“He’s the dancing master, indeedy-o. Runs those little teases through their courses, makes them keep their figures. Never allows a plain one through his doors. You wish to enlist his services? Sample a little French fare?”
The waiter arrived with Gabriel’s whiskey. Gabriel took a grateful swallow. He wasn’t a prude, nor was this by any means the first time he had shared company with a gentleman of such habits. Yet since Gabriel had met with Miss Flax, the notion of theater girls making extra monies on the side made him feel at once guilty and, oddly, angry. Although precisely with whom he was angry—Miss Flax? Himself? Men who regarded such women as mere trinkets?—he did not know.
“Yes, I would very much like to enlist the services of this Grant fellow,” Gabriel said. “Tell me, how does it work?”
“Simple, really. One of us—one of his clients—will make an introduction, usually at the ballet.”
“In a box.”
“Yes, of course. Heavens, I don’t believe I have ever sat in one of those—those seats of the hoi polloi. Oh, good heavens, no. Although one might meet a more willing class of girl than one does when sitting with all those stuffy little society debs with nothing but matrimony on the brain. Yes, Penrose old chap, that is a fine notion that you’ve had.”
“It was not—”
“I’ll sit in the orchestra seats next time.”
“Returning to Grant’s services,” Gabriel said.
“Ah, yes. Well. I’ll just introduce you, and you’ll explain to him the sort of girl you wish to meet.”
“Sort?”
“This isn’t the London marriage mart, old boy. Grant’s got a big stable, with fresh ones coming and going all the time. You choose. Brunette or blond. Gazelle or ripe peach. Saucy or stupid. Put in your order—even have a look-see through your opera glasses—and he’ll arrange the rest.”
“For a small fee.”
“His fee is not precisely small—but I happen to know that you, Penrose, need not worry yourself with such vulgar things as money. How I do detest vulgarity in any form.” Pickford shoveled in more glacée.
“What if the girl of my choice is not willing?”
“They’re all willing, old boy. Every woman in Paris has got her price.”
“Should we meet tonight at the ballet, then?” Gabriel stood. “I shall be in Prince Rupprecht’s box.”
“Good, good. Prince Rupprecht I’ve not yet met, but I’ve heard he’s a fine fellow. New to Paris, only six months or so here. Tired of the old homeland, they say, and he’s come to savor a bit of culture, what? Yes. Perhaps you and I and our little treats might dine afterwards—if Grant is able to immediately procure what you are searching for.”
“Capital.” Gabriel made his escape.
Before he left, Gabriel stopped to speak with the club’s doorman. He slid a banknote into the doorman’s hand. “Would you tell me if the Marquis de la Roque-Fabliau is a member of this club?”
The doorman made one grave nod.
*
Ophelia, the stepsisters, and Seraphina continued to view the steam-powered marvels, along with droves of other folks. None of the three young ladies seemed terribly interested in the exhibit and Ophelia was just wondering why they had been so eager to come, when she saw her answer.
Prince Rupprecht. She should’ve known. He stood on the other side of a dais that displayed a steam-powered submersible ship. He wore a black greatcoat and a silk top hat, and so did the Count de Griffe next to him.
Before Ophelia could duck out of sight, Griffe saw her. His face lit up. But . . . surely he did not recognize her. They had met last night when she’d been in Henrietta’s stuffed gown, and now she was frumped up as Mrs. Brand.
Griffe and Prince Rupprecht wove their way over through the mob.
“How did you know Prince Rupprecht would be here?” Ophelia asked Eglantine.
Eglantine’s fingertips fluttered on her red upper lip. “I had not the slightest notion.”
And Ophelia’s name was Saint Nick.