“Rather,” Penrose said.
Ophelia frowned. Prince Rupprecht had been so attentive to the stepsisters at the exhibition, but now he seemed contemptuous of them. As she thought this over, her gaze floated around the chamber. Another chamber opened out behind the prince, beyond a pair of satin curtains held open with golden cords. She saw a statue of a fryer-hipped Venus, an enormous Turkish divan bursting with pillows, and an oil painting of frolicking nymphs—in their birthday suits—over the fireplace.
Prince Rupprecht caught her staring. He stood and, rambling to the professor about ballet costumes and scenery designs, went to the curtains and shut them.
“Well, we won’t keep you any longer, Prince Rupprecht.” Penrose stood, and Ophelia did, too. But she kept trying to see through the crack the prince had left in those curtains. “I do hope your ball is a success.”
“You must come, Lord Harrington. There will be far too many ladies, and I cannot dance with them all.”
“Perhaps I shall. I have heard rumors of an important announcement. You won’t tell me who the fortunate lady is, will you?”
Prince Rupprecht smiled, and tapped the side of his red nose. “It is to be a grand surprise.”
*
“He was hiding something in that alcove,” Ophelia whispered as she and Penrose swung through the prince’s front gate. “I’m sure of it.”
“He merely wished to hide all of those”—Penrose cleared his throat—“all of his artworks, Miss Flax. He wished to protect your ladylike sensibilities.”
“No. I can’t believe it.” Prince Rupprecht, of all the gentlemen Ophelia had ever met, was one of the least likely to give a fig about a lady’s feelings.
“What is next?” Penrose asked. They paused beside their carriage, waiting at the curb.
Ophelia pressed her lips together. Amid all that hullabaloo with Malbert and the meat cleaver, she hadn’t exactly planned things out.
“You cannot return to H?tel Malbert,” Penrose said.
“Not if I want to keep my feet on.”
“Stay at my hotel.”
All the air gusted out of Ophelia’s lungs. “Oh. I—”
“In your own suite, of course.” Penrose glanced past her, looking flustered. “I am thoroughly aware that you have your pride, Miss Flax, and are perhaps about to condemn my offer of assistance as a handout, but at this juncture you really haven’t anywhere else to go.”
“I’ve got money.” Ophelia jutted out her chin. The plain truth was . . . if she spent even five more francs, she could bid her steamship passage to America good-bye. Then what would she do? Become a cancan dancer?
“You worked a great deal for that money, as a maid, for pity’s sake,” Penrose said. “I shan’t allow you to spend it all. You need it.”
This was too, too humiliating. When Ophelia was traipsing around with the professor, spying and quizzing people, well, she felt they were just about equal. But once money got into the mix, it poisoned things. He was an earl. She was an unemployed actress who was probably wanted by the Paris police by now.
“Miss Flax. Please. We’ll go to my hotel and have luncheon—surely you are famished by—”
“Mercy,” Ophelia hissed. “Professor! Look!” She pointed over Penrose’s shoulder. He swung around.
The masked velocipede rider pedaled behind a delivery wagon. The rider turned his—or her—head. The eyeholes in the highwayman’s mask were shadowed by the brim of the bowler hat. The rider reached inside the flapping jacket, pulled out a revolver, aimed at Ophelia—
Penrose pushed Ophelia behind their carriage just as a shot cracked out.
“Are you all right?” he whispered, pressed against her.
“Think so.”
Penrose pulled something from inside his jacket. A revolver.