“A thoroughly disreputable travelling show,” he confided. “I should never, in the course of regular events, have been seen near such a place, but I had been advised that a particularly fine example of a Susini waxwork was to be found there. Clemente Susini was one of the masters of this particular genre, you understand. Having one of his sculptures to add to my collection was a spectacular coup. I could hardly credit finding her in such a place, but she is thoroughly genuine. I offered a generous price to the owner, and he was content to part with her that very night. She has been with me ever since.”
“But your other Venuses, you had to find caskets for them?” I pressed.
“Yes, it is rather more difficult than finding the waxworks themselves, but I am nothing if not resourceful,” he said.
“You must be so very clever, Lord Ambrose. I cannot imagine where one would begin to look for such a thing,” I said with my best attempt at a simper.
“How kind of you to say. I search out specialist dealers,” he said. “There is an agent on the Continent who is always scouring the various markets and private collections for additions to my assembly.”
“As it happens, we have come into possession of such a casket—at least our patron, Lord Rosemorran, has. Perhaps you could offer a little insight as to where it might have come from?” I suggested.
“Indeed?” His ears, like those of a hound on a scent, seemed to prick and his nose lifted. “Has it any special markings?”
“None, unfortunately.”
“That is a pity. And without a specimen inside, it is difficult to attribute the coffin to any particular workshop.” He paused, as if searching carefully for his next words, and when he spoke, his voice was almost too casual. “Do you know what his lordship means to do with it?”
I shrugged and answered in an offhand manner. “Use it to display bibelot, I suspect. He is forever in need of cabinets for his collections.”
“And he has no interest in a Venus?” Lord Ambrose’s gaze was narrow and intently focused. I suppressed the inclination to roll my eyes heavenwards. Collectors are a competitive lot, and there is nothing like the hint of rivalry to stoke the fires.
“None,” I assured him. “But if we should encounter one, you would be the first to know.”
Lord Ambrose murmured something courteous and moved to escort us out. I was a trifle piqued he did not repeat his offer of refreshment, as I had a line of questioning I intended to put to him over the genial intimacy of steaming cups and slices of cake. But the invitation was not forthcoming, and it was with some impatience that I realised we were being politely shown the door.
We said all the correct things—he thanked us for coming; we thanked him for receiving us—and hands were shaken. The footman in amber livery opened the door, and I fancied Lord Ambrose’s parting smile was tinged with relief.
Stoker followed me over the threshold, but paused and turned back just before the door closed.
“I nearly forgot, Lord Ambrose,” he began.
“Yes?”
“Your waxwork Beauties are extraordinarily lifelike. Is it possible, I wonder, to preserve an actual human body to such exactitude?”
Lord Ambrose paled and seemed to waver slightly. For one terriblemoment I thought he might faint, but instead, he recovered himself enough to utter one word in a hoarse voice.
“No.”
With that he stepped sharply back and made a violent gesture towards the footman who shut the door firmly in our faces. Our visit was at an end.
CHAPTER
10
The rest of the day proved thoroughly unprofitable. First, we engaged in a robust debate on the wisdom of tipping our hand to Lord Ambrose. The existence of a perfectly preserved corpse in our workroom was not a fact I cared to have bandied about.
“We are notorious enough as it is,” I reminded Stoker as we arrived back at the Belvedere. “Do you really want polite society to tattle about this particular tittle? Look around you, beloved,” I urged, throwing my hands wide to encompass the whole of the space. “We live and work surrounded by a pack of unlikely dogs, a motley collection of such oddities and curiosities. We must appear the least desirable acquaintance in all of London.”
“I have never known you to care for the opinions of the madding crowd,” he said, tearing off his neckcloth in a gesture of frustration. He tossed it aside and it landed atop the death mask of a pope, giving the cleric a rakish air.
Stoker turned back to me, enfolding me in his arms. I permitted it, laying my cheek to the place where I could best feel the slow, deep pulse, as steadying as any prayer.
“Is this because your invitation to speak to the Aurelian Society was rescinded?”
“Perhaps,” I said, my voice muffled by his shirt.
“I am sorry,” he murmured into my hair.