Chapel Noir (12 page)

13.
Rogue Royale

The very air of Paris seemed to encourage license. Foreign
celebrities passing through the capital hastened to pay their
respects to the most notorious filles en renom
.
—
JOANNA RICHARDSON,
THE COURTESANS

The birds were trilling in the hedges as we were driven back to Neuilly.

Irene had taken the combs out of her piled hair one by one as the dawn brightened the glittering leaves of the tall poplar trees. The locks rippling to her shoulders, she looked no older than dear Allegra Turnpenny when I had tucked her into bed on Berkeley Square more than a decade ago.

I wished that I could tuck myself into bed this morning, into such fresh, innocent sheets as young Allegra had slept in, but my mind churned with the sights, sounds, and smells of our dreadful evening in Paris.

Irene bent forward, leaning her elbows on her trousered knees and her face in her hands. Her fingers massaged her temples and forehead.

“I shouldn’t doubt you had the headache,” I observed, “after all we have seen tonight.”

“It’s what we didn’t see that haunts me, Nell.”

“Jack the Ripper?”

“No one has seen him, at least knowingly, except his victims.”

I agreed. “We are like those poor people of Whitechapel, or the constables, who stumbled upon the bloody deeds just after they had been committed. Would you really care to catch the killer in the act?”

“If that were the only way to catch him, and in such cases as these, I fear that is so.” She sat up, energetic again. “Nell, you have read about the exploits of this monster. How does this Paris case differ from the London murders?”

“Several instances,” I said promptly. I am much better dealing with the dimensions of a thing than its deeper meaning. “The violence was committed indoors, unlike every London murder but the last, the slaughter of Mary Jane Kelly. And that poor creature was set upon in her tiny room; this outrage took place in a large room within a vast, occupied building, with people all around.”

“Who heard or saw nothing but the result.”

“So it was in the case of Mary Jane Kelly. A neighbor thought she heard her call ‘Murder!’ once, but did nothing about it.”

“At least those neighbors were willing to testify. It is in the interest of every resident of the
maison
to conceal the details of these killings. Certainly no one would breathe a syllable of the Prince’s presence.”

“That is one thing I don’t understand, Irene.”

“Only one?”

I refused to be drawn into a defense of my assertion. “It is the Prince. He was to . . . call upon two of the women at once.”

“Yes, Nell.”

“Two? At once?”

“Yes, Nell.”

“I had heard a rumor that he was most gallant with the ladies—”

“He is a rake, Nell. You know what a rake is?”

“Yes. Of course.” I could feel my cheeks warming. “Hellfire Club. The kind of person that Queen Victoria has dedicated her life to eradicating from the realm.”

“To no great effect. Her uncles, son, and grandson are notorious examples of the species.”

“A rake . . . goes with a lot of women.”

Irene flared a wrist toward the open window of the carriage and the chitter of bird life. “As many as birds in the bushes.”

“Is that not rather . . . greedy?”

“The Prince of Wales is a greedy boy.”

“And I didn’t understand your conversation with him. It seemed to have an unwholesome undertone. I cannot comprehend you, Irene! You were absolutely fanatic about preserving your reputation in connection with the King of Bohemia, but you seem to be on far too intimate terms with the Prince of Wales. What, pray, is the difference?”

Irene smiled, her face looking drawn for a moment. “The difference is that the King of Bohemia is in Prague and Bertie is in London, and often in Paris.”

“I don’t understand—”

“The King of Bohemia, like all princelings, felt himself entitled to a mistress. He erred in assuming that I would settle for such a compromised position.
A
mistress, Nell. He was not a rake, merely a privileged man exercising his royal prerogative.

“Bertie, for all his boyishness, his vanity, and his actually admirable tolerance of classes of people his royal forebears would have nothing to do with, including Jews and opera singers, is a rake. He never rests in his quest for female conquests. They are not even conquests. Every female whom his eye falls upon is his for a night, be she street doxy, dairyman’s or duke’s wife. It is simply so.”

“Not you! But he spoke in that odious way, as if—”

“He believes that he, we, have . . .
hmmmm.”

“No! Not . . .
hmmmm?”

“He believes it so because I want him to believe it so.”

“Why?! That is madness, Irene. You would not compromise yourself for a very real alliance with the King of Bohemia, however unsanctioned. Yet for this Prince of Wales—”

“For this Prince of Wales I needed to devise a stratagem that feeds his vanity and his appetite without costing my virtue. You remember how years ago the Prince overheard a murder on Sir William Gilbert’s newly installed telephone device that connected sound from the very stage wings to his home?”

“Yes. You had been invited to sup there with some of the other operetta singers. I was not able to accompany you, and now much regret that. You realized that the Prince had heard a conversation important to the murder of a chorus singer by her titled lover and used Mesmerism, which you had learned in the States, where they apparently teach anything to anyone, to pry the pertinent information from the future King. I can’t say I approve of Mesmerizing an heir apparent, but—”

“I instructed Bertie to forget what I had learned through him, and added one notion that would be with him forever after the spell was over.”

“One notion? Global accord?”

“No. I led him to believe that he had consummated his wishes in connection with me, but that we had agreed to nevermore meet in that fashion.”

“Irene! You let him believe that he had
had
his way with you? Why?”

“Because he cannot resist using his princely power to seduce any woman who catches his eye. I let him think I was already conquered territory; hence he can leave me alone for so long as we both shall live. That is the way of princes.”

“But your reputation. The Baron must certainly think—”

“If the Baron thinks that, he thinks no more of it than that the Prince has consorted with Sarah Bernhardt, or regularly visits the Princess de Sagan.”

“Or pairs of nameless women in a
maison de rendezvous,”
I added with a shudder, and not at the recent deaths, but at the more recent revelations of debauchery.

“In many
maisons de rendezvous
, Nell. Albert Edward is not choosy. Chambermaid or countess. Or opera singer. It is all the same to him.”

“How can you abide being misjudged?”

“This method saves me the future effort of repulsing a man who will be King. It is nudge, nudge, wink, wink, and over with. I do not doubt that many a woman favored with a nocturnal call from the Prince would wish she had my method.”

“And what do their husbands say, if they have them?”

“Many do. But the husband’s hands are tied. It is a privilege to have one’s wife coveted by a future king.”

“Nonsense! And what of Godfrey? If he should hear of this?”

“He will not, and if he did, he will understand my strategy.”

“He would not stand still for it.”

“No, but the damage is done, the seed is planted, the Prince is deceived. I was younger then, and it seemed a practical solution, particularly if I was ever to encounter the Prince again. And you see, Nell? It was only the Baron and yourself who heard the Prince’s implications. Neither of you will think the less of me for it, for both of you will recognize my deception for what it is.”

“Even the Baron?”

“Do you not think that he has politely and quietly conceded much for the friendship of the Prince? Perhaps even his beautiful and spirited English wife, Leonora?”

“His wife the Baroness?
He
is one of complaisant husbands that strew Bertie’s trail?”

“Rumor is not always credible, so I seldom bother believing it. You must understand, Nell, that wealthy men mark their achievement in life by what things belonging to other men they have taken: businesses, wagers, horses, women. And these aristocratic wives have been traded on the marriage market like thoroughbred horses on the race circuit. They have little to do but bear heirs and dress well. I think they relish these Society skirmishes in infidelity, gossip, and subterfuge. It relieves the boredom. Remember Alice Heine, the American banking heiress who has a French duke and a Monacan prince to her credit so far, as well as less well known gentlemen not suitable for matrimony. So no, I don’t doubt that the Baron has conceded much for the freedom the Prince’s friendship gives to him and those he cares about, which includes the far-flung members of both his large and international immediate family, and the many million members of his race. So have I, too, conceded a little to the Great Game of Western Europe. The future King of England is a mighty man indeed.”

“ ‘The future King of England is a mighty man indeed.’ That sounds like a patter line from a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta.”

“It does,” Irene said, laughing with delight, repeating the phrase in a perfect English accent. “Amazing how my time in the chorus has made its mark upon my diction.”

“It is pleasant to hear you speak with proper diction, even if I do not like the tune you sing: that the Prince’s power is absolute, and that we must, like all good subjects of Empire, bow to even a debaucher.”

She said nothing in reply. I was silent, too, listening to the Baron de Rothschild’s silken springs barely rustle as we hurtled over deeply rutted roads.

If they could keep so many serious secrets, so could I.

Our maid Sophie was much discommoded that we arrived home just as she was arising to tend to us. She is a tall, rawboned woman whose approval of us has somehow become more paramount than our approval of her work. Given Sophie’s irritation, and the fact that it is very hard to keep satisfactory servants in the country, especially in a small establishment such as ours, Irene and I allowed her to serve us breakfast and pretended to go about our day as usual.

I then tended to the menagerie of beasts I had accidentally acquired through the years, mainly from the fact that no one else would have them.

There was the parrot, Casanova, who had been trained to talk by a foul-mouthed master, and had survived yet another master—this one murdered—to require a new owner. I was elected. There was the huge black Persian cat, Lucifer, also never named by me. Irene had presented him to me on my arriving in Paris to join her and Godfrey safely across the Channel from
the
man, whom only I had reason to know she had more dire reason than anyone suspected to stay well away from. There was Messalina, named after the barbaric empress, a lithe mongoose we had inherited during our pursuit of the cobra-bearing would-be assassins of Dr. Watson, and dear to me for having a connection to Quentin Stanhope, of whom I shall not speak of more, here. And there were the snakes acquired as well in an outré manner.