“Do you really plan on garroting someone in the Sudbury?” he asked pleasantly.
“One can never anticipate when one will be forced to garrote,” I informed him as I pinned my hat into place. I favored wide brims when I butterflied, but in town I preferred smaller confections, wisps of feathers or flowers to suggest a head covering. But on a whim, I had asked the dressmaker to fashion a sort of soft cap of the silk left from sewing the dress. The result was a type of tam-o’-shanter, the headwear much favored by the Celt. To the narrow band I had pinned a small feather and the effect was jaunty. I looked like the sort of woman who could keep her composure in difficult circumstances, I decided. There was nothing frivolous or unserious about my costume; even the feather was narrow and stiff, no voluptuous plumes or lacy ruffles for me.
Harry dressed in a suit borrowed from Stoker, artfully pinned to hide the extra length. He had padded out the extra breadth with a bit of stuffing, arranging it to appear as though he had a comfortable and prosperous belly rather than Stoker’s admirably developed musculature. He stood with rounded shoulders, and the effect was to make him appear older and shorter. But the greatest change was in his face. I poked the ginger hair glued to his face with a tentative finger.
“Where on earth did you find that set of moustaches?” I inquired.
“I took a leaf from Stoker’s book and searched the costume boxes,” he informed me happily. “I have decided it is far safer to go about in disguise until I am able to take my leave of London.”
“It looks as if you skinned a gnome,” I told him. “And those moustaches do not even match your hair.”
He smoothed his moustaches and pulled his cap low. “Do not touch what you cannot appreciate,” he said loftily. “I intend to present myself as an Irishman visiting London on matters of business,” he added in a nearly impenetrable brogue.
“Heaven help us all,” I muttered.
* * *
• • •
In spite of the lavish red moustaches, we looked, from a distance, like a perfectly respectable trio. Up close, we were disreputable as pirates, and I could only hope we would not frighten the maharani.
We rode in silence to the Sudbury, none of us inclined to conversation. It had, after all, been an exceedingly long and tiring day, but none of us would rest easily until the diamond was safely in the maharani’s possession. I could not know what thoughts occupied Stoker’s mind, but I was considering Harry’s contradictory actions. He had conspired with Mrs. MacGregor, but he had returned to help us escape. For every stroke of red I lettered in his ledger, I must, in fairness, add one in black. It was a distinctly unsettling experience to think anything but the worst of him, and I was not pleased at the ambiguity. I had long ago put him firmly in the category of villain, and it was unreasonable of him to try to weasel out of it.
Such were my thoughts as we drew up in front of the hotel. In spite of the lateness of the hour, the beau monde was just beginning its pleasures. The hotel was ablaze with artificial lights and the lobby was thronged with people, most dressed far more grandly than we—the women bedecked in satin with perfumed and powdered décolletages draped with jewels, whilst the men fussed with their satin-lined capes and pearl tiepins. We garnered one or two curious looks from the more fashionable, but I ignored them, striding through the crowd and directly to the front desk. The night manager, a fellow I did not know, was standing with an expectant expression, his moustaches neatly waxed, his shirt front starched to perfection.
“How may I be of service, madam?” he inquired in a low voice.
“I wish to see the Maharani of Viratanagar,” I replied.
He blinked. “I am sorry, madam. But there is no guest by that name in this hotel.”
I opened my mouth to contradict him, but Stoker clasped my hand. I remembered then what Julien had told us about the maharani’s insistence upon privacy. After her photograph had been published in the Daily Harbinger, she had instructed hotel staff to preserve her incognita.
“Blast,” I muttered, turning to Stoker. “What was her nom d’hôtel?”
He shrugged and I sighed as I turned back to the manager. “We know she is here, my good man. Now kindly send up a note that I will write and—”
The manager held up a hand. “Madam, I cannot send up a note to a guest who is not registered in this hotel.”
His voice was reasonable, the sort of overly patient tone one uses with difficult children or people of dubious intelligence. Stoker plucked a coin from his pocket and slid it across the desk.
“Perhaps you can carry the note up now,” he suggested with the cool hauteur of a viscount’s son.
The manager swept the shiny guinea from the desk and into his pocket with a practiced gesture. “Thank you, sir. And I repeat, I cannot send up a note to a guest who is not registered in this hotel.”
“Then you owe us a guinea,” I muttered.
His expression was grave. “I am sorry I cannot accommodate your request, madam, but I am afraid I have other matters to which I must presently attend.” He inclined his head as a gesture of dismissal, after which he simply stood, looking vacant.
My fingers reached for my garrote wire, but Stoker grabbed my hand and pulled me away from the desk and behind a potted palm, Harry following meekly behind. “Veronica, for the love of all that is holy and good, tell me you were not actually intending to take out your cheese wire.”
“Cheese wire?” Harry’s voice rose in disbelief.
“She carries it in case she is called upon to garrote someone,” Stoker explained.
“I did not intend to harm him,” I said sulkily. “But I thought the sight of it might prove persuasive.”
“If we manage to get through this night without finding ourselves in the cells at Scotland Yard it will be God’s own miracle,” Stoker said through gritted teeth.
Suddenly, he seemed seized by an idea. He jerked his head towards the door leading to the hotel’s inner offices. “Julien will be long gone by this hour,” I told him.
“Exactly,” he said, leading the way. Concealed by the bustle of the crowd, we slipped through the door and hurried downstairs. Hotel staff, accustomed to odd comings and goings, did not give us a second look. The pastry kitchen was dark, scrubbed clean and ready for the following day. On a hook behind the door hung one of Julien’s white coats, which Stoker buttoned over his own. A tray of prettily arranged petit fours, no doubt at hand should any guest ring in the night for a bit of sustenance, lay on a table, and he took it up.
“There is my disguise,” he said in some satisfaction as he turned to me. “Where is yours?”
I cast my eye around the room and found only a stack of clean towels. I tied one at my waist to approximate an apron and grabbed an enormous whisk, some two feet long. We were rummaging for another coat for Harry when we heard footsteps approaching.