“What is it, my dear?”
Eglantine tossed her head. “Nothing, only, well, I wished to wear the stomacher on my gown at Prince Rupprecht’s ball. The stomacher . . . when you touch it, you see, and wear it, well, it makes one feel so beautiful and strong—”
Sounded like hocus-pocus to Ophelia.
“—but then Austorga said that she wished to wear it—she must always ruin things, she always has—and she caused us to bicker so fiercely that Papa said neither of us should have it.”
“Your poor thing,” Ophelia said, and tsked her tongue.
*
Gabriel had not thought it decent to explain to Miss Flax the precise nature of the Jockey Club de Paris. The club had been founded, thirty-odd years ago, as a “Society for the Encouragement of the Improvement of Horse Breeding in France.” But like any gentlemen’s club populated by aristocratic and wealthy men with too much time and money on their hands, the Jockey Club was less about racehorses and more about—so to speak—fillies. The club held permanent boxes at the opera house, and Gabriel had heard rumors of club members having special after-hours soirées with the most admired members of the corps de ballet.
The club was housed on the main floor of the magnificent H?tel Scribe on Rue de Rabelais. The smoking room, every inch polished wood, gilt, crimson damask, or voluptuous marble nudes, was silent. Four or five men lounged here and there, cradling drinks, gazing blearily at newspapers, puffing at cigars, and pondering clouds of smoke. Two waiters flitted.
“Ah! Penrose old boy!” Anselm Pickford, Lord Dutherbrook said. “Told the concierge to send you right in! Said you were welcome in the good old club any day.”
“Pickford.” Gabriel dropped into a leather armchair. “How long has it been? Three years?”
Pickford grunted. “Lost count. After the scandal with that saucy little charwoman, I won’t go back to England. An entire nation of Goody Two-shoes.” Pickford was a corpulent fellow with a boyish face, straw-straight hair, and a prominent bald spot. He had evidently insisted that his tailor not take into account his inflating anatomy. Everywhere one looked, one saw straining threads and flesh bulging behind fine woolen cloth. He held a goblet of pink glacée in one hand and a silver spoon in the other.
“Never go back? What a pity,” Gabriel said.
“Well? Still at the musty books and whatnot? No one, you realize, understands why you insist upon spending your days and nights swotting when you might lead a life of utter leisure.”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t be any good at that. I must have work to do. As it happens, Pickford, I was very pleased to learn that you were residing in Paris and that you are a member of this club.”
“Learned from who?”
“From, ah, who was it? That fellow from Eton, the one with the, ah, the nose and the—”
“Right ho. St. John, was it?”
“Quite right. St. John. Jolly chap.”
A waiter appeared.
“Whiskey,” Gabriel said to the waiter. He turned back to Pickford. “As I was saying, I was pleased to learn of your presence here, because I am looking into a small matter regarding a gentleman by the name of Caleb Grant.”
Pickford’s spoon hovered. Pink glacée plopped onto his lap.
“You have made Mr. Grant’s acquaintance, then,” Gabriel said. He fished out his handkerchief—still stained with the pipe grease Miss Flax had smeared on his cheeks—and passed it to Pickford.
“Yes, I know him, but Penrose, old boy, I never thought you were one to chase skirts.” Pickford blotted his trousers. “Grant picks them out just so. Couldn’t be better at it.” He passed the handkerchief back.
“I understand that Grant is the head choreographer and dancing master at the opera ballet. But he—?”