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Coldmoon glanced at D’Agosta, then back at Archer. “Now.”
Archer looked flummoxed. “Sorry, I can’t do that. Because the vault is within the Secure Area, any visits require the permission of the Anthro department head.”
“And who would that be?”
“Dr. Britley.”
Coldmoon looked at D’Agosta. “Has he been interviewed yet?”
“He’s on the list, but he’s been evasive.”
“Let’s go kill two birds with one stone.”
40
December 12, 1880
Wednesday
SO—CAN WE COUNTon the pleasure of your company, then, Your Grace?”
Mrs. Cabot-Flint sat on the edge of her chair—or as much as her girth permitted while retaining the necessary dignity—both chins quivering ever so slightly in anticipation of the reply.
Constance inclined her head. “You are most kind. I have no fixed engagements on that evening. I should be delighted.”
The lady of the mansion clasped her hands together, bejeweled fingers creating a coruscation of parti-colored light. “Excellent! Excellent!” She relaxed in her chair. “Now, may I ask Henrietta to pour you another cup of tea?”
“Please.” The Duchess of Ironclaw took a final, fastidious sip from her cup, then replaced it in its china saucer.
As she watched the maid rush over to refill the cup, Constance thought with private amusement what a change the last few days had wrought. She had stuffed poor Murphy into a splendid coachman’s livery and directed him to nearly crash into the older woman’s carriage with her own on Fifth Avenue. It was perhaps a rather crude way of making someone’s acquaintance, but she felt sure that, once the matron realized that Constance was the mysterious new noblewoman everyone in town was suddenly speculating about, she would be putty in her hands. And she was. First came the exchange of cards, followed by notes, and then by an invitation for morning tea at Mrs. Cabot-Flint’s Brobdingnagian and philistinishdonjona few blocks north along the avenue.
“I’msorelieved,” Constance’s hostess replied. “I mean, you’re so obviously a woman of taste despite your tender years, and also…not that I mean to inquire…but I understand New York is your second home, and your title is of European origin?”
What a transparent, ridiculous woman. Of course she meant to inquire. And where would a noble title come from, if not Europe? Perhaps she was thought to be the Duchess of Pittsburgh? But Constance, keeping these thoughts to herself, merely inclined her head with the proper amount of gravitas.
Another sparkly clasping of hands. “It’s like a gift from heaven! You saw, Your Grace, our ballroom: one of the largest on the avenue, and perfect for my ball the Saturday after next.”
“A most delightful and impressive space.” Itwasrather impressive; Lincoln Center would be envious of the sheer cubic footage. Delightful, however, it was not. Like the rest of the mansion, the ballroom was decorated in a mélange of styles, accreted to impress with bulk and cost rather than taste.
Before accepting the tea invitation, Constance had done some research on Carlotta Cabot-Flint and her husband, the industrialist Vandermere Flint. Flint, whom she had yet to meet, was a robber baron of the most villainous sort: he’d amassed his fortune over the past two decades from a series of foundries strung across western Pennsylvania, after shrewdly acquiring an American monopoly on a new crucible process, developed in England, for casting steel in a more mechanized manner. This had led to layoffs and attempted strikes, and he’d put down the labor unrest swiftly and brutally. Flint’s origins were obscure, and Constance suspected his father had been a coal miner himself. In any case, the couple were now ensconced on Fifth Avenue, social climbers of the worst sort and intent on drowning any taint of nouveaux riches in floods of money.
“Well, it occurs to me that—if you’d favor me with your thoughts on the matter, I mean—you’re in a position to do me a great favor.” And once again the woman leaned forward dangerously in her chair.
“How can I be of service?” Constance asked, declining the tea cake offered her by Henrietta with a polite wave of her hand.
“It’s…” Cabot-Flint hesitated. “Last month, you know, Caroline held that grand ball—it was at the very start of the season, before you arrived.”
Constance nodded. “Caroline” could only be Mrs. Caroline Astor, empress of “the Four Hundred”—the cream of New York society and, reportedly, the number of guests the Astor ballroom could comfortably house.
“I don’t know where she got the idea—it couldn’tpossiblyhave been her own, it was far too clever—but it was a themed ball, based on those stories of the Grimm Brothers and that Offenbach opera. Surely you know the one I’m referring to? It’s not premiering until next year, but it’s already certain to betheconcert entertainment of 1881.”
Constance understood the reference. “The Tales of Hoffmann,” she said. “I’d heard rumors that Monsieur Jacques had begun work on Hoffmann once again.”
At the words “Monsieur Jacques,” Mrs. Cabot-Flint’s eyes widened. “Could it be that you’ve met the composer?”
“He was a guest at the castle of my parents. It was during the aftermath of the Franco-Prussian War. I was very young, butLes contes d’Hoffmannwas on his mind even then.” She paused. “It was my favorite book of fantastic tales as a child.”
“Better and better!” Mrs. Cabot-Flint said exultantly. “You see, my dear—may I take that liberty?—my greatest wish is to hold a ball similar to the one which opened the season, but more…ambitious. Ever since that ball, it seems thingsoutréandmacabrehave become the mode this year. I’ve already called for people to be masked or in costume, but that in itself isassez de. Surely you know what I mean?”