And Only to Deceive (24 page)

23 A
PRIL
1888
B
ERKELEY
S
QUARE,
L
ONDON

“I
AM SURPRISED AND DELIGHTED TO SEE YOU DRESSED IN
such an inappropriate color!” Andrew cried when he saw me.

I ignored his good humor. “Sit, Andrew.” I handed him the telegram. “Could you please explain this?”

“I don’t understand,” he began. “How is this possible? We shall have to change our course of action, but that is not—”

“I do not think it is quite so simple, Andrew. The Anglican Church Missionary Society states rather clearly that they have never heard of Mr. Wesley Prescott. Whoever that man is, he obviously is not recently returned from the mission at which my husband is recovering.”

“Yes, I am quite stunned.”

“I find that rather hard to believe,” I said, looking directly at him. “After all, aren’t you the one who gave Mr. Prescott my wedding photo?”

“Emily…how could you think—”

“Spare me the lies. I know you removed it from Renoir’s studio. Enlighten me, Andrew. What is going on?”

He closed his eyes and sighed before speaking. “All right, you have found me out. I should never have done it. I don’t know any better than you whether Philip is alive or dead. When you told me you wanted to go to Africa with us, I realized that if we discovered that Philip is in fact dead, I would have the perfect opportunity to renew my suit for your hand. If you could only imagine the hope this brought to my heart! But I began to fear that your friends would convince you that the trip would be too dangerous, too hopeless. I thought Prescott’s story would ensure that nothing could keep you from traveling with me. I never meant to
hurt you, Emily. You already had good reason to believe that Philip is alive. I only wanted to give you further confirmation.”

“You have manipulated my emotions in an unforgivable way, Mr. Palmer. The game is up, and you may as well accept the fact that I shall never marry a man of so little principle.”

He bristled visibly when I said this and leapt from his chair. “I admit that what I did was wrong. Obviously you have never desperately loved someone who did not return the emotion. You may insult me if you choose, but I will suggest that you consider your husband more carefully before you call
me
unprincipled. Perhaps you did not know Philip so well as you think.”

“I can assure you that I am painfully aware of his shortcomings.”

“And should I assume that you are prepared to overlook his blatant disregard for all things decent?” He flung the telegram to the ground. “Of course you are! Rich aristocrats will do anything to avoid scandal.”

“I do not like your temper.”

“Forgive me. It infuriates me. People like Ashton, Hargreaves—they always get what they want. He never deserved you.”

“You feel this way, yet you were prepared to travel to Africa to rescue him?”

“You know my feelings for you. I would do anything to bring you joy. Lord, what a fool I have been!” He stomped out of the room without a word of good-bye.

Thirty minutes later I received an impassioned note from him begging my forgiveness and informing me that he planned to leave for Africa in two days’ time, with or without me.

A
ND SO MY ADVENTURE
in Paris began to draw to a close. Cécile’s meeting with Caravaggio would confirm the identity of our villain. Then I would figure out a way to stop the thefts and return Philip’s stolen originals to the British Museum. Much though I hated the idea of letting Andrew and Arthur go to Africa without me, I could not travel
with them. I drafted a letter to Lord Lytton at the embassy, giving him what information I had about Philip’s possible survival and asking him to help me organize an official search party. I considered the possibility of having my husband’s body exhumed but did not think my evidence sufficient to merit such a thing. Furthermore, the scandal that would ensue from such an occurrence really would terrorize the entire Ashton family. This thought made me wonder if I should write to Philip’s sister, informing her of the recent events and begging her husband’s assistance.

By six o’clock, having completed neither letter to my satisfaction, I decided to go out to the parts of Paris that Philip, if he were still alive, would almost certainly forbid me to see. I dressed in a fine gown of black silk and headed straight for Montmartre, with every intention of visiting the Moulin Rouge. Reality struck me less than halfway there; I could not go to such a place unescorted, not to mention while I was still in mourning. Confining though society could be, I did not want to abandon it completely. Instead I went to the Café Mazarin. Being on the north side of the boulevard Montmartre, it technically would not have been appropriate for a lady, but my Baedeker’s guide assured me that the clientele at this particular café were perfectly within the bounds of propriety.

I ordered the blanquette de veau, which was delicious, and ate slowly. Afterward I had an absinthe, which seemed a bit daring, and began to plan what I would do after Cécile’s meeting with Caravaggio. The liqueur was rather awful, but I choked it down nonetheless as I contemplated my future. It would be preferable to stay in Paris rather than London while waiting for news of Philip. I had no desire to answer to my mother, deal with social obligations, or pretend that nothing was wrong until I knew my husband’s fate. Then, if he was alive—and I did, despite my misgivings, desperately hope that he was—I would of course defer to his wishes. Most likely he would want to return to England immediately.

And if he was dead, I would not go back to London; I wanted to go to Santorini. There I could determine my true desires free from any outside
influence. I would apply myself to learning Greek and explore every inch of the island while I mourned the loss of Philip for a second time.

Fortified by another absinthe, I thought of Aline Renoir and her marriage. Never again would I marry for less than the happiness she enjoyed, nor would I do it before I knew better what I wanted from my life. If Philip was alive, I would devote myself entirely to him, confident that together we could capture more than an adequate amount of passion. I hoped that he would support me as I tried to discover what a woman in my position could be other than a society wife. If he would not—I pushed the thought out of my mind, sat back, and spent the rest of the evening reveling in the Parisian atmosphere.

8 J
UNE
1888
B
ERKELEY
S
QUARE,
L
ONDON

I
SLEPT FAR LATER THE FOLLOWING MORNING THAN
I
HAD
intended to and wound up having to rush to get to Cécile’s in time for
le déjeuner
. I wore a new dress, a deep midnight blue rather than black or gray. Mr. Worth and I never reached agreement as to whether it was technically appropriate for my last month in half mourning, but I did not care. It fell smoothly over my hips, flared as the skirt reached the floor, and had no bustle. On Cécile’s recommendation I’d had it fitted with my corset tied extremely loosely and was well pleased with the results. The bodice still had a smooth appearance, but I could breathe, bend, and very nearly slouch. Happy with my appearance, I hurried through the lobby and slammed directly into Colin.

“Good day, Mr. Hargreaves,” I said, ignoring my pulse’s instant reaction to him. I flew past him toward the door, feeling rather excited that at last I would know the identity of Caravaggio. The thought caused me to pause and turn, taking another look at Colin. My eyes met his, and I raised one eyebrow, wondering if I would see him in a considerably different setting this afternoon. If Colin was the head of the forgery ring, I might get to slap him again; I smiled despite myself.

I greeted Cécile cheerfully and hugged her before joining her at the dining room table.

“You’re in a fine mood for someone who obviously stayed up far too late,” Cécile observed. “What was so interesting?”

“Absinthe,” I said with a smile.

“I am impressed, Kallista. Paris will make an artiste of you yet.”

“Terrible stuff. I could barely get it down.” I dove into the vol-au-vent placed before me. “I am glad to have tried it, though. You should
read this,” I said, handing her the telegram denouncing Mr. Prescott.

“Not much of a surprise,” Cécile admitted.

“I confronted Andrew.”

“
Mon Dieu!
What did he say?”

I recounted our conversation.

“Do you believe him?”

“Does it matter?”

“I suppose not,” Cécile said, feeding Caesar and Brutus, who sat patiently on her lap waiting for scraps from her plate. “I presume you will not be accompanying him to Africa?”

“Of course not,” I replied, applying myself to the rest of my luncheon. “I wrote to Lord Lytton requesting his assistance. I shall not withdraw my financial support of Andrew and Arthur’s trip, but I do not believe that I can entirely rely on them. I wonder how long it will be before I know the outcome.”

“Try not to think about it too much,
chérie,
” she said, rising from her seat. “Come help me with my miniatures. I want to rearrange the queen’s bedroom furniture.”

We passed the next hour tending to Cécile’s Versailles. The closer the time came for Caravaggio’s arrival, the more tense I grew. Any residual excitement that remained deep inside me vanished when the footman announced a visitor.

“Put him in the red drawing room,” Cécile said. She took my hands. “Remember, the most important thing you can do is try to identify the voice you hear. Listen carefully to what he says and take notes if you can. I had Louis leave paper and pen in the hallway.” She handed me off to Odette, who had appeared out of nowhere to lead me to the back passageway, where I stood, trying not to pace. Soon I heard the door open and close and the click of Cécile’s heels as she entered the room.

“Monsieur Caravaggio, I am delighted to meet you,” she said. “You are not, I believe, Italian?” She laughed. I held my breath and waited for the reply.

“Not at all, Madame du Lac,” he said. “I am English to the core. The Italian name lends a nice touch, though, don’t you think?”

“I shall not offend you by insulting your country, monsieur, especially when I have such great hopes for our business relationship. Will you please sit?”

“If you will forgive me for being crass, madame, it is clear to me from your home, your jewelry, and your reputation that you are indeed in a position to afford a panel of the Elgin Marbles. That you want such a thing is a testament to your excellent taste. That you knew to contact me indicates that you possess a superior intelligence. There is no one else who could arrange the procurement of such a famous work.”

My head was spinning; I sank to the ground. It was not Colin Hargreaves. Only Andrew would speak in that arrogant tone; I recognized his voice at once. There could be no mistake. The same anger that prompted me to confront him the previous day started to surface again. Every suspicion I had about Colin was now redirected to Andrew, the man who wanted me to travel to Africa to rescue Philip. I pushed my hands against the cold marble floor and put my ear against the door, not wanting to miss a word uttered by the abhorrent man.

“My connections at the British Museum are above reproach. Access to the piece will not be a problem. The artists I use produce excellent copies. Not a single object I have replaced has been suspected.”

“Even if it were, Monsieur Caravaggio, I would not expect my name ever to surface in an investigation. I really have no time for such things,” Cécile said, sounding marvelously bored with the entire subject.

“Of course, of course.” Andrew laughed, disrespectful as always.

“How long until I receive the panel?”

“I will have that information for you as soon as I discuss the project with my artist. Mr. Attewater works quickly, but a piece of this caliber will be rather time-consuming.”

“You are quick to reveal the names of your minions, Monsieur Caravaggio.”

“I have little concern for insignificant information. Mr. Attewater can take care of himself.” Of course. Andrew excelled only in looking after his own situation. Poor Mr. Attewater. He deserved better treatment. “We should discuss the financial arrangements.”

“The price you quoted in your note is perfectly acceptable,” Cécile said. “I presume you prefer cash?”

“You are most gracious, Madame du Lac. I have brought you a token to acknowledge our agreement.” I could hear someone open a parcel. “It is Greek, of course. The figures on the vase depict the Judgment of Paris.”

“I am familiar with the story. It is an excellent copy.”

“It is the original, madame. I would not dream of presenting a customer such as yourself with anything less.”

I shook my head as I listened to him lie so coolly. The original Judgment of Paris vase was safely hidden in my butler’s pantry in London.

“I am afraid that I shall have to cut our meeting short today. I had not intended to take on any more projects for the moment, as I am preparing to leave town, but did not want to delay meeting with such an important client.”

“Are you going back to London?” Cécile asked.

“No, to Africa on the most urgent business.” I seethed as he spoke.

“Will you be able to handle my request before you leave?”

“I will push back my departure long enough to ensure that I have all the arrangements set in motion before I leave. My trip will not be an extended one; I assure you that our transaction will not be affected by it in the least.” I wondered at this comment. Did Andrew know he would not be able to find Philip?

“I would expect nothing less.” I heard the rustle of her silk skirts as she rose from her seat. “I will leave you to your work, Monsieur Caravaggio.”

I sat motionless, listening to the echo of his boots disappear down Cécile’s staircase. Only after having detected the snap of the brass latch in the front door did I cautiously enter the red drawing room, where Cécile was inspecting the Judgment of Paris vase.

“It’s a copy,” I said.

“
Bien sûr.”
She shrugged. “Did you recognize our malefactor?”

“Andrew Palmer.” I paced angrily in front of the room’s tall windows. “No wonder he was so keen to get Philip’s papers for his father. He must have been looking for some record of the stolen objects Philip had.”

“He was probably afraid there would be some clue that could implicate him.”

“I wonder if Philip was more than just a customer,” I said, still pacing. “And what about Colin? Do you think he is also involved?”

“
Je ne sais pas,”
Cécile said. “I had rather hoped that Caravaggio would turn out to be someone wholly unrelated to you. It would have made for a neater resolution.”

“Would that we were so lucky. We must stop Andrew before he leaves for Africa.”

“I wonder if he will really go without you,” Cécile mused.

“He insists that he will.”

“Yes, but why? Can he really believe that Philip is still alive? I’m very sorry, Kallista, but I find it more and more difficult to believe that he is.”

“I have not yet given up hope entirely but must admit that I’m inclined to agree with you.” Before I realized it, a tear slipped down my cheek. I brushed it away and turned to look out the window.

“Let us focus on capturing Andrew,
chérie
. There is no use in contemplating Philip’s fate until we have more facts.”

“Do we have enough evidence for the police to arrest Andrew?” I asked.

“I do not think so. We shall have to think of a way to persuade him to give us something more.”

“I want to force him to tell me whether my husband is alive.”

“I am not sure that two women could force Caravaggio to do anything; he could easily overpower us if confronted. He must be tricked.”

“And tricked in a manner that will result in his immediate arrest. Once their leader is in jail, perhaps Mr. Attewater and the others involved in the crimes could be persuaded to give evidence.”

I picked up the vase Andrew had left for Cécile and examined it. Suddenly an idea struck me. “This vase is a forgery.”

“I know, Kallista. I did not doubt you when you told me the first time.”

“No—look.” I pointed to a fold on the fabric of Paris’s tunic. “What do you see?”

“Cloth?” She peered at the vase. “Are those letters? Alphas?”

“Precisely!” I exclaimed, growing excited. “They are Mr. Attewater’s signature. He hides them on every copy he makes.”

“But this proves nothing more than that Andrew did not bring me the original.”

“In this case, yes. Andrew’s success depends upon being able to replace stolen objects with copies. If we could trick him into stealing something and giving us the original before he could get it copied, we might be able to drive him to exposure.”

“
Intéressant
. It would be difficult for him to get something copied in Paris when Monsieur Attewater is in London. What object shall I tell Caravaggio I want?”

“This, Cécile, will be my adventure.”

“You cannot let him know that you’ve identified him as a thief. How would such a man react? It would be too dangerous.”

“I have no intention of letting him know. Tomorrow when he comes to tell me of the delay in his departure—as he must, now that you’ve hired him to acquire the frieze—I’m going to tell him that I’m no longer eager to sponsor the trip because of some disturbing information I’ve learned about Philip.”

“That he was collecting stolen antiquities?” Cécile asked, smiling.

“Exactly. It will lull him into a sublime sense of security. If the entire plot of the thefts were ever revealed, he could blame it all on Philip, who is not here to defend himself.” I began pacing again. “And as for me, would I look forward to being reunited with a husband of such low principles?”

“And how will this lure Andrew to steal something for you?”

“I must identify some object that I shall pretend to want desperately. After our conversation Andrew will have been led to believe that he would be welcome to renew his suit if only he could find me the thing that I so desire. It is very difficult being a lonely widow, Cécile.”

“At which point, if Philip really is dead, it would be in Andrew’s best interest to inform you immediately.”

“Precisely.”

“You assume that he will not be satisfied by having achieved what he will view as immunity from his crimes? A smart man would allow you to think Philip was the only guilty party and remove himself from further suspicion.”

“Regardless of whether Andrew is a smart man, it cannot be denied that he is a poor one. And I am exceedingly wealthy. I do not doubt that he started this business with the antiquities as soon as he had run through his own fortune. If he were to marry me, he could abandon the enterprise entirely.”

“A perfect solution to all his problems.” Cécile sighed. “And now that you suggest it, does it not make you wonder that the news of Philip’s possible survival reached you only after you had refused Andrew? I wonder if your money has been his object all along?”

“I am counting on it, Cécile. If he is as greedy as I suspect, he will be easily trapped, so long as I can be persuasive enough.” I sat at a desk and began to compose one of two notes that would be crucial to the success of our plan.

“What will you have him steal?”

“A lovely object currently in Monsieur Fournier’s collection.”

“And you are sure he will be up to the challenge?”

“Andrew has never lacked confidence. I’m sure he views all this as a wonderful game.”

Cécile and I were awake much of that night formulating the details of our plan, so I did not return to the Meurice until the following morning.

I had hoped Andrew would come to see me early in the day, but luncheon passed without his appearing at my rooms. At last, tired of waiting, I took matters into my own hands and sent Meg with a note for my traveling companion, requesting his presence at his earliest convenience. Much to my chagrin, Meg returned twenty minutes later with Andrew’s reply; he was indisposed until nearly dinnertime. Could he come to me at six? I did not like having to wait to set my plans in motion any more than I liked the fact that he made my maid wait nearly half an hour for his answer. I had no choice but to agree, and I sent Meg with a second note, saying that I would expect to see him promptly at six.

Once again I found myself in the unhappy position of watching the hours pass with very little to do. I picked up my Greek but could not concentrate enough to translate two words together. My mind wandered hopelessly, and I began to think about Philip. Although the chance of his being alive seemed very unlikely at present, I could not help but wonder what our reunion might be like. Obviously, as I no longer planned to go to Africa, I would have to revise my fantasy of finding him helpless in a primitive tent at the mission. If he were discovered, I could be ready to travel to Cairo at a moment’s notice. The thought of our reunion occurring outside of London appealed to me; an exotic locale surely would inspire passion more effectively than would the house in Berkeley Square.