“Of course,” I said, hurrying to join them. The door was unlocked and Stoker pushed it wide. For an instant, we stood, grouped like a tableau, and no one spoke.
“It is not what I expected,” I said quietly. It was as far from the luxurious elegance of the rest of the house as possible. Here no silk hung on the walls; no velvet upholstered the furniture. In fact, there was no furniture at all save a narrow bed made with a plain white linen coverlet. The only decoration was a simple painting of the Virgin Mary worked in heavy Renaissance oils. The room was curiously shaped, an imperfect octagon, and another door opened off of it.
“Its simplicity surprised me the first time she invited me here,” the prince said. He nodded towards the closed doors. “That is her private exit,” he explained. “It leads to the mews, so she can come and go with complete discretion. It is how I sometimes depart.”
Stoker glanced at the small, nondescript room. “It’s as tidy as a monk’s cell,” he observed.
“She was brought up in an orphanage outside Dieppe,” the prince told him. “At least I think she was. She can be a trifle vague about her past.”
We advanced towards the picture of the Virgin Mary. Beneath it were a candle, marked with the hours, and a small vase of flowers. None of the hothouse beauties from the public rooms; these were delphiniums and pinks, the blooms of a humble cottage garden. I was conscious then of a foul smell and wondered how long it had been since the water in the flowers had been changed. Apparently Madame Aurore had greater trouble with her domestic staff than an insolent porter, I reflected.
“I am no churchman, but it seems a desecration to touch it,” Stoker told me with a nod towards the makeshift altar.
I paused, considering. “It is supposed to. Most people are religious to some degree or another. They would hesitate to disturb something sacred.”
“You, I presume, have no such qualms?” he challenged.
I pulled a face. “Neither do you. And if we are wrong, we can make God an apology.”
I thrust the vase of flowers into the prince’s startled hands, and Stoker removed the picture from its nail. Behind, set neatly into the wall, was a small safe.
“I say, what the devil do you think you are doing?” the prince demanded.
“Saving you from having a hand in your own destruction,” I said, rounding on him in frustration. “If you are wrong about Madame Aurore, she can wreck your happy future with Alix of Hesse with her own two hands.”
He seemed to settle at the mention of his beloved. “How do you know about Alix?”
“Your Motherdear told us,” I snapped. “Now, do you happen to be in possession of the combination?” I inquired.
He blinked those wide, watery blue eyes at me. “You are the most impertinent young woman I have ever met. No, I certainly do not have the combination.”
I turned to Stoker. “Can you manage it?”
He grinned and bent to the task at hand. “Father always kept us short of pocket money. By the time I was eleven I learnt how to break into his safe.”
“A dubious talent,” the prince remarked doubtfully.
“Wait and see,” he replied. He leant towards the safe and began to spin the knob, listening intently. After a few minutes’ effort, he made a series of swift motions and the safe responded with soft clicks. He pulled the narrow lever and the door slid open.
His Royal Highness gaped at Stoker. “You did it. You actually did it.”
“My father’s safe was twice as good as this bit of gimcrackery. I’ll wager Madame Aurore has a proper bank vault and this is just to keep the servants from a bit of petty larceny,” Stoker replied. “I could have opened it with a dessert spoon.”
“You are the seventh wonder of the world,” I told him, gripping his arm ecstatically.
He reeled backwards under the onslaught of praise. “Well, I don’t know about that—”
“I do,” I told him firmly. “Now, let us retrieve what we have come for and be on our way.” I reached into the safe and extracted a series of leather boxes. The first two were blue but the third was scarlet kid. I opened it and was instantly dazzled by the brilliant glitter of diamonds. I almost could not bear to touch it, so luminous was its beauty. I turned it over and the engraving was exactly right: the initials AVCE and the mark of Garrard.
“This is the one,” I breathed, cradling the blazing jewel in my palm. The diamonds sparkled even in the dim light. “It is the correct one, is it not, sir?” I asked the prince.
He regarded the jewel sullenly. “It is.”
“Extraordinary,” Stoker murmured as the diamonds sent a play of light across his face.
“And very nearly priceless,” I reminded him. Stoker wrapped the star carefully in one of his handkerchiefs and tucked it into his pocket, the jewel making a rather obscene bulge in his trousers.
The prince raised himself to his full height. “I do believe that is my property, Templeton-Vane,” he said, putting out a hand.
Stoker regarded him levelly. “We were asked by Her Royal Highness to retrieve the jewel and it is to the princess that it will be given.”
“I really must insist upon having it,” the prince said. A touch of frost edged his manner now, a tautness that betrayed his irritation at being thwarted.
“You shall not,” I told him.
“Of all the cheeky nonsense,” the prince protested. “Who the devil do you think you are to defy your future king?”
“Who the devil am I?” Four simple words would have revealed all. They trembled on my lips, but no sooner had I managed, “I am your—” than Vespertine appeared in the doorway, whimpering as he edged towards the bed. He bared his teeth, a growl rising from low in his throat. The dog had begun to tremble, badly, his warm brown gaze fixed upon the prince.
“Vespertine,” the prince said, “whatever is the matter? We’re old friends.” Suddenly, Vespertine crept forwards, head low to the ground, the rasping growl turning from a threat to a sound of mourning.
“What the devil is wrong with him?” the prince demanded, looking up at us. “Is he ill?”
But I had followed the dog’s attention, and I realized he was not looking at the prince at all; he was fixed upon the space beneath the bed. He stopped just short of the narrow cot, throwing himself to the floor and tipping up his great shaggy head to deliver a sound of such ululating sorrow that it pierced me to the marrow.
I knelt beside him, gathering my courage to peer beneath the bed because I knew only too well what I would find. Shoved beneath the mattress, barely visible behind the prince’s billowing pink taffeta skirts, was the body of Madame Aurore.