A Poisoned Season Read online

  “Died before they were married?” I asked. “Clearly the poor woman was cursed.”

  “Not in the least. Claudette had a sickly constitution long before Paul gave her the earrings.”

  Although I counted Cécile among my dearest friends, this story of her brother, along with vague rumors that her ancestors had been sympathetic to the monarchy during the revolution, was nearly all the information I’d heard about her family. Like me, she was a widow, though her husband had died almost thirty years ago. It was this that first drew us together—not simply that we had lost husbands, but that we had lost husbands we did not mourn.

  “I would hesitate to wear them,” Isabelle said. “You’re very brave.”

  “It would take more than a curse to stop Madame du Lac,” Colin Hargreaves said, striding confidently towards us, a broad smile on his face. “Do my eyes deceive me? Or is it true that the delights of the Season are enough to entice Lady Ashton to abandon the pleasures of Greece?”

  “Colin!” I cried, feeling an unmistakable rush of pleasure as he brushed his lips over my gloved hand, the color rising in my cheeks as our eyes met. “Your letter said you would be in Berlin until next week.”

  “My business finished more quickly than expected. I called on you at Berkeley Square not an hour ago, and your butler told me I could find you here. Lady Elinor was kind enough to allow me in without an invitation.” His face was already tanned from riding in the summer sun.

  “You are always welcome in my home, Mr. Hargreaves,” our hostess said, clearly relieved to find a gentleman other than Mr. Berry paying attention to me. “Have you met Mr. Berry?”

  “Yes, we spent some time together on the Continent this spring.” This surprised me. In all the letters he’d sent to me in the past months, Colin had never once mentioned Mr. Berry, and Mr. Berry did not strike me as the sort of man with whom Colin would have much interest in spending time.

  “Lady Elinor, would you show me where to find your claret cup?” Cécile asked, a sly smile forming on her lips.

  “May I get some for you, Madame du Lac?” Colin asked.

  “Non, merci, Monsieur Hargreaves. That would defeat my purpose entirely.” She tapped his arm with her fan as she spoke before turning to Mr. Berry. “And you, sir, come with us. I’d like to hear more about your plans for France.” Isabelle hung back for a moment, but a sharp glance from her mother spurred her to follow the group.

  “I shall never be able to adequately thank Cécile for her continuing interest in leaving me alone with you,” Colin said, kissing my hand again as soon as they had left us, “although I’d prefer a more private setting altogether. I should like nothing better than to take you in my arms.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” I replied, half wishing that he would, my hand still warm where his lips had lingered. “But I suppose it’s best not to cause a scandal this early in the Season. Are you free for dinner this evening?”

  “Unfortunately not. I’ve a prior engagement.”

  “A prior engagement?”

  “I am a very eligible bachelor, Emily. You must expect that my calendar will be very full in the coming months.”

  “Well, before you begin proposing to any of the debutantes who are sure to throw themselves at your feet, I do hope you’ll consider my feelings. I’d be quite lost if you refused to help me with my Greek.”

  “How kind of you to find some use for me.” He squeezed my hand. “It’s work, actually, that will keep me from you tonight.”

  “Anything that might interest me?” I asked. Colin was frequently called upon by Buckingham Palace to assist in matters that, as he explained it, required more than a modicum of discretion.

  “Definitely not.” Without another word, he led me, rather forcefully, to a quiet corner of the garden, where, though we did not have the privacy my library would have afforded, we were able to greet each other in a much more satisfactory manner.

  That night, though I wished I could have seen Colin, I applied myself to translating passages from Homer’s Odyssey. I brought my work to bed, where I continued to read until I drifted off to sleep, only to be awakened long before morning, disturbed by the hard cover of the book, which had wedged itself against my back. Sitting up, I gathered my now wrinkled papers and placed them on the bedside table. As I laid the volume of Homer on top of them, something moved near the wall across from me. I hesitated for only a moment before quietly slipping out of bed to investigate, but I was too late. There was nothing there. I might have dismissed it as a dream had I not noticed the curtains begin to sway. Flinging them aside, I half expected to find someone standing before me. Instead, all I saw was the window, which had been closed when I went to bed, now wide open, rain blowing into my chamber.

  I quickly lit every lamp in the room, and the flitting shadows that followed me startled me whenever they caught my eye. It was summer, but I felt a chill that I could not shake. My silk curtains were soaked and ruined, but other than that, everything looked as it had when I’d fallen asleep. Nonetheless, I rang for my butler and crossed the hallway to the room where Cécile slept. It appeared that I had overreacted until she inspected her jewelry cases. The locks on each of them had been picked, but of all the exquisite pieces that they contained, only one was missing: Marie Antoinette’s teardrop-shaped diamond earrings, the ones Cécile had worn that afternoon.

  Davis, my butler, sent for the police at once, and their thorough search of my house proved what I had suspected after seeing Cécile’s cases: Nothing was missing except the earrings. The priceless antiquities displayed in my library, the old masters’ paintings that could be found throughout the house, and my own jewelry were untouched. Not even the two-hundred-carat emerald-and-diamond necklace that sat next to the earrings was disturbed. Our thief had known what he wanted.

  “It is difficult to be angry with a man who shows such refined taste,” Cécile said the next morning as we sat at the breakfast table. “Clearly he is not motivated by greed.”

  “It’s a pity your dogs did not bark to warn us of the intruder.” Cécile refused to leave her home in Paris without her pets and would not come to visit me unless I agreed to let her bring them. Caesar and Brutus were tiny things, more likely to cower at the sight of a cat than to bark at a burglar. “If I had woken up earlier, I might have seen him,” I said, frowning. The police had found footprints in the garden beneath my room, and although the rain had washed away any identifying features, they were able to determine that the intruder had entered the house through my window. This revelation had deeply disturbed Davis, who reprimanded the entire staff and assured me that he would personally check the locks in the house every evening. I did not hold anyone responsible. Had it not been raining, I would have directed my maid to leave the window open, and I said as much to Colin when he arrived to find Cécile and me still at breakfast.

  “Best to keep the windows closed and locked in the future. I am most relieved to see both of you unharmed after your ordeal. I wouldn’t have called at such a beastly hour if I weren’t concerned about you.”

  Cécile smiled. “I’ve always wanted to breakfast with you, Monsieur Hargreaves. Let me assure you we are quite fine, though I suspect that had you been here last night, my earrings would not have vanished. How unfortunate that you had other plans.”

  “Even if I had called last night, I would not have been here so late.”

  Cécile looked at me pointedly. “That, of course, is not for me to say,” she said.

  “How did you learn of the theft?” I asked.

  “A friend in Scotland Yard alerted me.”

  “And will you investigate?”

  “No, Emily. I’m not a detective.”

  “Such is our misfortune, Monsieur Hargreaves,” Cécile said.

  “It is a strange case, though,” Colin said. “Lord Grantham’s house was broken into three weeks ago, and the only object taken was a Limoges box. The following week, a gilt inkwell disappeared from the home of Mrs. Blanche Wilmot.
Both items belonged to Marie Antoinette.”

  “I have great hopes for our thief, Monsieur Hargreaves,” Cécile said. “It is rare to find a man with such focus.”

  “There is no reason to think that he will come here again, unless one of you is hiding another of the ill-fated queen’s possessions.”

  “We aren’t, so I suppose we’re safe,” I said, rubbing my temples and suddenly feeling very tired. “I admit that it’s unnerving to have been so violated.”

  “I shall have Inspector Manning, who has been assigned to the case, step up patrols near your house. You needn’t worry.”

  “I don’t know the inspector, but you, Monsieur Hargreaves, inspire absolute confidence,” Cécile said. “I will quite depend upon you.” She patted his arm as she walked past him. “Do not keep Kallista too long.” Cécile had not abandoned her habit of calling me by the name my late husband had used for me.

  “Excitement seems to follow you,” Colin said, accepting the cup of tea I poured for him.

  “It’s following Cécile. I’ve never owned anything of Marie Antoinette’s.”

  “I’m glad of it.” His dark eyes flashed. “I cannot stand thinking of that criminal in your room. I should have come to you last night.”

  “Cécile’s remark was not meant as a rebuke. She merely wanted me to ponder the idea of having you here so late at night. She’s quite a corrupting influence.”

  “Then I am forever indebted to her.”

  “As you should be.”

  “And did you ponder the idea of having me here so late at night?”

  “I did. It was most pleasant.” Our eyes met. At once my fatigue dissipated as the feeling of violation was replaced with a lovely warmth. “Perhaps after the Season you should come to Greece with me.” I had spent much of the spring exploring Greece, using as my base the villa that had become mine after Philip’s death.

  “Hardly appropriate for us to travel together.”

  “I thought you approved of my corruption?”

  “I wholeheartedly do, but I don’t want to see you that corrupt.” He stood up, walked around the table to me, and took my hands. I closed my eyes, anticipating his kiss when Davis entered the room, carrying the morning mail on a small silver tray. Colin contented himself with quickly kissing my hand and went back to his seat. Doing my best to show no disappointment, I turned my attention to the envelopes before me. With invitations to two or three balls every evening, and as many dinner parties, not to mention teas, garden parties, and luncheons, one could easily be overwhelmed during the Season. And that was before considering the Derby, Ascot, the Royal Academy’s Summer Exhibition, or any of the numerous other events not to be missed. I sifted through the pile before me, checking for personal correspondence.

  “Anything interesting?” Colin asked.

  “That’s unlikely, unless you’ve sent me something.” I tossed aside a note from my mother, knowing full well that it contained an admonishment for my turning down an invitation to her friend Lady Elliott’s reception for Charles Berry. Although my mother had been content to see me married to a viscount—particularly as Philip’s family had connections to royalty going back to the reign of Elizabeth—she had taken a renewed interest in my status since I’d come out of mourning and had returned to her hope that I might yet marry royalty.

  Another envelope caught my attention. It bore no stamp so must have been hand-delivered. Inside was a short passage, written in ancient Greek:

  “Is this from you?” I asked, passing it to Colin.

  “Unfortunately not, though I wish it were. I agree heartily with the sentiment.”

  “Could you translate for me? I’m afraid I couldn’t do it without my lexicon.”

  “Nothing is sweeter than love, and all delicious things are second to it.” It’s from The Greek Anthology. Perhaps your tutor has succumbed to your charms.”

  “Mr. Moore?” I laughed. “Not likely. If anything, he’s infuriated by my insistence on reading only Homer. Though perhaps I should reconsider that position now that I know how…inspiring…The Greek Anthology is.”

  “You could focus on its religious epigrams.”

  “Mr. Moore would like that very much.”

  “Have you any idea who it might be from?”

  “Not the slightest.”

  “Should I be jealous?”

  “Of course not. If I’m not certain that even you could convince me to marry again, then this anonymous admirer, whoever he may be, has not the remotest chance.”

  “Oh, I’ll convince you, Emily. Never doubt it. By this time next year, we’ll be breakfasting together daily, and it won’t be downstairs.”

  2

  WHAT A BIZARRE INCIDENT,” DAVID FRANCIS SAID AFTER LISTENING to my spirited account of the burglary. Cécile had met him the previous week at the studio of Michael Barber, a sculptor, and tonight we brought both gentlemen to my house in Berkeley Square following a trip to the theater to see Mr. Ibsen’s controversial new play, Hedda Gabler. Like Cécile, Mr. Francis was a patron of the arts, and the pair had become fast friends the moment they began discussing their mutual admiration of French impressionism.

  “Even more bizarre when you consider the fact that there have been three such thefts,” I said, and told them what had occurred at the houses of Lord Grantham and Mrs. Wilmot.

  “How strange to find a thief with such specific purpose,” Mr. Barber said. “Why this interest in the French queen?”

  “It’s hard to avoid the House of Bourbon since Mr. Berry arrived in London,” I said. “Society is consumed with all things French.”

  “C’est vrai,” Cécile said. “But I will not believe for a moment that Monsieur Berry is behind the crimes. He’s not clever enough by half.”

  “And even if he were, he drinks far too much to pull off such a scheme,” Mr. Barber said.

  “Do you think he truly is who he says? Surely Marie Antoinette wouldn’t have produced a great-great-grandson of such dubious merit.” I swirled the port in my glass as I spoke.

  “Marie Antoinette is not often viewed as a sympathetic character,” Mr. Francis said.

  “And history, Mr. Francis, is recorded by the victor. I’d wager that the poor queen wasn’t nearly as bad as we’re led to believe. I’ve always felt she was treated badly in the matter of the diamond necklace.”

  “It was a most convoluted business,” Cécile said. “And very likely the queen’s enemies were all too willing to encourage anything that might harm her reputation.”

  “Wasn’t there evidence that she was having an affair with a cardinal and had asked him to acquire the jewels for her?” Mr. Barber asked.

  “Gossip, Mr. Barber, is hardly reliable evidence,” I replied. “A jeweler made the necklace, which was absurdly expensive, and Marie Antoinette refused to buy it. One of her enemies convinced the cardinal, who was hoping to become the queen’s lover, that she wanted it, and he gave this woman the money to buy it, believing she would give it to the queen.”

  “The woman—the Comtesse de la Motte—disappeared with both the necklace and the cardinal’s money,” Cécile continued. “And the queen was presented with a very large bill by the jewelers. Eventually the cardinal and the comtesse were brought to trial, but it was the queen’s reputation that suffered. People were quick to believe she was behind the scheme, and it brought to light the idea that her morals were not what they ought to be.”

  “The cardinal, perhaps, should not have been brought to trial, but the queen insisted,” I said. “He was charged with insulting her dignity.”

  “I should very much like to own the diamonds from that necklace,” Cécile said, her eyes sparkling. “I wonder how difficult it would be to persuade the current owner to part with them.”

  “Don’t even consider such a thing until our intrepid thief is caught,” I said.

  “I find the nature of these burglaries particularly intriguing,” said Mr. Francis, dragging deeply on his cigar as he walked to the table o
n which stood a decanter of port. He slowly refilled his glass, offering no further explanation of his comment. “Your port, Lady Ashton, is worthy of its reputation.”

  “I wasn’t aware that it had a reputation.”

  “Oh, yes. Your scandalous habit of taking it after dinner is a favorite topic of conversation at my club. The members are divided on how a gentleman should react when a lady refuses to retire to the drawing room. Many insist that it would be better to forsake the beverage entirely than to encourage the corruption of a viscount’s widow. However, when faced with your most excellent cellar, it’s difficult for a fellow to stand by his principles.”

  “There are few things I enjoy more than a nice port, and I think it’s outrageous that ladies are sent away right as the conversation starts to get interesting,” I said.

  Mr. Francis smiled. “Gentlemen don’t want ladies hearing the sorts of conversation that are interesting, and they would be quick to point out that there are many lovely sherries that you could drink.” He returned to his seat.

  I noticed that he had done a neat job of directing the conversation away from his comment about the thefts. “If I may return to our previous subject, why is it that you are particularly intrigued by the burglaries we were discussing?”

  “A pink diamond from the French queen’s personal collection was taken from my safe no less than a fortnight ago.”

  “I had no idea!” Mr. Barber exclaimed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I didn’t consider the matter to be of any consequence to you,” Mr. Francis said.

  “You are my friend. Of course a theft at your house is of consequence to me.”

  “What did the police say?” I asked. “Were they able to find any clues?”

  “I didn’t bother to contact them. There’s little hope they would recover the stone, and I prefer to keep my affairs private.”

  “Have you hired an investigator to pursue the matter?” I asked.

  “No. I can’t imagine there would be any point in doing so.”

  “You can’t let such a thing go unreported,” I said.