“I mean to eat every one of those petit fours as well,” he advised me. “And do not even look at the scones. Those are mine.”
I stirred my tea and sipped contentedly. “Well, you have not asked, but I will tell you that I have had a most productive day. I finished labelling my case of Dryocampa, dusted the caryatids—they were looking frightfully forlorn—wrote an entire article to submit for the latest issue ofModern Lepidoptery, and I have confirmed that Undine Trevelyan will indeed be in attendance tonight along with her guest, Miss Elyot.”
He gave me a look of grudging approval. “I suppose that is a small mercy.” He slathered a scone in cream and jam and then added a second layer of cream. Never having reconciled the rivalry between the Cornish and Devon methods of preparing scones, Stoker had devised his own method which allowed him to enjoy the best of both. He took a large bite, encompassing half the scone, heedless of the jam dripping onto his waistcoat. “Why do they all have such unfortunate names? First Parthenope Fleet. Now Undine Trevelyan. Why do we never meet a Mary Smith? I should like, just once, to meet a Mary Smith.”
“What sort of interesting things would ever befall a Mary Smith?” I demanded. “Who would stab or poison or garrote a Mary Smith? It is unthinkable.”
“Not everyone of our acquaintance need be murdered, Veronica. In fact, some people find it preferable to make friends with normal folk.”
“How very depressing,” I said, sipping again. “I pity them their small lives.”
“At least people with small lives do not have to display themselvesin public in loincloths,” he said darkly. He crammed the rest of the scone into his mouth and chewed with a morose air.
“I realise this is presuming upon your good nature to an unconscionable degree,” I said with an attempt at contrition. “But I am prepared to make it up to you.”
“How?” he asked, his gaze sharpening at once with an interest I recognised very well indeed.
I primmed my mouth. “How would you propose?” I asked innocently.
He told me. Reader, I did it.
CHAPTER
17
Thoroughly reconciled to his fate if not precisely enthusiastic about it, Stoker accompanied me to the Curiosity Club in good time for the tableaux vivants. The club had been established in a townhouse on a leafy square that received little foot traffic apart from diligent nannies with their shiny perambulators and the odd ambassador from modest governments. As ever, my spirits rose at the sight of the quiet, elegant edifice. The club maintained a discreet entrance with only a small, highly polished brass plaque next to the bell proclaiming its more formal name and motto:the hippolyta club. alis volat propriis.
Upon entry, we were greeted by Hetty, a diminutive figure in scarlet silk and matching turban, who acted as portress but who was, in fact, the proprietress. Whether she performed the duties of portress to keep a gimlet eye upon everything that happened in the club or whether it was from an innate modesty was not entirely clear. What was apparent was her unruffled sangfroid as everyone else flapped and fluttered about her, plying her with questions about punch glasses and extra chairs and whether or not men should be permitted entrance to the smoking room as a special treat.
“Men are not allowed upstairs,” Hetty reminded the querent. “I know it is a special occasion, but any gentleman who wishes to partake of tobacco is welcome to take himself outside and enjoy a little fresh air whilst he does so.”
She turned to me with her customary half smile. “Veronica. Punctual to a pin, and I see you have brought Mr. Templeton-Vane. I understand you are to play Samson for us.”
Stoker flushed a delectable shade of rose, and Hetty took pity upon him. “There is a robing room for the gentlemen,” she advised him. The lobby where we stood had a chequered black-and-white marble floor. A carved wooden reception desk was backed by a wall of pigeonholes, each fitted with a tiny brass plaque bearing a member’s name. A few chairs, tall and extremely uncomfortable, upholstered in black horsehair, were ranged along one wall. The walls themselves were hung with crimson silk, almost exactly the same shade as Hetty’s gown, and more of the stuff hung draped in portieres to set off the arches leading to the rest of the club. A wide, sweeping staircase was marked off with a velvet rope bearing yet another brass plaque.members only. Hetty waved us in the direction of one of the other wings. “Veronica, after you have signed in your guest, please escort him to the robing room where he will find his loincloth and club.”
Stoker very nearly bolted at that, but I simply stood, waiting out hiscrise de confianceuntil he recovered his nerve. I towed him down the corridor and to the designated room.
“There. Lady C. said your costume will be marked with your name. You need only get yourself into it, and I will be waiting for you right here. She wants us in position well before the first guests arrive, so mind you do not take long,” I directed.
He pulled a face so ferocious, I half expected a growl to accompany it. But I merely pressed a quick kiss to his cheek and made my way to the ladies’ robing room to exchange my own tasteful evening gown forsomething rather less English and a great deal more nude. I appeared some few minutes later in a length of pale blue silk that had been wrapped and pinned to approximate a garment of antiquity. A long scarf of darker blue was fringed in heavy gold bullion to complement the headdress and a collection of bracelets that matched the wide gold collar at my throat. My shoulders and ankles were bare, as was a good portion of my décolletage.
I emerged, neatening the drape of the scarf, as Lady C. bustled up, taffeta skirts snapping. “Quite effective, Veronica. What do you think?”
“Well, it is certainly Biblical, although rather more Salome and less Delilah than I expected,” I told her.
“You are lucky I chose a modern painting for reference. If I’d selected Rubens, you’d have been bare-breasted as the Amazons,” she told me, nodding towards the tribe of women clustered in a group and wearing short tunics, torsos stripped to the waist, swords and spears in hand. Curiously, they were all painted a sort of terra-cotta colour, their wigs and costumes and weapons rendered in exactly the same hue as their ruddy flesh.
Lady C. regarded them with obvious satisfaction. “A triumph! They are going to be displayed in scenes of Amazonomachy, figures silhouetted against black backgrounds such as they were depicted in ancient Greek art,” she explained.
“And the rest of us?” I inquired.
“Paintings. We thought it might be an interesting juxtaposition to use modern works depicting themes from antiquity. Yours is the newest, a version by a Basque artist painted only two years ago.”
“Will anyone know it if it is so new?”
“Oh, most likely not. That is why each of the tableaux will feature a small version of the art they are meant to represent on an easel just next to it. Guests will be able to compare the two—quite fun, don’t you think?” She clucked her tongue. “I must dash. There is Portia, and I mean tohave words with her. I have only just persuaded her to pose as Eve instead of Courbet’sL’Origine du monde, and I want to make certain she is wearing her fig leaves.”
She hurried away just as Stoker appeared. For a long moment I said nothing, for there were no words to do him justice. As expected, he was largely naked, although the drapery at his hips covered rather more than I had anticipated. This was white and embellished with a lavish cloth belt striped in coral and black and heavy with embroidery. In spite of my promise, there were no sandals in evidence, only a thick gold cuff encircling one calf. That was the extent of his costume. Everything else was left to Mother Nature, and she had acquitted herself admirably. Long, tumbling black locks, exquisitely formed limbs, a torso heavy with muscle. Not a detail was out of place.