Chapter 7
Chapter
I did not gloat over the fact that Stoker was now thoroughly invested in this mystery. I had believed his cavilling at being asked to undertake the investigation was the merest ploy to rouse my temper, and here was proof of it. Our first day upon the case and he was well and truly hooked.
“We did not ask him directly about Quincey’s and Harkness’s deaths,” I observed as we settled against the well-worn squabs of the conveyance.
“No need. If you were watching carefully, he shied like a pony at the subject.”
“How you exaggerate! He scarcely turned a hair,” I protested.
“He is a well-trained private secretary reared in diplomatic circles. A blink is the same to his sort as a fully engaged swoon to the rest of us. He was decidedly uncomfortable with the subject of Harkness’s and Quincey’s deaths.
And just the mention of Ruthven’s name was enough to distress him.
He could not be rid of us quickly enough after that. ”
“Hm. He was indeed eager to see the last of us. Do you think we have really given him enough of a fright that he will leave town?”
Stoker stroked his shadowed chin. “There is one way to know. I shall send George to do a little light surveillance since you’ve trained him up. If Johnson takes to his heels, we shall learn of it sooner rather than later.”
“Little good it will do us if he is responsible for their deaths,” I countered.
Stoker shook his head. “No, it is nothing to do with Johnson, I believe. At least not directly. He may well be not a guilty man but a frightened one. Guilt and fear often wear the same visage.”
Stoker was probably correct in that regard, I decided, but I could not possibly tell him so. A man who is too often allowed to be right develops bad habits, I had frequently observed.
He changed the subject abruptly. “Did you notice the strangeness of the house?” he asked.
“You mean the lack of staff? Curious. I heard no one besides the butler and Johnson.”
“Not a peep,” Stoker agreed. “The water in the flowers in the foyer had not been changed, and the fireplace had not been swept. The housemaids have been turned out.”
“And Johnson was expected to pack his master’s bags,” I reminded him. “A valet’s chore, I thought.”
“It is,” he affirmed.
“Still, there was the smell of fresh paint. Perhaps the staff have been given a few days’ reprieve from their duties whilst the master is away and a bit of decorating is being done.”
Stoker made an indeterminate noise deep in his throat, and I carried on. “I am glad you thought to hail a taxi. We do not wish to be late for this evening, and I have one or two things to attend to first.”
“This evening?” Stoker’s black brows knitted together.
“We have an engagement, dearest. Did you not consult your diary this morning?”
“Veronica, you know as well as I do that I have not kept a proper diary since 1872. Where are we going tonight?”
“The theatre,” I said promptly.
Stoker began to glower. “What are we seeing?”
“The Yeoman of the Guard.”
“That is not the theatre—it’s bloody Gilbert and Sullivan,” he retorted. “Why in the name of seven hells are we seeing that?”
“Because your brother was kind enough to secure tickets, and I have not seen Tiberius in several months.”
“Why must it be an operetta? Grand opera I could stomach. Even the ballet with all its absurd leaping and lolloping. But for god’s own sake, not an operetta.” He slumped in his seat, picking idly at a rip in its upholstery.
“I shall be certain to ask Tiberius for tickets to La Sylphide next time,” I assured him.
“But for tonight, I have a new gown and I have requested one of the footmen air and press your evening suit. Of course, if we are going out this evening, we really ought to bathe, but we haven’t much time…
” I let my voice trail off suggestively, and Stoker was quick to catch my meaning.
He sat up and rapped his knuckles on the roof of the carriage. “Double the rate if you can have us to Marylebone in five minutes’ time.”
“Yes, sir!” the driver cried. He cracked his whip near the horse’s ear, and the nag leapt into a trot as nippily as a young pony.
Within an astonishingly short period, we were drawing up outside the garden entrance of Bishop’s Folly.
True to his word, Stoker flung far too much money at the driver and grabbed my hand, hauling me along the path to the Roman bathhouse.
He drew me inside and slammed the door closed with one booted foot.
I had not even removed my hat before he was tugging at my collar, his lips warm against my neck.
“ ‘I will imagine you Venus tonight and pray, pray, pray to your star like a heathen,’ ” he murmured. Keats was always in evidence in our more fevered moments.
“I should report our findings to J. J.,” I said, a trifle breathlessly.
It took me a moment to decipher his reply, muffled as it was against my skin, and when I did, I blushed for the frankness of it.
Needless to say, J. J.’s name was not raised again for the duration of the interlude that followed, and when we had exhausted ourselves in the warm waters of the baths—and followed with a delightfully thorough scrubbing—we went our separate ways to dress for the evening.
J. J. was ensconced in my little chapel with several of the dogs, a picture of domestic repose as she lay, stretched on her belly on the sofa, a fire crackling merrily on the hearth, a dog on either side, slumbering peacefully.
She wore my best dressing gown, now lavishly smudged with ink and marmalade, I noticed waspishly.
She was eating—still or again, I was not certain—helping herself to a tin of miniature lardy cakes I kept on hand for moments of unexpected peckishness.
“We ran Mr. Johnson to ground,” I told her as I gathered my things.
Gown, stockings, slippers, undergarments, petticoats, shift, evening corset.
In the corner stood a panelled screen of Coromandel lacquer—badly damaged or it would have been in the Belvedere itself—and I slipped behind it to dress.
Most ladies would have required the assistance of a maid to complete her toilette, but I deplored the necessity of a servant solely to put on one’s own clothes, and so the corset and gown had both been designed for simplicity.
The corset strings had already been adjusted, and it buttoned neatly up the front, as did the gown.
These buttons were hidden behind a tidy little placket of black velvet, the same trimming that was used elsewhere to set off the heavy rose-red silk.
Loops of black velvet ribbons were caught up on either side of the modest bustle and secured by bouquets of red velvet roses, and the décolletage was edged in black.
The effect was highly theatrical, a perfect choice for our evening, and I rather giddily pinned a surplus velvet rose into my hair.
My funds had not stretched to a new evening cloak, so my old thick black velvet would have to do, as would a pair of cast-off kid gloves kindly given to me by Lord Rosemorran’s sister, my friend Lady Cordelia.
She had also supplied a reticule festooned with glass beads in shades of black, gold, and pink as well as a pair of black silk slippers, only lightly scuffed.
Her lady’s maid, Sidonie, had embroidered the toes with roses to cover the marks.
I never took significant trouble with my clothes, but Sidonie and Lady Cordelia loved to furnish me with expensive castoffs that were very nearly fresh from the dressmaker’s salon.
The final effect was judged “utterly delicious” by J.
J., who finally looked up from her notes long enough to survey my ensemble.
But if she was impressed by my appearance, she was struck speechless at Stoker’s.
He appeared on my doorstep to collect me, bringing with him the rest of the dogs to spend the evening with J.
J. He was dressed in formal black, the severity of the colour and sharpness of the cut suiting him as few other costumes could.
(I make exception for his working clothes if only for the fact that he is often stripped to the waist when he is busy about his labours, and the effect is most arresting.) His hair had been neatly brushed until it fell in a gleaming cascade past his collar, his chin closely barbered for once.
He had donned a silk eye patch, and his black alpaca cape was newly cleaned.
J. J.’s gaze lingered on the tautness of his waist, tightly encased in a starched white waistcoat.
“Good evening, J. J. I’ve brought the dogs along to keep you company,” he called.
I gathered my fan—black ostrich feathers—and my evening cloak. As I turned to leave, J. J. grasped me firmly above the elbow.
“Veronica,” she whispered. “You are my dearest friend, and if you were to die, I should be heartily sorry. I should weep piteous and salty tears of woe. But also, if you perished, I should not wait until you were cold in your grave to leap upon that man.”
“I should be disappointed if you did not,” I assured her. I closed the door behind me, and Stoker dropped my cloak about my shoulders.
“What was that about? Whispering girlish confidences?” he inquired.
“Something like that.” My first loyalty was, of course, to Stoker, but there was something to be said for feminine sisterhood. Besides, if I told Stoker exactly what she had said, his blushes would last until we reached the theatre.
As it was, we were very nearly late, delayed by an overturned cabbage cart, the vegetables bouncing around the road and causing all sorts of mayhem.
We hurried into the Savoy Theatre, its incandescent lamps dazzling in the gloom of the evening.
A mizzling rain had begun, and the drops shone like diamonds in the lights.
Tiberius had not waited for us; he was comfortably ensconced in his box, idly thumbing through the programme.