A Murderous Relation

by DEANNA RAYBOURN

I shivered. No one who had heard the stories of the siege could forget them, the proud city, bombarded by the Prussians until the Parisians were so assailed by hardship and privation they turned to eating rats and domestic pets. Seventeen years had passed since the siege of Paris, but there were survivors of that time who still shuddered every time they saw a rabbit on a plate because of its unfortunate resemblance to cooked cat.

  “Why did Madame Aurore not leave? If she had an American lover, surely he could have got her away? America was neutral during that war.”

  He shrugged. “No one knows what held her in France, but she stayed. And because she stayed, she became a legend, suffering with her people. The lady never sang again. She put it out that starvation had ruined her voice, and all of Paris exalted her for her sacrifice. When the city was freed and life went back to what passed for normal, she found new lovers, a string of them, and devoted herself to becoming the continent’s most beloved courtesan. It was a title she held for a decade.”

  “Then what?” Stoker roused himself to ask.

  “Then, for reasons that are—like much in the lady’s life—shrouded in mystery, she left the Continent and established herself in London. Some said it was to renew an acquaintance with the French emperor in his exile, some say it was to escape the memories of a city that had grown too thick with ghosts. In any event, she made a success of herself because she is careful and discreet here. Her house is equipped with multiple entrances and exits so that one may enter and leave unobserved. She keeps no formal membership list, no records.”

  I flicked a glance to Stoker and back again as I pondered Eddy’s vulnerability. In giving a costly proof of his affections to such a woman, he had put himself squarely in her power. “Then she would not be likely to blackmail one of her guests?”

  “My dear Veronica, that would be entirely contrary to her own best interests. Talk about killing the goose that laid the golden egg! She makes thousands out of her clientele. If there were the slightest whisper of indiscretion, she would have to close her doors instantly. And, given the number of extremely notable government figures who have graced her doors, I daresay the lady would find herself on the receiving end of a lengthy prison sentence to boot.”

  Before I could ask any further questions, Tiberius rose, rubbing his hands together briskly. “Come along, then. We haven’t much time to make Stoker look like a respectable gentleman of means, and God only knows how long that will take.”

  CHAPTER

  7

  In the end, it took the better part of three hours before we assembled an appropriate wardrobe for Stoker. He objected to anything flamboyant of Tiberius’, and since the viscount had a flair for beautiful fabrics with dramatic cuts, the battles were many and heated.

  “I look like a bloody magician’s assistant,” he protested at one point as he flicked the ruffle at the cuff of a particularly elegant ensemble.

  “You are a magician,” I reminded him.

  “Never professionally,” he retorted. “And I do not see the need for lace.”

  Tiberius’ expression was pained. “That is Alençon, you philistine, and it was created for an exclusive fancy dress party given by the Queen of Bohemia.” The viscount stepped back, assessing him. “How do you do it?” he murmured. “You make the most exquisite tailoring look like something from the dressing-up box.”

  “I feel ridiculous,” Stoker put in.

  The viscount sighed. “You cannot carry it off, my boy. You haven’t the aplomb. Very well, a pirate you shall be. Your own trousers will have to do. I have a shirt with appropriately Elizabethan sleeves, and here, take this shawl of India paisley to wear as a sash to hold your cutlass and pistols.”

  Stoker rolled his eyes heavenwards. “I am not wearing a cutlass and pistols.”

  “The more fool you,” Tiberius told him. “I daresay Veronica will be armed to her pretty teeth.”

  The viscount thrust the garments at Stoker and beckoned me into the sitting room next door.

  “We can have a coze while that Neanderthal is defiling my tailoring,” he said, pouring out a tiny glass of violet liqueur.

  “Tell me what you think of this.” He presented it with a flourish and I took a sip, relishing the lush floral headiness that burst over my tongue.

  “Crème de violette!” I exclaimed. “I recognize it. This is the handiwork of Julien d’Orlande.”

  Julien was a Frenchman of Caribbean extraction, rigorously schooled in the traditions of the finest patisserie. Thanks to Stoker’s efforts, he had secured a position at the Allerdale Hotel and a reputation as one of London’s rising stars.

  “I didn’t realize you were acquainted with him,” I told Tiberius after another decadent sip.

  “Stoker introduced us and Julien has catered a number of private entertainments,” he told me. I thought he might say something more, but his lordship fell silent, a shadow over his eyes.

  “Tiberius?” I said softly.

  His mouth quirked into a mocking smile. “Ah, she wishes to play Florence Nightingale, to take the temperature of my soul and assess the state of my mind’s health. Tell me, Nurse, what is the prognosis? Shall I live? Give me your expert diagnosis of my ailment.”

  “Heartbreak,” I said.

  “Succinct and accurate,” he told me, downing the full measure of his violet liqueur and smacking his lips delicately. “I taste hay, fresh green hay, in that. Do you?”

  “Tiberius,” I said again.

  He put his glass aside and gave a deep sigh. “Veronica, do not ask me to drop the mask, not even for you.”

  “Is it so terrible to be honest with one another? What do you fear?”

  He rolled the dainty glass between his palms. “That if I let loose of the mask, I shall never find it again.”

  “That would not be a catastrophe,” I told him. “You have played the part of the devil-may-care roué for long enough, don’t you think?”

  The brow rose again. “My darling Veronica, if I am not he, then who am I?”

  I covered his hand with my own. “A man who deserves to be seen for himself.”

  He stared at our hands where they touched. “Bless you, sweet child.”

  “You talk as though you were Methuselah. Shall I fetch your walking stick and slippers, Grandpapa?”

  “I was right to call you a cheeky wench,” he said. He slipped his hand out from under mine. “I am fond of you, Veronica. Fonder than I have ever been of any woman I have not bedded. Do not make me question that.”

  I had pressed him too far, but given all that we had endured together, I felt justified. I tipped back my head and drained the rest of the glorious purple concoction.

  “Very well. Take refuge in your masquerade, if it gives you comfort. But when it fails you—and make no mistake, one dark, lonesome night, it will fail you—we will be here.”

  “I could almost regret my decision to leave,” he told me as we rose.

  “You needn’t go. You could stay and help. Stoker and I could use you.”

  He smiled, a wicked grin that betrayed the good humor he so often hid under a pose of languor. “If Stoker cannot deduce what to do with you in a house full of beds, he does not deserve you.”

  He dropped a kiss to my temple just as Stoker appeared in the doorway, a wrathful expression on his face. “Do not make me bruise you again, brother.”

  Tiberius turned to examine his efforts. “He looks more a gentleman than I thought him capable,” he said. “Don’t you agree, Veronica?”

  “I agree,” I said simply. The trousers were his own, fitting him snugly through thighs and elsewhere. The shirtfront was white as a virgin’s sheet, soft and flowing into lavish sleeves and opened at the throat. The paisley shawl was slung low upon his hips, knotted at the side, the fringes rippling over the solid length of his legs. His hair was tumbled and far too long—he had obviou
sly not borrowed Tiberius’ hairbrush—and gold rings gleamed at his lobes, remnants of his past as a naval surgeon. But his tattoos were covered by the best of British tailoring and the scar that traveled a slim silver line from his temple to his cheek kept his appearance from bandbox perfection. He had donned his black eye patch, a square of silk meant to rest the eye that had once been damaged by a jaguar’s claws and which still tired easily. Draped over one shoulder was the wing of a heavy black cloak. The effect was one of extremely successful piracy.

  “You hardly look like yourself,” I managed, although this was not strictly true. He looked as much Stoker as he ever had, only more polished and aristocratic. His mother’s blood was blue, after all, I reflected, and a thousand years of breeding does sometimes tell—no doubt due to the advantages of a healthy diet and good medical care, I noted.

  “It will do,” Tiberius said at last.

  “High praise indeed,” Stoker mocked.

  Tiberius rolled his eyes heavenwards. “Sit down in front of the fire. Collins’ replacement will bring you sandwiches and tea. Consume them and for God’s sake, do not get butter or crumbs upon my garments or I will hang you from the nearest lamppost.” He turned to me. “Come, Cinderella. I have to play faery godmother and there isn’t much time.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Tiberius took his role as costumier seriously. It took hours for him to achieve the effect he desired. To begin with, he instructed a footman to go immediately to a costume house and hire suitable apparel.

  “A short tunic,” the viscount insisted. “Tights to match the color of Miss Speedwell’s dainty flesh and some very simple flat slippers with ribbons to the knee.”

  “Tiberius,” I said repressively, “no woman has ever led an army in slippers that lace to the knee. I shall look like a chorus dancer.”

  He gave me a stern look. “I am not creating a warrior, I am creating the fantasy of a warrior, and if you do not understand that, the least you can do is be quiet and sit very still until I am satisfied.”

  I obeyed, occupying myself with reading the latest adventures of Arcadia Brown, Lady Detective, as he conjured his magic. When he was finished, I hardly recognized myself. He had unbound my black hair, shaking it free until it waved loose almost to my waist. From each temple he had gathered a lock to braid, weaving it back and into the other. A few more braids here and there were worked into my coiffure, each spotted with a tiny ruby bead borrowed from the Vane collection. Atop this he sat the fox-tooth tiara, the jewels in it glittering savagely in the lamplight. The armillae gleamed from my bare arms, just glints of gold beneath an enormous scarlet cloak topped with a leopard-skin cape.

  The hired tunic was shorter than I would have liked, although it is no false pride to say my legs could bear the scrutiny. A wide belt at my waist was the perfect place to secure a short, sharp dagger borrowed from its usual place on his desk, where it functioned as letter opener. I was pleased to find the tunic had a pocket, and when Tiberius was busy searching out his supply of greasepaints, I quickly transferred my tiny good luck charm, a grey velvet mouse named Chester. The little fellow had been my constant companion as long as I could remember, nestling in my pocket through all of my travels and bringing comfort with just a touch of my fingertip to his soft fabric. He had even survived a near-fatal drowning, thanks to Stoker, who had mended him with careful stitches and replaced his black bead eyes with new ones of bright blue. He was all the dearer to me for his tribulations, and I gave him a reassuring pat as I tucked him into my pocket for one more grand adventure just as Tiberius reappeared.

  The viscount rummaged in his case of greasepaints—kept specially for his frequent attendance at masquerade balls and other less wholesome entertainments—and touched my lids with a bit of silvery salve to make them glisten. A similar concoction with a ruby hue was applied to my lips. He took a stick of kohl and outlined my eyes, making them huge and dramatic, ringed with smoke from a watch fire.

  “There,” he pronounced. “I have made a Briton queen of you, my dear.”

  He led me to a looking glass and I peered at my reflection.

  “Tiberius, no one has ever looked less like a Briton queen. To begin with, I have no spear or short sword. I have no blue woad for my face. My tunic should be ankle length for this climate, and I will not even begin to discuss the impracticality of leaving one’s hair loose for battle.”

  “You look perfect,” said a low voice from the doorway.

  Stoker stood motionless, wearing an expression I had never seen before.

  Tiberius gave a smile of satisfaction. “And that is my work done.”

  The viscount took up the greatcoat that lay over his chair. “I am taking my leave, children. Behave yourselves.”

  He shook hands with Stoker and kissed me again. “I do not know when I will return.”

  “Will you write?” I asked.

  “Probably not. The pen is a demanding mistress. I take delight in thwarting her expectations.”

  “Go already,” Stoker told him. But there was an anxious line in his brow, and I realized that in spite of their brawls, some new common ground had been found between them thanks to our shared adventure. Our experiences in Cornwall had wounded Tiberius deeply, exposing old heartbreak and inflicting unimaginable pain that would take years to ease. I could only hope that his travels would mend his wounds as they so often had mine.

  “Godspeed, Tiberius,” I told him.

  He took his leave in a swirl of black greatcoat, like a pantomime demon disappearing through the smoke. Stoker breathed a sigh of relief or sadness, I could not tell. He grinned and slipped a hand into his pocket. He retrieved a paper twist of honey drops and popped one into his mouth, crunching hard with his lovely white teeth.

  “Some things do not change,” he assured me.

  I returned the grin. “Shall we embark upon our next adventure, then?”

  He linked his arm through mine. “Excelsior!”

  * * *

  • • •

  Tiberius had given us the use of his town carriage for the evening on the grounds that it might be difficult for Boadicea, Queen of the Iceni, and her pirate companion to hail a cab. We settled against the squabs—bottle green velvet discreetly stamped with Tiberius’ arms in silver—and fell into silence. We had left in good spirits, but a whiff of constraint hung in the air. Was it proximity, I wondered, our nearness in the dark, close space of the carriage? I could smell him, warm flesh, lightened with leather and honey and a touch of brandy. It was a heady combination. The seat was luxuriously plush and generously proportioned. It would be an easy matter to tell the driver to make his way slowly around the park a time or two before moving on. What things might we get up to in the velvet shadows of that intimate darkness?

  My fingers crept near his across the expanse of the seat, but just before they would have touched, he raised his hand and scratched his cheek. He was turned to face the window, in profile to me, a black and inscrutable silhouette against the glass.

  I glanced out and saw an elderly woman, leaning upon her walking stick, and was instantly put in mind of Lady Wellie. I dropped my hand into my lap. This was not the time for erotic pursuits, I told myself severely. We had a mystery to solve and would need all of our wits about us. There would be ample opportunity later for the amatory arts.

  There was little traffic and the pace was brisk, the lights a streaming blur as we drove smartly from the refined elegance of Mayfair through the stolid respectability of Westminster to the more subtle charms of Bloomsbury. We crossed this neighborhood, almost to the edge of Clerkenwell. This part of London offered endless variety, from placid streets snug in their quiet prosperity to livelier roads that offered more rustic entertainments. One could turn a corner and move from silken security to homespun hardship. Here and there, small, tidy green squares were tucked away, remnants of the days when the gre
at aristocratic families owned huge swathes of the land beyond the gates of the City proper. These had all been broken up and sold, developed into shops and houses, schools and offices, but the odd pocket of verdure remained, and the most expensive houses always stood clustered around them, protective of their privilege. They might be residences or private clubs, offering seclusion within the urban surroundings and more anonymity than one might enjoy in a similarly situated property in Mayfair—and certainly at less expense.

  It was a superb choice for Madame Aurore’s establishment, near enough to the great and good that they could make an easy evening of it, and yet sufficiently far to ensure the casual bystander would not recognize those who wished to enjoy their pleasures unobtrusively.

  “Interesting that Madame Aurore has opened her club to ladies for membership,” I remarked to Stoker. “I suppose that sets her apart from other such entrepreneurs. She provides complete discretion for those who wish to disport themselves, male or female.”

  “How very modern of her.”

  “Indeed. And clever of her not to tie herself to one man,” I observed.

  He turned his head swiftly, blinking at me in the dim light. “What do you mean?”

  “Limiting herself to her first protector nearly got her killed in the siege of Paris. It was wise of her to diversify her interests.”

  “You have got cynical in your old age,” he said.

  “Don’t be testy,” I ordered. “Have you eaten recently? You are always so frightfully prickly when you are hungry.”

  He said nothing but retrieved the paper twist of honey drops from his pocket and crunched a few as I went on. “She seems to have pursued Tiberius as a member of her club. I wonder if she ever entertained your father.”

  “I wonder if she ever entertained yours.”

  “Oh, you are in a nasty mood,” I said in a tone of mild reproach. But he was correct. If there was a crumb of salaciousness to be had, the Prince of Wales could usually be found with a seat at the table. I sighed. “But you are not wrong. The more I hear of him, the less I understand how the princess bears him.”