Moments later, Ophelia and Penrose were led into a stifling, dim sitting room. Hume positioned himself against a wall.
An old lady sat on a sofa before the fire. “Lord Harrington,” she creaked. “What a pleasure. And who is this with you?”
“Mrs. Brand, my American aunt.”
“Goodness! America? How sad. A nation singularly lacking in magic.”
“Where is Lord Cruthlach?” Penrose asked.
“He is not well, I am afraid. And a pity, too, for he would so enjoy speaking with you. Please, sit.”
Ophelia and Penrose sat side by side on a sofa.
“You and I, Lady Cruthlach, have known each other for many years,” Penrose said. “Indeed, from time to time we have taken care with each other’s secrets. I feel, then, that I may be perfectly blunt. Have you enlisted a solicitor by the name of Monsieur Cherrien to force me into locating the Cendrillon stomacher?”
“A solicitor? Good heavens, no, Lord Harrington. Why, if I wished to force you to do anything, as you say, I would simply do it myself.” She twittered. “A stomacher, you say? Belonging to Cendrillon?”
“Pray, do not attempt to persuade me that you are ignorant of this matter.” Penrose’s voice grew hot. “I had deduced that this was the relic from H?tel Malbert that had piqued your interest so much the last time we spoke.”
“Then you deduced incorrectly.”
Hume drew close, carrying a tray of glasses filled with something chokecherry red. Ophelia, Penrose, and Lady Cruthlach each took a glass. Hume placed the tray on a side table and positioned himself in front of the table. He was so near to Ophelia, she heard him breathing.
“Do drink, Mrs. Brand,” Lady Cruthlach said.
Ophelia pretended to sip. Her eyes floated sideways to Hume. Some kind of object sat on the table behind him, next to the tray. A cream-painted box with glimmers of gold— Hume made a side step, concealing the object.
He was hiding that thing.
“Of course, Lord Harrington,” Lady Cruthlach said, “if you were to tell me more about this stomacher, what it looks like, for instance . . .” She began prying and wheedling. Penrose fended her off.
Ophelia took a gulp of the red cordial and, as she’d hoped, it made her cough. And cough.
“Good heavens, Mrs. Brand, are you well?” Penrose asked, half rising.
“Fine.” Ophelia wheezed, with a pinch of dramatic flair. “It’s just a bit like”—she staggered to her feet—“like turpentine.”
“Turpentine!” Lady Cruthlach sounded affronted. “I have this shipped to me from Italy, from the only region the bull berry grows.”
“Too . . . strong.” Ophelia coughed some more and pounded a palm on her chest. She toppled sideways against Hume. “Oof,” she said as her padded hip struck Hume’s thigh.
Hume was built like a brick chicken coop, but he staggered to the side. Ophelia reached out for the table. She knocked it over. The thing Hume had been hiding went flying and crashed on the floor. It tinkled a half measure of music, and fell silent.
Lady Cruthlach said nothing. Hume panted. Penrose, who had leapt to Ophelia’s aid and had his hands on her shoulders, froze. All four of them stared.
The thing on the floor was—or had been—a music box. The cream-and-gold wooden base was splintered along one edge and the lid had opened to expose a mirrored inner lid and a little porcelain girl. Her yellow-haired head had snapped off and lay a few feet away. Real human hair on the head, by the looks of it, and a tiny, rosy, flawless little doll face.
“Looks just like Prue,” Ophelia whispered.
Hume grunted.
“Sue?” Lady Cruthlach said. “Who is Sue?”
And the body. Well, the body of the doll, still affixed to the inside of the music box, was dressed in a miniature ivory gown, embroidered—of course!—in silver and gold, the bodice decorated with a tiny, silvery stomacher.
“Pick it up, Hume,” Lady Cruthlach snapped. “Why are you standing there like an ox?”
Hume obeyed.
“That, dear Lady Cruthlach,” Penrose said, “is what the stomacher looks like. Where did this music box come from?”