“That is hardly sporting,” Harry began.
I leapt to my feet. “Newspapers!” I exclaimed. I scrabbled around my desk for the newspaper I had been reading the day we returned to London.
“Veronica, what are you on about?” Harry inquired.
“I have just remembered where I saw the face of our intruder,” I said, thumbing hastily through the pages with ink-stained fingers until I found it. “Here! ‘The Maharani of Viratanagar has arrived in London to participate in informal discussions with members of Parliament. It is rumored the discussions will touch upon the growing support for Indian independence,’” I read aloud. “‘Photographed with her grandson and heir, Bhairav.’”
I pointed to the photograph. In the center was the maharani, a statuesque woman of some years. She had a long, elegant nose, giving her a distinctive profile, and a head of thick, dark hair. She was dressed in traditional Indian fashion, an elaborate arrangement of draperies and veils heavily embroidered with jewels. More gems were in evidence on her arms and bosom, hanging from her ears and encircling her fingers. She was a woman accustomed to commanding attention and authority, and her expression was one of cool detachment. Next to her stood a slender young man dressed in narrow trousers with a long, fitted coat that buttoned quite up to the throat. He had her nose as well as her sharp, assessing eyes, and was even more youthful in his photograph than he had been in person.
“They are staying at the Sudbury Hotel,” I said. “We must lose no time.” I reached for my hat as Stoker quirked up a brow.
“The word ‘maharani’ means high queen. Do I understand that you mean to accuse the grandson of a high queen of being a common burglar?”
“I do not mean to accuse anyone,” I replied. “That would be grossly irresponsible.”
“Then what is your plan exactly?” Harry asked.
“The first rule of any scientific endeavor is observation,” I said, rummaging in the box of operatic costumes for a piece of veiling. I pinned it over my hat, obscuring my features. I did not think our young miscreant had got a very good look at my face, but it would not do to let him know we were onto him. “We will go to the Sudbury and simply observe to confirm it is in fact the maharani’s grandson.”
“We ought to speak with Julien,” Stoker put in. “He is always a fount of information.”
I smiled at the mention of the hotel’s head pâtissier. “You mean gossip, but yes. He might well know something useful. But you cannot go like that. You are filthy with at least seven identifiable stains upon your shirt.”
Stoker grumbled but went off to change as I turned to Harry. “You are no tidier than Stoker. You have traces of mummy clinging to your clothes and you are still in evening dress.”
He pulled a face. “I have no other clothes, remember?”
I sighed, recalling his woeful tale of fleeing the Hall with the clothes upon his back and a few measly shilling notes in his notecase. I went to my desk and unlocked the drawer which held my own purse, fishing out a handful of notes.
“Take this. You cannot walk around London like that unless you mean to attract exactly the wrong sort of attention. Outfit yourself and meet us at the Sudbury.”
His fingers closed around the notes slowly, almost reluctantly, I fancied. He shoved them into his pocket, then scribbled a few lines on a piece of paper and signed it with a flourish.
“What is this?” I asked.
“An IOU,” he informed me. I felt a mocking response rise to my lips, but something in his gaze stilled my tongue. He seemed, to my astonishment, embarrassed at being made a loan, and I realized his intention to repay me was serious.
“How long do you require to make yourself presentable?” I asked politely.
He shrugged. “Two hours? I will stop in and get a proper shave as well,” he added, rubbing a hand over his bewhiskered chin. “I feel an absolute ape.”
“The hotel has an exceptional barber,” I advised. “They even manage to get Stoker’s chin smooth and that is an Herculean task. Go there after you have found suitable attire and let them finish you off.”
“An excellent notion,” he said. We were like characters in a farce, I realized, saying very polite things to one another and studiously avoiding anything of substance.
As if guessing my thoughts, he reached out a sudden hand, stopping just short of touching my sleeve. “Veronica, I wanted to thank you—” Before he could finish, Stoker appeared, adjusting a fresh collar as he tugged on his jacket.
“Have I interrupted?” he asked with a bland, mirthless smile.
“Not in the slightest,” I assured him. I reminded Harry to slip out of the grounds of the Belvedere undetected when he left, and we decided upon a time for our rendezvous. Stoker made no comment upon the arrangements until we were in Marylebone High Street, hailing a hansom.
“You realize we have left him alone with the diamond,” he remarked in a bland voice.
“He has two hours in which he must find a new suit of clothes, get to the Sudbury, and have himself barbered. Hardly time for him to make a proper search. Besides, I am entirely certain you have hid the thing well enough he would not find it in a fortnight,” I answered.
“Oh, I rather hope he does,” Stoker said. A tiny smile played over his lips, but he said no more and I dared not ask.
CHAPTER
23
We arrived at the Sudbury in the lull between breakfast and luncheon, the time when only the earliest of risers would be out and about. Those who moved in society’s highest circles often went to bed just before daybreak, having spent the night in various entertainments and debaucheries. A “morning” ride in Rotten Row would not commence until sometime after noon, but I was made of sterner stuff. I had long ago got in the habit of rising with the sun, and I had little patience with those who dozed away the prettiest and most productive hours of the day.
The hotel was just beginning to come to life when we settled ourselves in the lobby. Stoker had taken the precaution of making a purchase at the newsstand outside and opened his newspaper with a casual gesture. He passed me a ladies’ fashion paper, at which I pulled a face, although I was interested and not a little pleased to see how thoroughly out of style the bustle had become. (Bustles, while permitting an elegant drape of fabric from the front of the figure to the back, were a ridiculous invention. I had scant use for them, largely because they were so utterly pointless. I might have tolerated them better if one could carry things about—a selection of weaponry or a nice picnic lunch, for example.) I was just about to make this observation to Stoker when I saw them. The lift doors, highly polished mahogany fitted with brass, opened, and the maharani, dressed much as she had been in her photograph, emerged. Her grandson paced just behind her. He looked a little tired, and I noted with some satisfaction the cut high upon his cheek.