A Poisoned Season Read online

  “Can’t you just tell him to stop letting Berry hang about?” I asked.

  “Staggering though the thought is, you, Emily, are not the most stubborn person in the empire. His Royal Highness prefers not to be told who makes an acceptable friend.”

  At that instant I felt a newfound respect for the future king of England. “Well, it may be that I’ve been too harsh in my assessments of the prince. I shall try to make a fresh start with him.”

  “I shouldn’t bother, Kallista,” Cécile said. Colin began to gather up the papers from the table.

  “Have I given you all the information you require?” he asked my friend.

  “Oui. I am eager to meet Monsieur Garnier. He is certain to be a man of great possibility.”

  “Garnier?” I asked.

  “The power behind the throne, as it were,” Cécile said. “It will be most interesting to meet a man who considers himself Richelieu’s equal.” I expected that she would excuse herself and leave me alone with Colin, but instead she challenged him to a game of chess. I watched them, an uneasy tension hovering in the air, and wondered what dangers my friend had agreed to face for the good of someone else’s crown and country. Unsettled, I turned my attention to the Odyssey. Neither of my friends spoke until the match was over.

  “Checkmate,” Colin said, trapping Cécile’s king with his queen.

  “Magnifique. I would have been most disappointed had you let me win.”

  “I should not dream of insulting you so.” He kissed her hand, then crossed the room and pulled me from my chair so that I was standing mere inches from him. “As for you, my dear,” he said, almost under his breath. “I’m pleased to see that you’re spending more time with Homer than The Greek Anthology. Makes me quite confident that my proposal will be accepted. You’ll not find the identity of your admirer in the Odyssey. How soon could your trousseau be assembled? I’d love to take to you the carnival in Vienna.”

  “And I should love to go. The Viennese have lifted the waltz to new heights of glory. But do not think you will win our wager. I’m well on my way to identifying our mysterious friend.”

  “Hmmmm,” he said, holding his fingers up to my lips but not touching them. “We shall see.” He squeezed my hand, said good-bye to Cécile, and left.

  “I am not happy about leaving you alone,” Cécile said.

  “I’ll be perfectly all right,” I said, though I felt a pang at the thought of her going. I had grown used to her constant companionship and would miss even Caesar and Brutus.

  “You could come with me.”

  “No, I promised I’d help Beatrice.”

  “I do worry, Kallista, about you here with that man paying such close attention to you.”

  “Inspector Manning has so many officers watching this house that I fear more for my privacy than my safety.” I glanced through the papers Colin had left on the table for Cécile. “What exactly are you to do in Paris?”

  “Befriend this man, Garnier. He’s an obscenely popular politician who’s constantly preaching against government corruption. The bourgeois adore him. Monsieur Hargreaves suspects that he is going to complete what General Boulanger left unfinished.”

  “Boulanger? Didn’t his attempt to take over the government fail? I remember reading in the papers that it descended into a farce.”

  “Boulanger had not the character to lead a nation.”

  “From what I heard, he was overly attached to his mistress,” I said. “Didn’t he stay with her instead of going to the Elysées Palace at the appointed hour?”

  “He did. Left the garrisons of Paris waiting for him. Imagine having that kind of power over a man.”

  “Do you really think she had anything to do with it? Most likely he was scared and found staying with her easier than taking the reins of the country.”

  Cécile shrugged. “It is dangerous to discount the power of a woman’s influence.”

  “So is that what you’re to do? Influence Monsieur Garnier?”

  “Not at all. I will find out when he plans to stage his coup.”

  “Surely he can’t think he will succeed so soon after Boulanger’s failure?”

  “Garnier has what Boulanger did not: Charles Berry. Many people in France question the value of our democracy. The government is too corrupt.”

  “And Charles Berry would somehow be an improvement?”

  “Pas de tout. But imagine taking France back to the days of the Sun King. That is the mood Garnier is trying to capture. He has the backing of all the members of the exiled Bourbon and Orléans royal families as well as the support of other monarchies, and he is viewed as a man who wants what is best for his country. He is not, after all, suggesting that he should be on the throne, only that France should be returned to its former glory.”

  “And this is common knowledge?”

  “Mais non. Only his closest confidants know his plans.”

  “The Prince of Wales?”

  “The prince is friends with Berry, not Garnier.”

  “Surely Berry knows the plan.”

  “Monsieur Hargreaves does not think so.”

  “Garnier knows Berry well enough not to trust him,” I said. “Yet he would make him king of France?”

  “Fascinating, n’est-ce pas? You will have your part in the excitement, Kallista. I am to send all correspondence to you. Monsieur Hargreaves thought you would like that.” She patted my arm. “And it will be très intéressant to see how you like being alone in this house again. You may find you want to keep him with you.”

  “Cécile, I will never forgive you if you try to get me married. It’s bad enough that Ivy has defected to my mother.”

  “Your mother wants to see you make a good society match. Ivy only wants one that would bring you happiness. There is very little similarity between the two positions.”

  “I know you’re right, but it doesn’t always feel that way.”

  “Someday, Kallista, you will learn to stop resisting things only because they are sanctioned by others.”

  “I don’t do that, Cécile.”

  “I am not saying that you should marry Monsieur Hargreaves to appease these society ladies. But he is too much the gentleman to take you as anything but his wife. And if that is the only way to get such a man, well…marriage might not be so awful. I can think of many things more disappointing than waking up next to him every morning.”

  “You are terrible.”

  She shrugged. “To turn away something you want simply because it is de rigueur is as foolish as blindly following society’s rules. You must make your own decisions, Kallista, but do not become an iconoclast at the expense of your own happiness.”

  “I hope I’m not that foolish. I adore Colin, but more than I want him I want to find something in life that is mine alone. An identity beyond that of wife. Something that I love, that edifies, that inspires me.”

  “You are already on your way to finding it, chérie. How many objects have you secured for the British Museum?”

  “Not enough. Did I tell you about the statue I saw in Richmond?” As I began to describe it to her, all other thoughts rushed out of my head. When Cécile went upstairs to direct the packing of her belongings, I wrote an impassioned note to Mr. Sinclair about the piece and sent it immediately. No sooner was that done than I penned a second, this one to Mr. Bingham. Lord Fortescue might reprimand me for harassing the poor man, but I did not care. The silver libation bowl needed to be in a museum, and I had no husband with political aspirations whose career was at the mercy of Lord Fortescue.

  12

  THURSDAY WAS CÉCILE’S LAST DAY IN LONDON, AND HER IMPENDING departure had a deleterious effect on my household. Caesar and Brutus, who had become inexplicably fond of Berkeley Square, recoiled at the sight of their travel boxes and crawled beneath a large cabinet in the red drawing room from which they could not be coaxed, even with scraps from the previous evening’s roast beef. Cook took this as a personal insult and stalked about belowstai
rs all morning in a state of high dudgeon. As a result, our luncheon was delayed, and I had no time at all to eat before leaving for the British Museum, where I hoped to meet my anonymous admirer.

  As I walked towards Great Russell Street, it started to rain, but the drops amounted to little more than a mist that would do nothing to alleviate the claustrophobic humidity enveloping the city. I did not open my umbrella, using it instead as a walking stick, its metal point echoing the rhythm of my feet. My claim to Colin that I was near to unmasking my would-be innamorato had not been quite accurate. Other than placing the ad in the Times, I had done almost nothing to find him. Initially, I had thought I might ferret him out by baiting young gentlemen of my acquaintance, but that had been when I believed him to be nothing more than a creative suitor keen to take advantage of my interest in Greek. Now, however, knowing that he was responsible for the Marie Antoinette thefts, I believed it would take a great deal of persuasion to get him to reveal himself. My only real hope came from his romantic designs on me. Surely a gentleman in love would not wish to remain eternally incognito.

  Once inside the museum, I left my umbrella in the hall and ducked through the rooms leading to the Southern Egyptian Gallery, which housed the Rosetta Stone. I meandered about, patiently reading the cards describing each object while I watched for any solitary gentlemen who lingered too long in front of the famous basalt tablet. No one came. I studied the sarcophagus of the queen of Amasis II, admired a statue of the god of the Nile, and pondered figures of the goddesses Bast and Sekhet. I watched a young man whisper something that made a young lady blush while her chaperone scrutinized an obelisk through spectacles that pinched her nose. I enjoyed a brief moment of anticipation when a well-dressed gentleman entered the room, pursued by a docent telling him that he must deposit his walking stick in the hall. He gave me a jaunty smile as he surrendered the stick, then left the room without so much as glancing at the Rosetta Stone.

  The stone itself provided ample distraction for another quarter of an hour. After doing my best to read the Greek inscription on it, I turned my attention to the hieroglyphs and was entirely seduced by their elegant beauty. My fingers ached to try to draw them, and as I was longing for my sketchbook, a man approached me. My eyebrows shot up, then fell immediately as soon as I recognized him as the docent who had taken the gentleman’s stick.

  “Lady Ashton?” he asked. I nodded. “Forgive me for disturbing your reverie. This was left for you at the desk.” He handed me a too-familiar envelope.

  “Can you describe the gentleman who delivered it?”

  “It was a young boy, madam, not a gentleman.” I thanked him and crossed through the Central Egyptian Saloon to the Refreshment Room, notorious for its dreadful food, and sat down to a pot of tea no better than the café’s reputation. The note, as I expected, began in Greek:

  She is enrolled as my one goddess, whose beloved name I will mix and drink in unmixed wine. I could not help but smile. If nothing else, receiving these letters had done wonders for my sight-reading skills. He continued in English:

  Do hope you will enjoy the champagne. Accept it along with my thanks for re turning Marie Antoinette’s pink. I don’t imagine you really expected to meet me today—and you know I wouldn’t dream of disappointing you, Kallista, darling. Fear not—you will see me soon enough.

  His use of Kallista, Philip’s name for me, was unnerving. Who was this presumptuous man? I considered the gentleman with the walking stick. Certainly it was odd for him to have come into the gallery and not look at the Rosetta Stone. Unless he had come only to see if I was there. I abandoned my tea and went to the main desk in the vestibule.

  “Good afternoon, Lady Ashton. How may we help you today?”

  “A docent just delivered a note that was left here for me. I was hoping that I could talk to him.”

  “A docent? Do you know who it was? I’ve been here all afternoon, and no one brought a note for you.”

  “I don’t know his name. He was rather tall. Had bright blue eyes and a dark beard, very bushy.”

  “I’m so sorry, I’ve not the slightest idea who it could have been.” He called over one of his colleagues who confirmed that no one had left anything for me at the desk but suggested that perhaps the envelope had been left elsewhere, and rushed off to inquire in the Reading Room, where the clerks knew nothing about a note addressed to me. I was weighing the merits of searching the museum for the docent when I noticed Colin standing next to a statue of Shakespeare near the entrance to the library. He tipped his hat and came to me.

  “Are you spying on me?” I asked.

  “Far from it. I read your advertisement in the Times and thought that, on the odd chance your admirer would show his face, I’d like to be here to personally confirm that I’d lost our bet.”

  “I never thought he would come.”

  “Is that so?” His dark eyes danced. “I think, Emily, that you harbored hopes that your multitudinous charms would lure the poor boy out of hiding. Admit it. You’re not used to being disappointed.”

  “Remind me why it is that I’m so fond of you.”

  “I can’t say that I have the slightest idea.”

  “I suppose that since you’re here you may as well walk with me,” I said, letting him take my arm and doing my best not to thrill at his touch. I was not particularly successful. For two hours we combed through every room in the museum looking for either the docent or the gentleman with the walking stick, but to no avail. Not only did we find neither man, we could not locate a single employee who recognized my description of the docent.

  “It’s very likely that one of them is the thief,” Colin said, when at last we abandoned our search. “Whom do you suspect?”

  “I hope it was the gentleman. I didn’t like the docent’s beard.”

  “Really?”

  “Too scruffy.”

  “Is that so? I was thinking of growing one. It might look fashionable.” He rubbed his smooth chin.

  “Since when are you concerned with fashion?”

  “A wife, Emily, might be able to influence matters concerning her husband’s appearance. As it is, I have no one to answer to but myself. I’d look quite distinguished with a beard.”

  “I shan’t dignify that with a response,” I said. We had left the museum and were nearly halfway back to Berkeley Square when the rain began to fall in earnest, the wind blowing it in sheets parallel to the street. Despite our two umbrellas, we were well on our way to getting soaked, so Colin hailed the first available cab and sat next to me on its narrow bench. “I’m beginning to despise my no-kissing policy,” he said, leaning so close to me that our heads nearly touched.

  “Only beginning to despise it? I’ve deplored it from the moment you adopted it.”

  “You always did have a keen eye for the absurd.”

  Now I leaned closer to him and lifted his hand to my lips. “You could abandon the policy.”

  He almost did. Not taking his eyes off mine, he took my face in his hands and brought his lips near enough that I could feel his breath. But then he stopped. “The temptation is great, my dear, but I will remain strong. I think, however, that in the future, I shall avoid sharing hansom cabs with you.”

  The following day it became clear that I was not the only one lamenting the loss of Cécile, or, to be more precise, the loss of her maid. Davis saw to every detail of their trip personally, organizing their luggage, ensuring that the carriage was ready to take them to the station. He even directed Cook to prepare a picnic luncheon for the journey. And though he did all of this in his usual exacting manner, it was obvious to anyone who knew him well that he took no pleasure in any of it. His eyelids drooped ever so slightly, and he held his mouth more firmly than ever in a stiff, straight line. I even caught him starting to slouch when he thought no one was looking.

  “I understand that Odette will be sorely missed by the staff,” I said as we watched the coach pull away from the house.

  “She is a most capab
le woman, madam, and provided a great deal of help in the aftermath of the robbery.”

  “Cécile is lucky to have her.” We watched until the carriage had passed out of Berkeley Square. “I believe Odette is quite fond of walking around the Serpentine in Hyde Park.”

  “Yes.”

  I smiled. My own maid, Meg, never could resist keeping me on the qui vive when it came to gossip from the servants’ quarters. Last month Davis had requested Wednesday rather than Sunday as his weekly day off. Odette always took Wednesdays, and from the time Davis altered his schedule, she never walked alone.

  “Well, I do hope that you’ll be able to rally your spirits. If not, I’ll simply have to relocate the entire household to Paris. I cannot have a sullen butler.” It gratified me no end to see that this made him smile. I bade him farewell and set off for Mr. Barber’s studio, not eager in the least to go back into my own house, which was certain to feel empty without Cécile. I hoped that Mr. Barber would be able to offer me some insight into his friend David Francis.

  The sculptor had just started chipping away at a large block of marble when I interrupted him. He insisted on making me a cup of tea, which I accepted gratefully.

  “Mint,” I said, as I took a sip from the rough ceramic mug. “Delicious.”

  “Wonderful, isn’t it?” He poured some for himself and sat on the edge of the marble. “I’ve been taken with mint tea ever after I first had it in Constantinople.”

  “I should love to go there.”

  “But you have not come here to discuss my travels.”

  “No. Beatrice Francis has asked for my help, so I am trying to figure out who would have wanted her husband dead.”

  Mr. Barber frowned. “David was not the sort of man who collected enemies. He was very gracious, very…well, it might sound silly, but he was very noble.”