Ophelia lit a taper and stealthily searched the pantry until she found a tin of bicarbonate of soda. She mixed a spoonful into a glass of water, drank it down, washed the glass in the sink, and crept upstairs the back way.
But the soda and water did nothing. It seemed the pain wasn’t in her stomach, after all. It clung higher up, around her heart.
She looked into Prue’s chamber and saw her asleep with the ginger cat.
In her own chamber, Ophelia shucked off Henrietta’s clothing and wrested her crushed toes from the slippers. She washed at the basin and then pulled her theatrical case from its place in the bottom of the wardrobe. Her skin was still chapped from the Mrs. Brand cosmetics. She needed her calendula flower salve.
She opened the case. Something was different. The light wasn’t good—she had only the one taper—but . . . the crumbly sticks of greasepaint, in their paper wrappers, were not in their customary order. Yes, one stick, a carnation pink for lips and cheeks, was missing.
Someone in the house knew she was an actress.
*
Gabriel did not usually take port before bed. More often than not, he fell asleep over his reading or writing. Yet tonight he ordered a bottle of aged Colheita to be brought to his suite.
The combination of a guilty conscience and acute excitement would require at least two full glasses of port to still them.
The guilt was a simple matter. He had lied to Miss Flax. It was for her own good, though, and he’d not seen any pain in her eyes at the news of his understanding—well, his understanding of sorts—with Miss Ivy Banks. He had been foolish to suppose Miss Flax had any interest in his attachments.
The excitement was an altogether separate affair.
Cinderella’s stomacher. Gabriel had never seen it illustrated. Who would bother to illustrate what was believed to be a detail from a wicked stepsister’s gown? Still, he could quite easily envision it. Although delicate, it would possess an unnatural weight, and the glints from those diamonds would pierce the eye. It would be intricate, too, with a pattern that seduced one into deeper and deeper labyrinths of luster.
Gabriel took a deep swallow of port. The stomacher must be the relic Lady Cruthlach had spoken of. It had even been made, perhaps, by the mysterious woman called Fairy Godmother. But the stomacher was not hidden somewhere in the Malbert mansion, as Lady Cruthlach believed. No, it had vanished off Sybille Pinet’s corpse in the foul hands of a murderer. And he, Gabriel, would find it.
12
“Good morning, Professor Penrose,” Miss Flax said, settling into the carriage seat.
“Good morning, Miss Flax. The rain has stopped, for now at least.”
The carriage moved forward. The solicitor’s office would be the first stop.
“Oh, indeed. Nice to have a break in the rain.”
There. Gabriel adjusted his spectacles. This was better. Polite. Formal. None of that bickering and bantering. He’d been right to mention Miss Ivy Banks last night because now, for perhaps the first time since Gabriel had met Miss Flax, he was able to enjoy a placid conscience. No more fretting about their discordant stations in life. He could even observe her, this morning attired in her own plain cloak and bonnet, her cheeks smooth and rosy, without even the faintest stirring of desire. Yes. Miss Ivy Banks was the solution to the problem.
The Avenue des Champs-élysées was broad, with rows of bare chestnut trees and buildings of pale stone and fanciful wrought iron. In the third-story reception room of Monsieur T. S. Cherrien (Avocat), a toad of a secretary manned a mahogany desk. “Might I be of assistance?” he asked in French.
Gabriel introduced himself as Lord Harrington and said that he wished to speak with Monsieur Cherrien.
The secretary looked at Miss Flax in her simple attire. He twitched a faint, knowing smile. “A settlement, perhaps?” he said in English.
Miss Flax sucked in an affronted gasp.
“No,” Gabriel said coldly. “I—we—wish to speak with Monsieur Cherrien regarding the disappearance of the Marquise de la Roque-Fabliau.”