“Because it is what wives have done for centuries,” he reminded me. “They turn a blind eye and take up needlework. Or découpage. Or flower arranging. Or they throw themselves into their children as Her Royal Highness has done. It is not healthy.”
“You don’t think a mother ought to be devoted to her children?”
“Prince Albert Victor is almost five and twenty years of age. He is a fully grown man. Why should he order trinkets for his ladylove from his mother’s jeweler? He had to have known she would get wind of it and be upset by his indiscretion. And whilst we are on the subject, why should she have to clear up his mess? Why doesn’t she just order him outright to retrieve the jewel himself?”
“She explained. It would be awkward for her to raise such a subject with him. Besides, it seems perfectly apparent that she indulges him,” I replied.
“And why should that be? She has other children who are still in the schoolroom and no doubt have need of her. She oughtn’t be sweeping up after him. She is the future queen.”
He was almost angry in his defense of her, and I was silent a moment, considering. The princess was slender and beautiful still—she was only forty-four, after all. There was a cool elegance about her, a remoteness that dissolved when she looked at you with those steady grey-blue eyes. “Saints preserve us,” I murmured, “you have a tendresse for the princess.”
“I may admire a woman without it going further than that,” he said coldly. I knew that tone. It was like the striking of a stag’s hoof to the ground, a warning to be wary. Of course, I usually interpreted it as a signal to push him further solely because there were few pleasures more enchanting than watching him rise ferociously to a choice bit of bait. But there was something vulnerable in his tenderness for the princess. I thought of his mother, likewise beautiful and neglected, locked in a marriage with a man she did not love, consoled only by her handsome, loyal sons. She had been unable to protect them from the wrath of her husband. Stoker, her cuckoo in the nest, had been the product of her only rebellion, her fleeting grasp at a joy that would prove elusive. And I could not mock him for admiring a woman so very like her.
My throat was tight and I said nothing for a long moment, turning my face away so that it was my turn to watch the passing scene. The streetlamps glowed in the darkness, circles of warm, golden safety. But just beyond the edge of each, shadows moved and shifted, and something dark and menacing walked those streets, I reminded myself.
“Have you brought arms?” I asked suddenly.
“In these trousers? I have only a few picklocks tucked into my sash.” He lifted a brow towards the snug seams straining over his thighs and I gave him a consoling pat.
“Never mind. I have taken precautions.”
“Veronica—” he began, his tone alarmed.
“Not now, Stoker,” I said, putting my hand in my pocket to give Chester a quick pat. “We have arrived.”
CHAPTER
8
The club was a tall white house, elegant but unremarkable. It glowed from cellars to attics with the soft gleam of electric lights behind each window, and it took me a moment to realize that the absolute stillness of those lights meant that each window was carefully screened, blocking the interior from view. A discreet servant standing upon the curb waved the carriage around to the mews entrance, which had been sealed so that no one would overlook the comings and goings of the club.
Tiberius’ coachman touched his hat and promised to keep the horses fresh and walking slowly about the square until we emerged.
“Never mind that,” Stoker told him. “We shall be some time. Put the horses and yourself to bed and we will find our own way home.”
The coachman gave him a knowing smile. “Aye, I’ve been with ’is lordship long enough to know the way of it.”
He whistled to the horses to walk on and Stoker and I mounted the curb. The club was located just at the edge of respectability and privilege. Beyond the back garden lay the East End and all its attendant terrors; to the west was every bastion of wealth the capital could boast. At the intersection was this nondescript house of quiet gentility, the white stone façade punctuated with polished brass work and glossy black shutters. The door was black, set with a knocker sculpted into the shape of a star.
“Madame Aurore is nothing if not consistent,” I murmured, remembering my Classical mythology. Aurora the dawn goddess rose each day from her couch just as the stars were beginning to dim, gathering them into her arms to festoon her hair and her robes with the last rays of their splendor.
Stoker did not lift the knocker. He instead flicked a glance to the porter, a slender figure in sober livery of black with tidy silver buttons stamped with stars. The porter sprang to attention, rapping a coded knock upon the door. With a start, I realized that the porter was in fact a young woman in masculine dress. Her hair was concealed under a powdered wig and her face was masked, no doubt to set the tone of the evening’s entertainment, and as I looked closely at her, she bowed her head in a diffident gesture. Stoker did not look at her but flipped a coin deftly in her direction as I hurried to follow him. A new hauteur had come over him with his change in appearance. It was as if he had put on Tiberius’ attitude with his clothes, and I both deplored it and found it deeply attractive.
The door swung back and another liveried person—this time male and possibly older than Methuselah—approached. His half mask fitted poorly, no doubt due to the elaborate condition of his moustaches and beard, which covered his face nearly to the cheekbones. He bobbed his head this way and that as he moved, never quite making eye contact. I admired his discretion.
“Good evening, sir, madam,” he intoned in a low voice as he struggled into a low bow. Rheumatism, I suspected.
“I am Rev—”
The fellow flung up a hand, clearly aghast. “No names, sir, I beg you! The club is not famous for discretion because if we were famous, we would not be discreet.” He smiled at his own little jest, baring a set of surprisingly good teeth. “This way, sir, madam.”
He scuttled off, leading us into a small side parlor furnished in exquisite taste. The walls were hung with pale grey brocade woven with an abstract pattern of stars, and the upholstery was the same, a collection of armchairs grouped around a scattering of small, low tables. Porcelain, all of it pure white, was assembled in alcoves, and the effect was restful. The only color that broke the soothing grey was a massive vase of dawn-pink lilies on a sideboard and a painting hung above the fireplace—a portrait of a woman. Her face was in profile and she was dressed in Classical draperies of shifting shades of silver, blue, and rose, a lute propped at her feet. Low on her brow rested a starry diamond tiara.
“Wait here, please,” the manservant instructed. He bowed his way out of the room, closing the double doors quietly behind.
“Surprisingly tasteful,” I remarked.
“The best brothels are,” Stoker said without trace of embarrassment.
“You and Tiberius seem well versed in the matter,” I told him as I surveyed a narrow bookshelf. The volumes were all bound in grey kid and stamped with a single letter, “A,” rendered in a severe, stark capital.
“I will admit to a misspent youth,” Stoker allowed.
“I would hardly call it misspent if you learnt skills,” I told him.
He blushed adorably, the tips of his ears turning pink.
“I suppose I ought to point out that this is not, strictly speaking, a brothel,” said a low, melodious voice. There was the slightest trace of a French accent, and I knew our hostess had entered even before I turned around.
She was smiling in spite of my hasty attempts at an apology.
“Faugh! We must not be provincial about such things,” she said, the smile broadening. “We know why we are here. My house is always open to people who understand what they desire.”
There was good Gallic sense in what sh
e said. She came forwards until I could smell her perfume, something dusky and heavy with only the slightest edge of rich, plummy darkness. She tipped her head, studying us. “I think I recognize a pirate when I see one, but who are you with your savage jewels, mademoiselle?”
“Boadicea,” I told her.
“Ah! The Briton queen with the unpronounceable name. I shall not attempt it,” she said gravely, but a light danced behind her eyes. I took the opportunity to return her scrutiny. She was wearing a gown very similar to the one in the painting—beautifully draped and heavy enough to bear the weight of a galaxy of diamond stars. The diamond tiara sat at her brow, darting sparks of light as she moved her head. Her extraordinary and elegant costume had been carefully chosen to make the most of her natural beauty. She had dark brows, strongly marked and arched, but her hair was the color of winter frost, varying shades of white and silver. It fell to her hips, a rippling river of ice.
So, this was the woman who had captured my half-brother’s affections, I mused. I was not surprised; she was exquisite, with an air of mature worldliness that would no doubt appeal to many a younger man, especially one reared in the hothouse atmosphere of a royal court. I could well imagine any besotted youth showering her with jewels in a fervent attempt to earn her attention. Some mistresses kept their counsel, discretion being the better part of both valor and profit for them. Others blazoned their triumphs for the world to see, heedless of scandal or outrage. It remained to be seen which she would prove to be with regard to Eddy.
She extended her hand. “I am Madame Aurore, your hostess for the evening. I hope you will forgive the formality of a meeting, but I always make a point of greeting newcomers personally.” She lifted one pale hand towards the open door in a gesture of command, and one of her army of pages trotted forwards with a tray and glasses.
“Champagne,” she pronounced, insisting that we each take a glass. The fine crystal was like silk in my hand, and the wine was gently effervescent, the pale gold of new straw. We sipped, and she gestured towards the furniture grouped by the hearth, urging us to sit. The evening was warm enough that the fire had not been lit, but a pair of tall porcelain perfume burners stood upon the tiles, sending puffs of scented smoke into the air.
“I am always pleased to see new faces in my establishment,” she began, “but you must understand the need for discretion.”
“Naturally,” Stoker said.
She gave him a look of approval as she made quick work of scrutinizing him with the eye of a practiced businesswoman, taking in the tailoring and the jewels. The overlong hair and the eye patch would make no difference to her. It was the aristocratic vowels and the gemstones that mattered.
“You have chosen an excellent night to pay a first visit to the club,” she told us. “Tonight is our Wednesday bal masqué. I see you have brought masks,” she added with a nod towards the black velvet dominos we each held. “The custom is that upon the stroke of ten, the entertainment begins. You have free rein of the house and the gardens, except for the suite on the third floor that is marked with a black velvet rope. That is my private apartment and not open to guests,” she warned. “Should you lose your way or require anything at all, there are always pages to offer assistance. I pay them a generous wage, and it is for you to offer them whatever gratuity you feel appropriate. That is none of my concern.” She paused, long enough for me to realize that the small army of black-liveried young people were there for more than just the opening of doors and serving of champagne.
“Oh. Oh,” I managed.
She gave me an indulgent smile. “How refreshingly new you are, mademoiselle! I can see why monsieur has brought you tonight.”
She went on. “I do not keep a record of my visitors, for your protection and my own. I cannot be compelled to reveal what I do not know and what cannot be proven. This is a private house and I am a private woman entertaining her friends—that is all the authorities need to know.”
“Most appreciated,” Stoker assured her. She gave a nod and continued.
“While the ball itself is underway, you may dance and consume all the food and drink that you wish. Converse, enjoy the entertainments. I take great pride in the originality of the themes and the generosity of my table. Should you have need, there are private rooms for more intimate activities. If the door is open, avail yourself of the apartment. You may shut the door for privacy if you wish. There is a silver ribbon tied to each doorknob. Leave it hanging outside if you are open to the prospect of company joining you. If you wish for complete privacy, take it into the room with you. When you depart the room, kindly ring the bell and a maid will come and freshen the amenities for future guests.”
It seemed a most civilized arrangement, I decided. One might have a room entirely to one’s own purposes or one might enjoy a bit of a crowd if tastes ran that way.
She went on. “At the stroke of two, the house will be gifted with darkness. The lights are extinguished and some guests take this as a signal to slip away. Others remain and the public rooms are given over to whatever the inclinations of my guests. You may find at that hour that invitations are presented to you—unexpected opportunities. It is, of course, your perfect right to refuse any overtures, but I suggest you accept them. Perhaps make a few of your own,” she added, the edges of her mouth curling upwards. “Things you never imagined possible in the light become desirable in the dark.”
I felt a shiver—a premonition?—shudder down my spine. Stoker, for his part, seemed entirely the man-about-town, raising his champagne coupe to his hostess. “To the powers of darkness,” he said.
She smiled, a ripe, inviting smile, and lifted her own glass. They drank and I hastened to finish my own champagne. Madame Aurore offered a dish of tiny sugar pastilles flavored with mint. “To sweeten the breath after champagne,” she told us. I took one—Stoker took seven—and rose as she clicked her fingers.
Instantly, one of her slender pages appeared, this one with dark skin and elegant ankles. He gestured for us to follow him as our hostess remained in her reception room.
“Have a good time,” she called after us. “And I would remind you that Venus favors the bold.” I turned back to see her smile, a thin, watchful smile that did not quite meet her eyes.
We followed the page from Madame Aurore’s small parlor towards the sound of music.
“Would you care to join the bal masqué or would you prefer a more private setting?” the page inquired without the slightest trace of embarrassment.
“The bal,” Stoker replied quickly.
The page inclined his head and led us through a series of corridors, each hung with rose or grey silk and a painting of the goddess of the dawn. In some she strode over hills, spreading the soft light of the morning over the landscape as she walked. In others, she was in the act of rising from her slumbers, the bedclothes tumbled suggestively. Sometimes she was accompanied by a battalion of maids strewing flowers and dewdrops, but at others she was depicted in the act of dressing—or undressing—with cherubs holding the ribbons of her sandals and stroking her delicate feet. There were nipples, so many of them, and blushing cheeks, rosy with effort or pleasure as she looked upon a sleeping youth. It was a glorious collection, with Auroras both fair and dark, some with blond tresses and some with black and every shade in between. Her skin was brown or pink or white, her features European or African or Asian. They were Aurora in every dimension, and I would have loved to have studied them at length.
But the page trotted on, leading us towards the sound of music, and a restless buzzing noise that I realized was the chatter of excited voices. I had expected languor from a crowd of undoubted sophisticates, but there was the underlying hum of anticipation, of needs yet to be met, clamoring in the blood.
We climbed a grand staircase carpeted in plush grey, with lavish sprays of hothouse peonies and roses spilling from urns at the foot. An enormous chandelier hung far overhead, the pr
isms scattering rainbows across the walls in glittering arcs. The page paused at the top of the stairs, just in front of a set of double doors that had been thrown open.
“Welcome,” he said with an arch smile, “to the bal masqué of the Club de l’Étoile.” He gestured widely and bowed, indicating we should enter. I darted a glance at Stoker, but the set of his jaw was impassive. Whatever he was thinking, he was disinclined to share.
I touched my mask to make certain it was secure. Stoker extended his arm and I took it. Together we stepped into a scene conjured out of myth. The room itself was a marvel, fashioned of grey marble with a ceiling painted in the style of Inigo Jones. It was delicate blue with drifting clouds, each circling the center, where Aurora held court, white hounds at her feet, a crown of stars adorning her brow. Below, grey velvet drapes covered the tall windows, and a series of electric chandeliers provided illumination. Between the windows were hung long mirrors, reflecting back each dazzling point of light again and again, multiplying them until the room seemed filled with endless golden stars.
At one end, a formally attired orchestra played a waltz, and at the other, a long table held a massive silver fountain that splashed with champagne. In between, dancers masked and garbed in every costume imaginable dipped and twirled to the music. A naked man dressed only in thick gold paint, shimmering from top to toe, partnered Anne Boleyn, elegant in black velvet with a slender, gruesome ribbon of scarlet at her neck. I recognized the central image of Liberty Leading the People with her red bonnet and bodice open to the waist; she was dancing with a French cardinal in crimson taffeta robes—Richelieu or Mazarin, I decided. And two women dressed as red-coated soldiers swayed together, not even bothering with the proper steps, their lips fixed upon one another as their hands clasped one another’s buttocks beneath their uniforms.
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