I corrected softly. “She introduced herself earlier to me as Victoria. It is impolite to penetrate a person’s incognito.”
Victoria peered at Stoker closely. “I know you.”
“That depends, sir,” Stoker replied evenly, “upon whether I am speaking with a lady named Victoria or Prince Albert Victor. I have indeed met the latter.”
I stared at Stoker in some astonishment. He had failed to mention that interesting titbit, and I made a mental note to interrogate him thoroughly on the matter at a more propitious time.
The prince hesitated, then plucked off the crown and veil. “It appears I am discovered. I am indeed Albert Victor.”
Immediately, the shoulders went square and the chin lifted, imperious as a future emperor.
“All part of the masquerade,” he said, gesturing towards the ball gown. “I thought if I came as a woman, I mightn’t be discovered, but you have unmasked me. Fair play to you, sir,” he said, putting out his hand to Stoker.
I stared stupidly at the prince, at my half-brother. He was not looking at me. His attention was fixed upon Stoker. I could not speak. Standing scant feet from my own half-brother had dealt my composure a blow. Stoker evidenced no such distress. He shook the prince’s hand and carried on as pleasantly as if we were having a conversation over a buffet supper.
“Now, where exactly did we meet—I have it! I went with my tutor to inspect the ship after the Battle of Alexandria, oh, what was her name, dash it?”
“The Luna, sir,” Stoker replied quietly.
“Yes, of course! You were the surgeon’s mate with the habit of taxidermy. I remember, you were working on stuffing a rather glamorous-looking macaw, and I quite took a fancy to it.”
“You have an excellent memory, sir,” Stoker said.
The prince smiled. “Well, one does rather remember a macaw. One of Lord Templeton-Vane’s boys, are you not?”
“My father died last year,” Stoker told him. “My eldest brother now holds the title.”
“Ah, condolences and all,” the prince said, obviously losing interest. He shifted his gaze to me. “Miss . . . Speedwell, was it?”
“Yes, Your Royal Highness,” I acknowledged.
“But we have already met! Downstairs,” he said with a puckish grin. “You were most helpful.”
Stoker gave me a quizzical glance. “There was an incident with some lip rouge,” I explained.
The clock on the mantel chimed the hour and the prince gave a start. “I do hope you will excuse me, but I am expected for a private meeting with Madame Aurore and the hour is upon us,” he said, making a polite gesture of dismissal.
“We would leave you to it, sir,” I replied boldly, “but we are here at the behest of the Princess of Wales.”
The round eyes grew enormous and his mouth went slack in dismay. “Motherdear? What on earth do you mean?”
“She asked us to retrieve a gift you seem to have made to Madame Aurore,” Stoker said.
He huffed a great sigh into his moustaches. “I cannot believe she did such a thing! Darling Motherdear. She must have been so upset,” he murmured. “But how on earth did she—”
Conscious of the passing of time, I hurried on. “I rather think the details can be discussed at a later time, sir. The point is that Her Royal Highness was most insistent that we retrieve the jewel on your behalf.”
“But that is why I am here,” he protested. “I have dashed all the way down from Scotland on a decidedly uncomfortable train—have you any idea what third-class accommodations are like on a train from Scotland? I had a note from Aurore promising to return it.” He gave a little laugh. “It appears Motherdear and I have been working at cross purposes.”
I recalled the snippet of conversation Stoker and I had overheard through the ventilator, and we exchanged a quick glance. “It is possible, sir, that it was a ruse on her part to lure you here, for some as yet unknown purpose.”
“It is not possible,” he said with considerable hauteur. “I know well the quality of my friends, Miss Speedwell, and Madame Aurore is numbered among them. She would never betray my trust. She is a devout woman.”
“Sir,” Stoker began, but the prince held up an imperious hand.
“I will show you. Come,” he ordered, leading the way towards the dressing room.
I said nothing, but a keen rebellious edge had sharpened itself on the whetstone of my resentment. He really was the most impossibly naïve creature, I decided. He had confided a scandalous secret on little more than the strength of my kindness in wiping away a little lip rouge. He had no real reason to trust us other than the fact that he knew of Stoker’s family. Perched as he was on the top of the pyramid of privilege, he simply could not imagine that another soul from that world would harbor republican tendencies. Moreover, he had no notion that I was more closely connected to him than Stoker would ever be.
He passed me and I felt the brush of his lush pink skirts against mine, the whisper of a fragrance. Did he feel no strange kinship with me? No pull of blood to blood?
“Veronica,” Stoker called softly from the doorway to Madame Aurore’s sanctum. “Are you coming?”