Chapter 7 #2
“You are late,” he said by way of greeting.
This was directed at Stoker. To me he issued a fragrant kiss upon the cheek and a murmured compliment that was very nearly indelicate.
He guided me to the little gilt chair next to his so that I might have an unobstructed view.
A coupe of champagne was put into my hand and a box of chocolates opened for my delectation.
I took a violet crème and savoured it as I sipped my champagne.
“The curtain is still down,” Stoker pointed out as he took a seat behind us. “How can we possibly be late?” He was given champagne as well, but the chocolates were just out of his reach. I noticed him gazing longingly at them and passed him a handful of rose crèmes.
“You are late because I have missed Veronica and wished to enjoy her company for something more than the approximately thirty seconds we have before the curtain goes up,” Tiberius said.
The words were waspish, but there was no real heat in Tiberius.
If Stoker were a tiger—energetic and powerful, Tiberius was a lion, lazy and luxurious, a sybarite to his very bones.
As the eldest son and heir to the Templeton-Vane title, he had always known his destiny was to let others do for him, and he excelled at delegating everything, including emotions.
I sipped at my champagne and studied the programme.
A freshly printed slip of paper had been inserted into the front cover.
“Oh, look! An understudy is playing the role of Colonel Fairfax. I am sorry to see it. I was rather looking forward to seeing Courtice Pounds in the role. I hear he is most engaging.”
At this remark, Tiberius spilled a little of his champagne, but before I could pursue the question of what had disturbed him, the curtain rang up and the operetta began.
The score was ambitious and surprisingly melodic, a love story with farcical elements, although the silliness of the typical Gilbert and Sullivan fare was muted.
As the performance went on, I noticed Tiberius seemed, for once, rather unsettled.
His customary languor had deserted him, and although he sat with his usual easy grace, there was a tautness about him I had not seen before.
Behind us came a series of gentle snores, and I knew Stoker had fallen asleep and would likely slumber through the entire affair.
It was better than the alternative, I decided, which would have entailed a running commentary of rude remarks and the occasional guffaw of laughter at inappropriate times.
With Stoker enjoying his nap, I settled back to watch.
When the intermission came, Tiberius turned to ask how I liked the show.
“Very much,” I told him truthfully. “I do not despise comic operettas as much as Stoker does,” I said with a meaningful glance to where Stoker’s head was nodding low upon his chest. “And this one is surprisingly touching.”
“Are there any performances in particular that merit praise?” His question was too decidedly casual. I realised at once he had taken a personal interest in a member of the cast, and it only remained to discover which. I scanned the listed performers and smiled.
“The understudy playing the role of Colonel Fairfax in place of Mr. Pounds,” I said promptly. “He is a very handsome young man, don’t you think?”
“Is he?” Tiberius murmured. “I hadn’t noticed.”
“Liar.” But my smile was genuine as I pitched my voice to a confiding tone. “How long have you known him?”
“The acquaintance is of relatively short duration, but I must confess, he is unlike anyone I have ever met,” Tiberius said.
I briefly touched his hand with my own. “I wish you every happiness.”
For a moment he said nothing, a sure sign that he was experiencing some surfeit of strong sentiment that he had no wish to acknowledge.
Then he cleared his throat. “Well, I suppose happiness is what we all want, although how you have managed to find it with that…” He paused to indicate his slumbering brother with a pointedly raised brow.
“Is something I shall always find a puzzlement. A woman of your taste and sophistication lavishing yourself on a man who is barely civilised,” he added in a tone of purest lament. “Help me to understand.”
I smiled. “I could scour the pages of our greatest poets for the rest of my days and never find the proper words. How does one explain the attachment one has to one’s own breath?
One’s own pulse? It is simply there. And if it were not, one would cease to exist. I could no more live without him than I could live without my own heart. ”
“My god,” Tiberius said softly. “He is undeserving of such loyalty.”
“He is also listening,” Stoker said, stirring in his chair. He gave me a smile of such breathtaking devotion that my corset felt suddenly too tight.
Tiberius raised an imperious hand. “I beg you, no romantic histrionics.”
“Then perhaps you would care to distract us with a bit of assistance,” Stoker suggested.
The upraised brow climbed higher still. “I am listening.”
“We paid a visit today to Steel Square,” Stoker began.
“Ah! And how is our Yankee millionaire?” Tiberius inquired.
“Absent,” I put in. “He is apparently taking the waters at a spa near Deauville. Thalasso therapy.”
“That does not surprise me,” Tiberius returned. “He is concerned with his health to the point of obsession. It makes for a mightily uncomfortable evening.”
“The butler indicated you were a caller,” I told him.
He shrugged one elegant shoulder. “Not for some months. I was interested in his thoughts on Russia—he did quite a bit of business there during the reign of Alexander II, and we compared notes on the present tsar. He put me in the way of a few new contacts I had a mind to cultivate for an investment opportunity. But I soon gave it up.”
“Why so?” I asked.
“Veronica, when one has spent the better part of a meal pushing legumes around one’s plate as one’s host discusses the frequency, appearance, and heft of his bowel movements, one is not minded to repeat the process.”
“How very unsettling,” I said, suddenly wishing I had not eaten quite so many chocolates, as they churned uncomfortably with the champagne I had drunk.
“There is another matter,” Stoker said. “We find ourselves in need of a bit of information, and it occurs to me that no one in London has a wider acquaintance than you.”
Tiberius preened. “It is unlike you to resort to flattery, brother, but I am, as you say, widely acquainted.”
“I do not suppose you happen to know any Roma?” Stoker ventured.
Tiberius considered this. “Signal for more champagne and let me think.”
Stoker did as he was bade, lifting a finger to the waiter to indicate we wished to refresh our libations.
A fresh bottle was opened and the wine poured, icy and coruscating, the straw-coloured bubbles dazzling in the theatre lights.
Tiberius took a sip, then snapped his fingers, the sound muffled by his gloves.
“Ah! I have it. You will recall the Marches?”
Stoker paled beneath his sun-bronzed skin. “With appalling clarity.”
Tiberius grinned and turned to me to explain.
“The Earl March has ten children, mad as hatters, the lot of them. They have been famously eccentric since Moses kicked the bulrushes in his cradle. But they compensate for their oddness by being highly entertaining. I was at school with the eldest, Viscount Belmont—a frightful prig, I really cannot stand the fellow. He is the only one of the lot who behaves with anything like decorum, which makes him comparatively dull. But his sister, Portia—Lady Bettiscombe—is utterly enchanting. I might have offered her my hand once except she will insist upon carrying around a flatulent pug of great antiquity.”
“Wait, we have met Lady Bettiscombe!” I turned to Stoker.
“At the tableaux vivants at my club last autumn.” Some months previously, we had been persuaded to take part in a charitable enterprise at the Hippolyta Club, known affectionately to us members as the Curiosity Club.
It was open only to females of original mind, and the tableaux had been staged to raise funds to educate promising young scholars.
Stoker and I had been posed as Samson and Delilah in honour of the painting of the same name by the Basque artist Errazquin.
“We were part of a collection of biblical figures,” I prodded Stoker.
“She was dressed as Eve, and her pug wore a sort of velvet tube to play the serpent in Eden. Do you recall?”
Stoker shuddered. “I do. That animal emitted the vilest odours imaginable. I have never smelt anything like it, and I work with dead things.”
“How did you not recognise her if you know the family?” I asked.
He gave a shrug. “I have not seen any of the Marches for well over a decade and I’d no idea she married a fellow called Bettiscombe.”
“In any event,” Tiberius said, collecting the threads of the conversation, “Portia was nearer my age. Stoker was forced to attend dance lessons with one of the younger daughters, Lady Julia.” He turned to his brother.
“I seem to recall she broke one of your toes during a particularly spirited polka. And luckily for you,” he added, raising his glass to Stoker, “dear Julia was widowed a few years ago. That dreadful Edward Grey dropped stone dead in their ballroom in front of all of their guests. It was the talk of the social season.”
“How does that help us?” I asked.
“Because sweet Julia—she really is an exceedingly pretty woman, all of the Marches are handsome, you know,” he added as an aside, “has recently taken a second husband. The private inquiry agent who investigated Edward Grey’s death.
Apparently he suspected Julia at first, which is a delicious sort of irony given the fact that he ended up marrying her.
And before you ask, this aids you because Julia’s new husband is a half-Romany fellow by the name of Nicholas Brisbane.
He ought to know how to find the information you want. I shall arrange a meeting.”
“That would mean speaking to Julia,” Stoker said faintly. “I do not want to speak to Julia.”
“Why?” I teased. “Have you not recovered sufficiently from the broken toe? What else did she do? Make you hold her hand or talk about hair ribbons?”
“Worse,” he said, his expression woeful. “I cared only about my animals and climbing trees, but Julia, well, she rather liked me.”
“Did she write you violently passionate love notes?”
“Veronica, we were eleven. Besides, that I could have endured. No, she waited after the lesson the week before Christmas and assailed me under the mistletoe. She kissed me.”
I tipped my head to the side. “Do you mean that this Julia Brisbane, née March, was your first kiss?”
“Unless you count my dog Pomona, then yes.”
“Then I cannot wait to make her acquaintance,” I said with a smile.