“I can imagine. But I have seen Mr. Stihl’s photograph in the newspapers,” Stoker countered. “He is a gentleman of advanced years. I cannot imagine him putting on the guise of Anubis and gamboling about the desert.”
“Have you seen a photograph of his son?” Fairbrother asked. “Henry Stihl could do a fair impression of an Egyptian god, I would wager.”
Lady Tiverton shook her head. “It is too terrible. They were our friends. It is impossible.”
I offered her a thin smile. “What was it that Napoleon said, my lady? ‘Impossible is a word only to be found in the dictionary of fools.’”
“Amen,” said Patrick Fairbrother, raising his teacup in a toast.
• • •
We took our leave of the Tivertons, emerging from the warm elegance of the Sudbury lobby into the darkening street. Splinters of ice shone in the glow of the streetlamps, and all around us London hurried on its way, bustling through the late-afternoon gloom.
“All right,” I told Stoker as I tucked the edge of my glove under my cuff. “I could feel you rumbling like a volcano in there. You did a masterful job of holding your temper, but there’s no need now. Rant.”
His jaw was set in a hard line. “It’s that disgraceful business with the mummy. They mean to put her on display.”
“Her sarcophagus only,” I corrected.
“That sarcophagus is the mummy case, the inner lining of her coffin,” he countered. “There would have been at least two more surrounding it and a shrine to hold the whole of it. Displaying the sarcophagus is like letting the rabble into Windsor to see the queen in her nightdress.”
I ignored the reference to my grandmother and strove to grasp his point.
“Such entertainments have been fashionable for decades,” I pointed out.
“Entertainments?” He turned squarely to face me, the light from the nearest streetlamp throwing his face into sharp relief. “She was a person, for God’s sake! She deserves to be left in peace, not displayed like a fairground attraction for people with half a shilling to gawp at.”
“Five guineas,” I corrected.
“I don’t care if they charge a thousand guineas and the Koh-i-Noor. It’s wrong.”
“You are a scientist,” I reminded him. “Surely you appreciate the discoveries which may be made from examination of the princess.”
“Examination, yes. By properly trained scholars under suitably respectful circumstances. This is nothing more than a carnival show, a bit of theatrical nonsense to line Sir Leicester Tiverton’s pockets. The man is no better than Barnum, hawking his freaks to anyone with the price of admission.”
A nut seller uncovered his brazier, setting out a pan to roast chestnuts while a passing boy jostled me a little, muttering an apology with a tug of his low tweed cap. Stoker put a hand under my elbow and guided me to the side of the pavement. I said nothing for a long moment, waiting for him to speak again.
“She was human once,” he said finally. “She walked and breathed and loved people and she had a name. Ankheset. It will be inscribed on the heart scarab that someone laid upon her to protect her in the afterlife. That ought to be respected instead of letting the rabble in to paw at her. She deserves to rest in peace.”
I lifted a brow. “Stoker, what a dreadful romantic you are.”
He opened his mouth, but I held up a hand. “I happen to agree with you. There is something highly distasteful about the notion of the princess being displayed for the amusement of passersby.” I grinned. “All the more reason to see if we can discover the whereabouts of John de Morgan and the princess’ diadem. Perhaps if we return the jewel to Sir Leicester, he would be grateful enough to listen to a little persuasion upon the subject.”
Stoker thought for a moment, then suddenly took my hand. “Come on. There is someone you ought to meet.”
He guided me around the corner to the staff entrance of the hotel. Tearing a leaf from his pocket notebook, he scribbled a hasty note and thrust it into the hands of a waiting errand boy with a small coin. “Take that to Monsieur d’Orlande,” he instructed.
We waited a few minutes, stamping our feet against the chill. Suddenly, the door opened and out rolled a warm wave of air perfumed with cinnamon and yeast and roasted meats. A man in a pristine double-breasted white coat emerged. Atop his head perched a rakish scarlet velvet beret, and he wore a slender gold signet ring upon his smallest finger.
“Revelstoke!” he called in obvious delight, his face wreathed in smiles.
Stoker grinned and the two men embraced, clapping one another hard upon the back.
“Veronica, this is Julien d’Orlande. Julien, this is Miss Speedwell.”
The fellow was perhaps Stoker’s age, with long, slender hands and skin the rich silken brown of Nymphalis antiopa, the Camberwell Beauty butterfly. He offered me a broad smile. “Mademoiselle Speedwell.” His voice carried the soft seduction of a French accent, and his dark eyes were expressive.
Comprehension dawned. “You’re Lady Wellie’s pastry chef!” Lady Wellie had told me once of finding a post for a French protégé as the pastry chef at the Sudbury, and I was delighted to make his acquaintance.
“I am indeed,” he acknowledged. “But, Revelstoke, shame on you for keeping a lady standing in the cold! You have the manners of a Corsican peasant,” he added with a quick grin at Stoker. He beckoned to me. “Come into my office, where it is warm.”
He escorted us inside the hotel, and it was like seeing the inner workings of a beautiful clock—so many moving pieces, so much technical chaos—and yet the front presented only a serene and orderly façade. Here, endless rooms formed a labyrinthine arrangement, each space devoted to a separate task: preparing sauces, roasting meats, baking bread. Monsieur d’Orlande explained that his responsibility was overseeing the fine pastry, the delicate confections that graced the dinner tables in the dining salon above. The simple cakes and muffins we had enjoyed at tea were prepared by his underlings, but I could see he kept a careful eye upon them as we passed through. He glanced from side to side, offering a criticism here and praise there. One young man was teasing honey ice cream from a beehive mold while another spun sugar into a gilded cloud to form a nest.
“For a croquembouche,” Monsieur told me as I gaped. “It is our speciality.”
“It is magnificent,” I said, breathing in the aromas of cooked sugar and vanilla. Stoker gazed longingly at a pyramid of tiny puffs of dough that had been fried quickly and stuffed with sweet cream and dusted with sugar. Courteous people called them beignets soufflés, but I had also heard them called by the rather earthier epithet of pets de nonnes or nun’s farts. Either way, the sight of their golden seductions had reduced Stoker to a wordless whimper as we passed.
“I will send a box,” Monsieur d’Orlande promised. “Pets de nonnes for you, Stoker, but I think langues de chat for the enchanting Miss Speedwell,” he added with a slow smile of Gallic appreciation. Cat’s tongues indeed! He showed us into a small office and closed the door behind. The air here was redolent of sugar and chocolate. There were a desk and an assortment of chairs as well as an undraped window that overlooked the pastry kitchen so he could keep a close watch upon his assistants at all times. The desk was tidy, but the bookshelf empty.
“You have no cookbooks,” I said, pointing to the empty shelf.
He tapped his forehead with one slim finger. “A book may be lost. A true master carries all the knowledge he requires here.”
I smiled, and he brought a bottle of dark liquid from a cabinet. He retrieved a set of tiny stemmed glasses of thin crystal and poured a thimbleful of the stuff for each of us. “It is a dessert liqueur of my own invention. I flavor it with violets and hay.”
It sounded like the most unpromising thing I had ever drunk, but I took a sip to be polite. Instantly, springtime burst into flower on my tongue. The hay tasted green and fresh whil
e the sensual violet blossomed darkly beneath.
“Extraordinary!” I proclaimed.
He gave me a satisfied smile. “I think it has promise.”
Stoker said nothing but held out his glass with a hopeful look. Monsieur shook his head. “No more. It is almost finished and I have yet to perfect it. When I do, I will send you an entire bottle.”
“I shall hold you to that.”
Monsieur d’Orlande eased back in his chair, his manner expansive. “I think you do not come here only for the samples. What service may I perform for you?”
It was a charmingly old-fashioned request, and I found myself appreciating his courtly ways. He was a Frenchman through and through, and I had always been susceptible to Gallic flourishes.
Stoker came directly to the point. “I need you to do a bit of spying.”
Monsieur’s brows lifted. “Not my usual occupation, but for you I will be happy to try. Upon whom am I to spy?”
“The Tiverton party,” I supplied.
“Plum cakes and plain custard,” he said with a touch of disapproval. “They like their puddings very English. Not for them the crisp leaves of the mille-feuille or the many satisfactions of a perfectly made St. Honoré. No, Sir Leicester Tiverton always wants rice pudding with prunes.” He shuddered. “But the young lady, she has promise. I am told she ate a second helping of my Turkish fantasia.”
“Turkish fantasia?” Stoker asked, fairly drooling.
Monsieur shrugged. “A new creation of mine based upon an old Turkish recipe. Rosewater crème caramel, very delicate, finished with lacework of gilded sugar and a garnish of candied pistachios. The Turks are masters of the subtle uses of perfume in pastry,” he added.
Stoker sighed a little as Monsieur went on. “Mademoiselle Tiverton was appreciative. I think she might be persuaded to an orange-blossom tart,” he said, tipping his head thoughtfully. “I shall make for her a delicate mousse of the orange blossom and glaze the bottom of the tart with bitter chocolate and garnish it with whipped sweet cream and curls of chocolate.”
Stoker gave a low moan of longing at the description.
Monsieur smiled. “Naturally, as an employee of the hotel, it is forbidden for me to fraternize with the guests, but if I were to send such a delicacy to her with the compliments of the kitchen and an invitation to see how such a confection is created, she might feel compelled to accept.”
“She most certainly would,” I agreed. “I think the girl is lonely.” I glanced out the window to where the two assistants were assembling the pastry puffs into a mountain with the sticky aid of strong caramel. “Best to send the tart up with the dark-haired one. He is by far the better looking.”
Monsieur gave a laugh, a rumbling sound that began low in his belly and worked its way up. “You are a lady of original thinking, Mademoiselle Speedwell. I suspect you have French blood.”
I thought of the French princesses sprinkled throughout my father’s family tree. “Perhaps a bit,” I murmured. “Aren’t you curious as to why we are asking you to spy upon this family?”
He shrugged. “I would never question Revelstoke, my dear mademoiselle,” he said simply. “I told him once, whatever service I can render him, he has only to ask. And this is the first time he has done so.”
Stoker reddened, a charming blush that warmed his complexion to the tips of his ears. “Rubbish,” he muttered. “But if you help us, I will consider it a personal favor.”
Monsieur shook his hand. “I will send word to you as soon as I know anything of importance.”
“Shall we take a greeting to Lady Wellingtonia from you?” I asked.
He smiled, baring a set of gorgeous white teeth. “No need, dear lady. I dine with her once a fortnight,” he told me. “Lady Wellingtonia, like Stoker, never forgets her friends.” He bowed low over my hand. “It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mademoiselle Speedwell.”
“And yours, Monsieur.”
Stoker gave a low growl. “If the pair of you are quite finished,” he said, gesturing to the door.
I flashed Monsieur a parting smile, and he touched his fingertips to his lips in a gesture of farewell.
We took our leave of the Sudbury and its scented delights, emerging into the darkening chill of the February gloom. Piles of dirty snow were heaped upon each curbstone, and the odor of manure and rotting vegetables hung heavy in the air.
“London is an unlovely place in winter,” I said with some vehemence. “I would trade every smoking chimney, every grey fog for one clear Alpine peak.”
Stoker shuddered. “Never.” He elaborated on his dislike for mountains, but my mind was wandering, flitting away to a particular Swiss meadow where I had pursued a pretty little Parnassius apollo and been, in my turn, pursued by my guide. I had given up the butterfly chase, surrendering instead to the pleasures of the flesh, and to this day the smell of spring grass brings back the tenderest memories. I had gone into that meadow an eager girl and emerged from it, plucking crushed edelweiss from my hair and petticoats, a self-possessed and happily experienced woman.
“Are you even listening?” Stoker was asking.
“No,” I replied with perfect candor. “I was recalling my first taste of the erotic joys.”
“How on earth—never mind. I ought to know better than to question the vagaries of your imagination.”
“Speaking of attractive men,” I said, “what a charming man Monsieur d’Orlande is.”
“Yes, Julien does tend to have that effect,” Stoker said in a tone as dry as the Sahara. “I have yet to meet a woman who doesn’t find him enchanting. I don’t know if it is the accent or the fact that he always smells like sugar.”
“They are both intoxicating qualities in a man,” I informed him.
I thought of the story Lady Wellingtonia had told of the first time she had encountered Monsieur d’Orlande—at the opening of the Royal Museum of Natural History. “Was he really dressed in a loincloth when you met him?” I asked.
Stoker’s handsome mouth turned down. “He was. The director of the museum thought he would make a suitable addition to the display of African apes.”
I remembered Lady Wellingtonia’s description of what followed. The fact that Stoker had thrashed the director with his bare fists had not surprised me. The fact that Julien d’Orlande proved to be a qualified pastry chef did.
“How did he come to such a pass with all of his talents?”
Stoker shrugged. “It is not always easy for a black man to find employment, even one as talented as Julien. His family were from Martinique, accomplished chefs, all of them. His grandfather was trained by Carême and his father cooked for Napoleon III. Julien was actually born at the palace at Fontainebleau. He trained as a pastry chef and went to work for a Parisian banker who decided to spend a winter in London, overseeing some investments. He brought Julien with him so he would dine well while he was here. As luck would have it, the fellow died suddenly, leaving neither cash to pay Julien’s salary nor references. Julien spoke no English then and knew no one in London. He fell on hard times, and took the job at the museum rather than face the workhouse.”
I shook my head. “He is obviously an aristocrat in the kitchen. It seems astonishing that he would take such demeaning employment.”
“Julien is, like all Frenchmen, eminently practical. He thought a few days of standing on display in a loincloth would be a small price to pay to earn the wages to get himself back to Paris.”
“He must be grateful that you intervened,” I mused.
“Grateful? He called me a horse’s ass when I thrashed the museum director. We were both thrown out, and he never received the wages he had earned. I cost him a full day’s pay.
“Do not make the mistake of thinking I rescued him,” he warned. “Julien d’Orlande is the proverbial cat with nine lives. He would have landed quite nicely on
his feet without my interference at all.”
I tipped my head. “Still, I wonder how many God-fearing Englishmen walked past him and saw what they wanted him to be rather than what he is.”
“What he is is a bloody genius,” he told me. “And when he sends that box of pastries, I have no intention of sharing.”
“It was your idea to set him to watching the Tivertons,” I reminded him. “You have earned them.”
We walked on, taking in bracing lungfuls of cold London air, choking only a little on the smoke and fog that thickened it. Still, it was better than cooping ourselves up like chickens in the stuffy atmosphere of a cab, and we stretched our legs, weaving in and around the traffic, dodging the piled drifts of filthy snow. Aside from brisk laps in the earl’s bathing pool, it was the most exercise either of us had had for some weeks. I felt my mood rise with every step.
I first became aware of the fact that we were being followed when we paused at the corner of Oxford Street. Here the traffic changed from the commercial vehicles and cabs to the sober respectability of private conveyances as we made our way into Marylebone. The teeming pavements gave way to casual walkers in good weather; in February, only the heartiest souls were afoot. I heard the brisk clip of footsteps behind us. Pausing to fuss with the lace of my boot, I noted the footsteps stopped. I darted a glance under my arm and saw a fellow of medium height, his cap pulled low over his brow—the same fellow who had jostled me outside the Sudbury.
Instantly, he stopped to inspect a railing, pursing his lips in a soundless whistle. His affected nonchalance did not deceive me. I noticed the rapidity of his respiration, white clouds puffing into the air as he attempted to catch his breath. Stoker and I were swift walkers. No one in his right mind would have tried to keep pace with us unless he were on the hunt and we were his prey.
I stood up and gave Stoker a smile, looping my arm through his and pulling his head near mine.
“We have a pursuer.”
To his credit, Stoker did not look behind. Instead he cocked an ear. “Thirty feet behind,” he murmured. “Perhaps forty.”
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