Unlikely Traitors (14 page)

As Ursula entered, Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith placed a reassuring hand on her arm. “Courage, dear girl,” she whispered. “Courage!”

Ursula squeezed Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith’s hand. “I’m my father’s daughter,” she said. “I never let myself forget that.”

Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith, adorned in a ridiculous array of ostrich feathers on top of her black crepe-de-chine dress, smiled. “Remember,” she said. “There are many eligible men here tonight and you, my dear, are only twenty-five!”

Ursula had to bite her lip but she let the comment pass as she extricated herself from Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith’s grasp with the excuse that she had best find their hostess, Lady Catherine Winterton.

“I wasn’t sure you would still want me to attend,” Ursula admitted once she had found Lady Winterton circulating through the assembled crowd with a champagne glass firmly in hand.

“Nonsense,” Lady Winterton said briskly. “As I tried to demonstrate on Oxford Street, this unfortunate event should in no way reflect badly on you.”

“I wish you would tell some of my business associates that,” Ursula replied, mindful of a particularly terse exchange with one her colleagues over the telephone that morning. She was only thankful that her business partner Hugh Carmichael had seen fit to take over most of their business negotiations. Although he had initially insisted on coming to London to see her, Ursula had managed to convince him that both their businesses were better served by him keeping his distance.

“You should treat tonight as a first step to your return to society,” Lady Winterton said.

“I’m not sure I shall return at all unless Lord Wrotham’s name is cleared,” Ursula responded soberly. She felt all eyes turn to her, as some of the other guests overheard her speak his name.

“This way,” Lady Winterton steered her towards the buffet table, casting a backward glance at a huddle of curious guests. “People just love to ogle when there’s a scandal!”

“Please,” Ursula said. “You really don’t have to stay with me—I realized I’m persona non grata but you don’t have to worry on my account, you should see to your other guests.”

“Not before I’ve made sure you’ve bucked up a bit—I’ve known Lord Wrotham for many years, first through my husband, and then on my own account. I’m positive this is a misunderstanding.” Ursula appreciated her conviction but could see it was not something shared by any of the other guests.

“I know your husband was once friends with Lord Wrotham at Balliol, but truly, you don’t need to jeopardize your own reputation to demonstrate your loyalty,” Ursula said.

Lady Winterton gave her a sympathetic smile. “Remember, I too know what it is like to evoke society’s censure and approbation.”

Lady Winterton’s empathy roused Ursula from self-pity. She knew that Lady Winterton’s elopement to Lord Nigel Winterton, an impoverished member of the lesser Irish nobility, had caused a fracas within her own family and, by extension, London society. His death may have mitigated some but not all of it and, although Lady Winterton now moved in the finest circles of London society, she still bore the scars of an imprudent and what many called a rash marriage. Ursula had only known Lady Winterton as a widow but it was still obvious how much she had loved her husband.

“I appreciate your concern. With Freddie in America I must confess I was feeling quite friendless…” Ursula hesitated, uncomfortable that she had revealed her frailties so quickly to Lady Winterton.

“Well you mustn’t!” Lady Winterton said. “And I am not doing it just for Nigel—though he and Lord Wrotham were friends.”

“I wish some of his friends from that time could explain Lord Wrotham’s past to me—I feel as though I’m standing on little more than quicksand at the moment!”

“Chin up—you’ve got more backbone than to sink into it! As for the past—well I wish Nigel was here as much as you do, even though he and Lord Wrotham drifted apart after Oxford. They continued to maintain a correspondence, of course, but I’m not sure even Nigel could have told you much more than you already know.”

“Why didn’t he go to Guyana with the rest of them?” Ursula asked.

“I believe he had originally planned to do so,” Lady Winterton replied. “But we—I mean Nigel and I—had just met around that time, and he didn’t want to be parted from me. Besides he could barely afford the ship’s fare as it was.” Lady Winterton’s expression grew clouded.

Ursula laid a hand on Lady Winterton’s arm. “I am sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to bring up the past like that.” She felt acutely conscious of Lady Winterton’s sensitivity over the issue. It had been five years since her husband’s death but, despite now having her family’s approval (and access once more to their fortune), Lady Winterton was, in many ways, still grieving for her loss.

“Oh, I don’t mind talking about him now—though, in the first few months after his death, I admit, I wanted nothing more than to be shut away from everybody and everything.”

“It must have been very hard…” Ursula said. “Though it must have provided some measure of comfort to him, in his final days, to have at least one of his old friends in Ireland.”

“You mean Fergus McTiernay?” Lady Winterton asked. “I hardly remember meeting him at all. Nigel always said he was more committed to causes than people.”

“Still, I wish I could at least speak with him—maybe he could provide some answers…”

“Why, because he’s a Fenian firebrand?” Lady Winterton asked dryly. “Ursula you should know not to trust those sorts of men.”

Yes
, Ursula said to herself, thinking of how her Bolshevik ex-lover had betrayed her last year.
Alexei
,
should have taught me that
.

“I wouldn’t hold much hope for McTiernay my dear,” Lady Winterton said. “I can’t say he was close to Nigel—not at the end, but as I said, they all drifted apart after university.”

“Do you know why?” Ursula asked.

“No, probably just natural after so many years—though Nigel told me he suspected the trip to Guyana had something to do with it.”

Ursula frowned. “Did he ever tell you why he thought that was?”

“No,” Lady Winterton said. “I’m not sure he really knew himself.”

There was an awkward silence, until Ursula murmured. “I shouldn’t have come out tonight.”

Lady Winterton squeezed her arm once more. “Now you are being ridiculous, m’dear—We must all think to the future, not the past…that’s what I must do, every day, when I’m tempted to think of Nigel.”

Ursula fell silent. The pall of the past and all that had happened hung over her, so dense, so dark, that it was oppressive.

“I fear,” Ursula said after a moment of reflective silence between them. “That I’m shamelessly keeping you from your other guests. Please—you should see to them. I shall be quite content to act the wallflower tonight.”

“Hardly your strong suit,” Lady Winterton replied with a semblance of a laugh. The dark shadow that had passed over her dissipated. With a light touch on Ursula’s cheek and a swish of her stylish amber and gold flocked dress, she left her to mingle with the other guests.

Ursula spent the next half hour as an uneasy observer to the party. She longed to be at home, away from all talk of latest spring fashions or plans for the social season. Ursula took a glass of champagne from one of the waiters but felt disinclined to drink. She was falling prey once more to despondency when she noticed Christopher Dobbs enter the room and start to make his way over to where she was standing. Her misery swiftly turned to fury. Dobbs was responsible for orchestrating the murder of one of Ursula’s friends, Katya Vilensky, last year, and it galled Ursula to think that his strategic value to the British government as an armaments dealer, meant he got to walk free among society. It was a fact that Ursula could neither forget nor forgive.

“Unexpected to see you here, Miss Marlow,” Christopher Dobbs (‘Topper’ to his friends) said, taking a glass of champagne from a footman’s tray and downing it in three mouthfuls. Ursula’s eyes narrowed. With only the smallest tilt of her head, did she acknowledge his presence.

“How is Lord Wrotham faring in jail?” he asked. “I hear they don’t take kindly to traitors.”

Ursula’s whole body stiffened.

She caught sight of Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith’s worried glance from across the room, and was determined to maintain her composure. Although Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith, like everyone else in London society, had no knowledge of Christopher Dobbs’ crimes, she was well aware of Ursula’s antipathy towards him. It was clear from the look on her face that she feared yet another ‘scene’. This time, however, Ursula refused to give Dobbs the satisfaction of seeing her provoked.

He regarded her with amusement. “You may not realize it,” he said. “But I’m one of few men who can help you.”

“Really?” Ursula was unable to restrain her sarcasm.

“Yes,” Dobbs replied with the arrogance of one relishing his position. “I can tell you all you need to know about the people behind this so called ‘traitorous’ scheme including the Crown’s key witness, Count von Bernstorff-Hollweg.”

“I would have thought you would have already run to you new masters, the British government, and told them all of this information already.”

“Perhaps I thought I might get greater satisfaction out of telling you,” Dobbs said and his leer made Ursula’s skin crawl. Although Christopher Dobbs (‘Topper’ to his friends) was the son of one of Ursula’s father’s erstwhile business associates, the man who now stood before her bore little resemblance to the boy she had once known.

“I have no doubt of that,” she responded. “But I don’t feel like paying the price for it.”

“Not even to help your true love?” Dobbs said lightly. “Tsk, tsk…Miss Marlow, I expected better of you.”

“I’m glad you’re disappointed.”

“I doubt I’ll remain that way,” he said, leaning in. “Disappointed that is, because you will come to me for help. Eventually.”

Ursula fingers gripped the folds of her dress, threatening to rip the fabric. “I will never be willing to give you money—no matter what information you have.”

“You are a fool then—a fool for thinking that I would be seeking money in exchange for what I know. I make it a goal of mine to keep up to date with both you and Lord Wrotham’s business affairs. If you want to know the real reason the Count is testifying against Lord Wrotham then you’ll have to come to me.”

“If you don’t want money, then what else?” Ursula asked. She had to wet her lip with her tongue for her mouth had gone suddenly dry.

Dobbs smiled. “Oh, the taste of what his Lordship has already sampled would be enough for me,” he said. His face was now close enough that she could see the veins in his neck, blue and bulging. “I have no doubt he has already sampled his marital wares.”

Ursula could no longer restrain herself. With a violent jerk of her wrist she threw the contents of her champagne glass at him, before hurling the glass to the floor where it smashed with such force that splinters of glass flew across the parquetry floor like ice shavings.

As guests turned and stared, the room fell slowly, disapprovingly, silent. Dobbs took his handkerchief out of his dinner jacket pocket and mopped his face. He smiled tightly. “You’ll be willing to pay the price,” he said. “Once you realize that Lord Wrotham will hang unless you accept my help.”

“I’d rather join Lord Wrotham in hell if that is the case,” Ursula replied.

“That,” Christopher Dobbs said, “can also be arranged.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

It was with a complete disregard for etiquette that Ursula and Gerard Anderson met with Pemberton the following morning at his chambers in Temple Inn. Anderson, apart from being her father’s long time financial advisor, was now one of the few men, apart from her business partner Hugh Carmichael, who knew the extent to which Lord Wrotham’s arrest threatened Ursula’s business empire. Having taken over the helm of her father’s textile companies after his death, Ursula had, until now, relied on Lord Wrotham’s good will as her appointed guardian in allowing her the financial freedom she required. Since his arrest that freedom was in jeopardy and speculation regarding her ability to continue to run her father’s business empire was reaching fever-pitch.

“I received good news this morning, Pemberton managed to secure a court order yesterday,” Anderson said as he accompanied her up the wooden staircase to Pemberton’s chambers. “I am now your guardian—at least in name.”

“So long as you maintain the freedom that Lord Wrotham afforded me regarding my inheritance, I am content,” Ursula replied. The fact that her father’s will stipulated that she need a guardian to manage the money she inherited until she attained thirty years of age or was married, still galled her.

“I will continue to advise you as I think best,” Anderson replied earnestly. Ursula reminded herself that, not so long ago, Anderson had urged her to consider Christopher Dobbs’ offer to buy Marlow Industries. Despite their differences, however, Ursula still trusted Anderson—and at the moment there were few men in her life she could say that about with any degree of confidence.

Pemberton’s clerk, a fustian specimen with the sagging jowls and eyes of a bloodhound, met them at the top of the stairs and trudged them into his chambers with grumbling reluctance. Legal propriety demanded that a solicitor accompany them, but Ursula, never one to abide by the rules of etiquette, had insisted on calling on Pemberton with Anderson alone.

“Ah, Miss Marlow and Mr. Anderson,” Pemberton greeted them with jovial good humor. Unlike his clerk he seemed unfazed by the irregularity of such a meeting. Ursula removed her light ‘duster’ coat, small brimmed brown hat and kid-leather gloves before sitting herself down in one of the leather armchairs.

“I’m afraid I still haven’t got to that little summary of yours on the law of treason, m’dear…” Pemberton said with a half-apologetic smile, “case-load is frightful at the moment.” He took his place behind the imposing deep-set desk and adjusted the papers in front of him into a tall neat stack.

“If you’re too busy, I can always arrange for another barrister to take over,” Ursula replied.

Her bluntness took Pemberton off guard.

“My dear, my dear…” Pemberton stammered. “I am delighted by your interest and support in this case. Clearly it is a most terrible miscarriage of justice—an error which we shall soon rectify in court.”