Cinderella Six Feet Under(50)

“Ah, yes, but as your own father, the marquis, told me, in life it is la chance that plays the greatest role. Oh, yes, I’ve just remembered the other difference in the tale.” Ophelia watched Eglantine carefully as she said, “The diamond stomacher belonged, not to one of the stepsisters, but to Cinderella.”

Something like panic shone in Eglantine’s eyes.

“Is there a stomacher, Miss Eglantine? A real one?”

“It is forward of you, Madame Brand, very forward to quiz me in this manner!”

“Nosy Posy—that is what my sisters used to call me.”

Eglantine looked like she wished to call her something a sight more potent. “Very well. I shall satisfy your curiosity, Rosy Fosy—”

“Nosy Posy.”

Eglantine sniffed. “There is a stomacher, a family heirloom, that has been passed down for almost two hundred years.”

“Made for Cinderella.”

“Perhaps. Or for one of her stepsisters—I myself suspect that if Cinderella did indeed wear it to the ball, she had stolen it from her stepsister.”

“Goodness!”

“Yes. Cinderella was a conniving creature, or so my grandmother told me—and she heard it firsthand from her father, who heard it from his grandmother. Cinderella was her great aunt, you see.”

“And . . . where is this stomacher now?”

Eglantine lifted her brows.

“Because, you see, I simply adore antiquities with these wonderful tales attached to them.”

“It was always kept in the house until several years ago, when Papa decided it was best to keep the family jewels in a locked box at the bank.”

“It is there?”

“Yes.”

“Who might unlock this bank box?”

“Only Papa.” Eglantine looked as though something was eating her.

“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.”