“Of course there’s not. I let her believe what she wants, though. It makes her happy. But now she is counseling my mother, warning her that our friendship may compromise my own reputation with the
right
sort of people.”
“Oh, Margaret—”
“This should be funny. I’m ten times the radical you are, Emily. I should be corrupting you, not vice versa. I’m offended, actually, that Mrs. Taylor doesn’t find my own self shocking enough.”
“What exactly am I doing that is so outrageous?”
“Let’s see…well, your academic interests are inappropriate for a young lady. That’s why so many mothers have cautioned their
daughters against speaking to you. They’re afraid you’ll make them want to read obscene Greek myths.”
“Well, we can’t have ladies reading mythology. Education starts women on a dangerous path. The next thing you know, they’ll be fighting for rational dress and the right to vote.”
“Exactly.” She smiled and picked up the bottle of wine. “Have some more to drink. But it is not just your academic sins that have condemned you. I’m as guilty as you on that count. Added to that is your flagrantly inappropriate relationship with Jeremy, the disgraceful way you lead on poor Colin—” Here, she interrupted herself. “
Poor Mr. Hargreaves
. It’s ridiculous. He’s the last sort of man who would ever let himself be led on. He knows exactly what he’s doing.”
“I don’t like that he’s being spoken about in such a way.”
“Neither do I.”
“What I don’t understand is these rumors about Jeremy. Where do they come from?”
“The best I can tell, they’re all loosely based on fact. A gentleman
did
once leave your house at five o’clock in the morning. That it was Colin assisting you after a break-in is not interesting. Much more fun to think you were cavorting with Jeremy.”
“But mothers love Jeremy.”
“They do, but they want him to marry their daughters, not to carry on with a widow who shows no inclination towards remarriage.” She poured more wine. “You ran through Berkeley Square calling for him. Fine, fine, there was a reasonable explanation. The story goes that you were wearing a dressing gown at the time.”
“I would never—”
“Wait,” she said. “That particular detail comes from Charles Berry’s retelling of the story.”
“Is that so?”
“He has been telling anyone who will listen that he came upon you and Jeremy in a most compromising position that same evening. Says
you were both mortified and that Jeremy threw him out of the house in a wasted effort to save your reputation.”
“Why does he despise me so?”
“You’ve had the bad taste to refuse to be his mistress.”
“It must be more than that. I’ve never publicly rebuffed him. But I have confronted him about his relationship with David Francis. What about that might lead him to drown me with vitriol?”
“Could he have killed Francis?”
“I think he knows something about the murder, and I’m convinced there’s a connection of some sort between the Marie Antoinette thefts and Mr. Francis’s death.”
“Those are beautiful flowers,” Margaret said, indicating the sorry-looking bouquet from my carriage.
“They’re from the man who undoubtedly knows more about both of these crimes than either of us.” I showed her the note that had been tied to the roses.
Don’t you think it was disloyal, Kallista darling, to have left the museum with
him
when you were waiting for
me?
I don’t like being disappointed. Your flowers wouldn’t be in such dreadful condition had you all owed me the opportunity to present them yesterday.
I told Margaret what had happened at the museum. “There was no indication in the note the docent gave me that I would see my friend, if I may use the word loosely, later that day.”
“I don’t like that he’s following you.”
“Nor do I. But let’s consider the situation from his point of view. He gave me a stolen diamond, so he knows that I must think he’s the one who took it. Although he is enamored of me, he’s not so foolish that he would trust me blindly. I could have had the police ready to
arrest him at the Rosetta Stone. So, he stood back, watched to see if I had come alone, and maybe was going to approach me as I left the museum. Enter Colin—”
“Does he know Colin is an agent for the Crown?”
“I’ve no idea. But even if he doesn’t, he’s hardly going to speak to me when I’m with another gentleman.”
“So he follows you the next day?”
“He can’t deliver things to my house anymore—it’s too well guarded. What options has he left?”
“There is something oddly romantic about it. If I didn’t wonder at his involvement in the murder, I’d probably suggest that you consider his suit. What an adventure to be married to such an exclusive thief.”
“Really, Margaret. No good could come of associating oneself with a person of such ambiguous morals.”
“There’s nothing ambiguous about them. He’s bad through and through. Very appealing. I bet that if you married him, you could get him to steal Helen of Troy’s jewelry for you.”
“We’d have to live in the villa. The police would be less likely to track us down in Santorini than in England.” I looked at the note again. “I wonder if it’s significant that he didn’t write anything in Greek this time.”
“This is a rebuke, not a love note. You’ve had your first spat.”
“You’re very amusing,” I said. “But it’s all rather unsettling. Can any good come of disappointing a criminal?”
“We’ll just have to hope that his crimes are limited to stealing, not murder.”
L
ady Elinor called on me the next day, and she brought with her a postcard album. “I collected these on the trips my husband and I took,” she said. “Looking at them is the nearest thing to traveling without leaving England, so I thought you would enjoy them.”
“How thoughtful,” I said, paging through the book, which was filled with images of Pompeii, the Great Pyramids, Luxor, Rome—all places I longed to visit.
“Have you considered traveling, Lady Ashton? There’s no reason you shouldn’t. I’m sure you’d have no trouble finding a companion. Thomas Cook and Son offer tours that are perfectly suitable for ladies.”
“I think I should prefer to find local guides, explore archaeological sites, learn local customs. I’m not well suited for a planned tour.”
“So much the better. What adventures you could have!” She pulled an envelope out of her reticule and handed it to me. “This is an invitation to a ball I’m giving to celebrate Isabelle’s engagement. I do hope you’ll come.”
This was the first ball to which I’d been invited in weeks. “Thank you, Lady Elinor. I shouldn’t dream of missing it. How is Isabelle?”
“She’s managing well enough, becoming used to the idea of getting married. She and Mr. Berry are spending a great deal of time together, and she is beginning, I think, to welcome his affections.”
“Then I am happy for her,” I said, wondering how on earth Isabelle could welcome anything from Mr. Berry.
“I never did properly thank you for taking care of her when she threw herself on your mercy. It was very wrong of her to leave the house, but I’m glad that she had the sense to come to you.”
“I’m afraid there are not many mothers in London who would agree with that sentiment.”
“Your views on marriage are, perhaps, not traditional. But I am an excellent judge of character. You’re not the sort of person who would sanction ruinous behavior. I know that Isabelle was quite safe with you.”
I wondered if her opinion of me would change should she discover that I had allowed her daughter to be alone with Lord Pembroke.
“And, really, I’m most grateful to you. Because of your…unconventional ways”—she smiled—“Isabelle was more willing to listen to what you had to say. Had she looked to any of her other friends for solace, they would have told her to abandon Pembroke, and she knew that. Hearing the same advice when she did not expect to was more powerful than fifty ladies telling her the same thing.”
“So long as Isabelle is happy, I am glad.”
“I’ve told you before, I would never press my daughter into a situation that would not bring her joy. She is everything to me, Lady Ashton.”
“She is a lucky girl,” I said. Lady Elinor stayed some while longer, but I found myself too distracted to take much notice of what she said. I did not like the idea that I was somehow responsible for Isabelle’s acceptance of her impending nuptials, particularly given the grave concerns I had about the character of her fiancé.
B
EFORE
I
RETURNED TO MY INVESTIGATION OF
M
R.
B
ERRY,
I
HEADED
back to the offices of the
Times,
where I placed another message for my disappointed admirer. Ivy thought that it was perhaps not wise to further engage him, but I saw no other way to draw him out of hiding. Maybe, if he thought I was willing to communicate with him, he would eventually reveal himself. This time I did not ask him to meet me; I merely admonished him for sending me dying flowers.
When I had finished placing my notice, I went to Oxford Street to visit a shop that sold rare prints, books, and some historical documents. I hoped the clerks there would be able to help me in my search for Léonard’s letters to Marie Antoinette. I like to think that I have reasonable expectations; I knew it would be too much to hope for specific information, but I thought it likely that they would be able to tell me in general terms how best to begin my quest. But even this, it seemed, was too much to expect. Aside from taking note of my interest in the letters, and promising to inform me should they ever come up for sale, there was little they could do. Private correspondence changing hands in private sales could not be readily tracked.
Undaunted, I walked to the park. It was a fine day, the heat not having bothered to return after the rain stopped, and the crisp air inspired clear thinking. I found a bench near the Serpentine, pulled out the notebook in which I was recording details of my investigations, and looked over what I had written down.
“Slumming, Lady Ashton?” Charles Berry leaned over from behind the bench. “This isn’t the most fashionable section of the park.”
“I was hoping for some solitude.”
His eyes narrowed as he looked over my shoulder at the notebook on my lap. “Why are you so interested in David Francis? Is his wife a particular friend of yours?”
How could he possibly know what was written in my notebook? I slammed it shut. “I am most sympathetic to Mrs. Francis’s situation.”
“That’s no reason to be muddling about in her husband’s affairs.”
I raised an eyebrow. “His affairs?”
“Some things are best left forgotten. You’d be wise to let the dead rest.”
“I’m curious to know why you’re so concerned with Mr. Francis.”
“Some gentlemen might be amused by your insistence on being viewed as a thinking woman. I am not one of them.”
“A fact, Mr. Berry, that does not disappoint me in the least.”
He put his hands firmly on my shoulders, too near my neck. “Yet I cannot help being drawn to you. I wonder if a king could tame you.”
Much though I would have liked to throttle him for this comment, I managed to restrain myself, determined to pry something worthwhile from this otherwise useless man. “For someone who claims not to have known Mr. Francis, you’re awfully concerned about him now that he’s dead. Why the sudden interest? Does it pertain to the objects you say he wanted to sell you?”
“I don’t even know what they were.” His hands were still pressing
down on my shoulders. I wrenched myself away, stood up, and turned to face him, glad to have the bench between us.
“He didn’t mention the letters?” I smiled fetchingly. “What a surprise!”
“What letters?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t fret about them. I’ve read them and they’re deadly dull.”
“Which letters are these?”
I thought for a moment before answering. “Léonard’s, of course.”
A cold pallor overtook the ordinary ruddiness of his face, and his features turned unnaturally hard. “Léonard’s letters?”
“What letters did you think I meant?”
“He didn’t say he had—”
“So, you did talk to him?” I closed my parasol and leveled it towards him. “I’m tired of your lies, Mr. Berry.”
“I don’t like people interfering in my business. This is none of your concern.”
“So you admit to having been involved with Mr. Francis?”
“I knew he possessed things that by right should be legacies of my family. That’s not the same as being involved with him.”
“Did you discuss the letters with him?” I asked.
“You despise me.” His narrow eyes met mine. “And you have no right to. I won’t continue this conversation.” He stalked away, turning to leer at me after he had gone some distance. If only Cécile was still in London! I longed to rush home to report the fascinating details of this conversation, even if it meant sacrificing the trim on my skirt to Caesar and Brutus. Without having consciously decided to do so, I found myself walking towards Park Lane, and a few minutes later was waiting for Colin in his library.
This was a room that was used, not meant for show. Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling, and tall ladders ensured that none of
them was out of reach. Every surface had at least one book on it. One table was covered with atlases and travel books, another held three of Shakespeare’s plays, each binding well worn, no crispness left in the pages. In front of an enormous marble mantelpiece stood a table that held a chess set carved from some sort of exotic wood, the pieces representing figures from Arthurian legend. Next to the game board was John Thursby’s
Seventy-Five Chess Problems,
held open with a book weight.
“White’s to mate in three moves,” Colin said, entering the room. “I’m afraid I haven’t got beyond setting up the board.” His lips brushed my hand. “How do you like the room? I finally realized that if I’m to have any hope of marrying you, I’d have to show you my library first.”