Seven Dials

chapter SEVEN
CHARLOTTE FOUND IT very difficult trying to occupy her mind with anything, knowing that Pitt was in Egypt, alone in a land of which he knew nothing. More dangerous than simply its unfamiliarity was the fact that he was there to ask questions about a woman who might well be a heroine in her people's struggle against British domination of Egyptian affairs. She tried to occupy herself with any number of other thoughts, mostly trivial, but they all fled before the enormity of his absence once she turned off the last of the gaslights downstairs and went up to her bedroom alone. Then she lay in the dark and her imagination raced.

Therefore she was pleased to see Tellman on the evening of the third day after Pitt had left. Gracie answered the back door to find him standing there looking tired and cold, his face pinched from the wind. He came in at her invitation, stamping his feet a little on the scullery floor as if to get rid of water, although it was not raining at the moment, but it had been. He took off his coat.

"Good evening, Mrs. Pitt," he said, looking at Charlotte anxiously, as if somehow it was still his concern to care for her in Pitt's absence. The old habit died hard, as did the pretense that he did not care.

"Good evening, Inspector," she replied, amusement in her smile as well as pleasure to see him. She gave him his title intentionally. She had never used his Christian name. She was not even sure if Gracie had more than the odd, highly informal time. "Come in and have a cup of tea," she invited him. "You look cold. Have you had any supper?"

"Not yet," he replied, pulling out one of the hard-backed chairs and sitting down.

"I'll get yer summink," Gracie said quickly, putting the kettle onto the hob as she spoke. "In't got nuthin' left over for yer, though, 'ceptin' cold mutton an' bubble an' squeak-'ow's that?"

"Very good, thank you," Tellman said without pleasure, glancing at Charlotte to make sure that was acceptable to her also.

"Of course," she agreed quickly. "Have you heard something about Martin Garvie?"

He looked across at her, then at Gracie, his face full of pity and a gentleness exaggerated by the gaslight's soft glow catching the angles of his high cheekbones and hollow cheeks.

"No," he admitted. "And I've looked every way I can without police authority." The urgency in his voice made it impossible to argue with him.

"Wot did yer get, then?" Gracie asked, putting the frying pan on the top of the stove and bending to riddle the ash down and allow the fire to burn hotly again. She did it almost absently, still looking mostly at Tellman.

"Martin Garvie's definitely gone," he answered unhappily. "Nobody's seen him in almost two weeks now, but nobody's seen Stephen Garrick either. None of the servants, which is what you said, so at first they supposed he was in his rooms, taken sick, in one of his tantrums-"

"Not for more than a week, without the cook at least being aware of it," Charlotte interrupted. "Whatever illness he had, she'd be sending food of some sort up to him. And in that length of time, surely they'd have the doctor in?"

"So far as I can find out, there's been no doctor," Tellman answered, shaking his head a little. "And no other caller for him either." His face tightened, his eyes black. "He's not in the house-and nor is Martin Garvie. There'd be food, bed linen, if nothing else..."

Gracie fetched the cold potatoes from the larder. She started to peel and chop the onions with a brief apology, fishing for a handkerchief at the same time. "Bubble an' squeak's no good without onions," she said, by way of explanation. The frying pan was already beginning to get hot.

"Were there no letters?" Charlotte asked. "Invitations? Surely they would be replied to... or at least forwarded?"

Tellman bit his lip. "I couldn't be that direct, but I asked around about Mr. Garrick, and it seems he doesn't have that many friends. He's not good company. At least that's what I understood."

Gracie sniffed and dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief, then slid the chopped onions into the hot fat, and the sizzle blocked out her next words. " 'E's gotta 'ave somebody!" she repeated. " 'E don't work an' 'e don't stay 'ome, so where'd 'e go? Don't nob'dy miss 'im?"

"Well, as far as I can make out, nobody sees him often enough to wonder where he's gone," Tellman replied, looking at Gracie, then turning in his chair to Charlotte. "He doesn't seem to have the same sort of life as most young men his age from a family like that. He doesn't go to a regular club, so nobody thought it odd not to see him. There's nowhere he's known, nobody he talks to, or plays any sport with, wagers with... nothing to make a... a life!" He cleared his throat. "I see the same people just about every day. If I wasn't there they'd soon miss me, an' there'd be questions asked."

Charlotte frowned. It was worrying, but there was nothing specific yet to grasp. The subject that rose to her mind was indelicate, but the matter was too serious to pay deference to such things. However, she was aware of Tellman's sensibilities, particularly in front of Gracie. "He is not married," she said, feeling her way. "And apparently not courting anyone, so far as we know. Does he have..." Now she was not sure what to say.

"Couldn't find anything," Tellman said hastily, cutting her off. "As far as I could learn, he was an unhappy man." He glanced at Gracie. "Much as you said. Drinks a lot and gets difficult. Lost most of his friends lately. They don't seem to see him anymore. Not that I've had time to look very deep. But nobody's seen him, and he doesn't seem to have been planning to go anywhere, so wherever it is, he went in a hurry."

"And took Martin Garvie with 'im?" Gracie said, stirring the onions without looking at them. "Then why didn't the cook know? An' Bella? Surely they'd 'ave 'eard? 'E didn't go without cases an' things. Gentlemen don't."

"No, they don't," Charlotte agreed. "And you didn't answer about his letters. Are they forwarded to him, wherever he is? Someone would decline invitations, but surely he would want his letters?"

"His father?" Tellman suggested.

"Probably," Charlotte agreed. "But does he take them to the postbox himself? Why? Most people like him have a footman to do that. Has Stephen gone somewhere so secret the household staff are not allowed to know? And why did Martin leave no message for Tilda?"

"Wasn't time," Tellman answered. "It was a sudden invitation... or at least a sudden decision on his part."

"To somewhere from which Martin could not send a letter, if not to Tilda, then at least to someone who could let her know?" Charlotte said dubiously.

Gracie tipped the potatoes and cabbage into the pan to let them heat through, to mix with the onions and brown nicely. "It don't sound right ter me," she said quietly. "It in't natural. I think as there's summink wrong."

"So do I." Charlotte looked unblinkingly at Tellman.

Tellman gazed back at her without shifting his eyes even momentarily. "I don't know how to take it any further, Mrs. Pitt. The police have got no reason to ask anyone. I got shown out pretty sharply more than once, as it was, and told to attend to my own affairs. I had to pretend it was to do with a robbery. Said that Mr. Garrick could have been a witness." His face pinched up, showing his loathing for having allowed himself into the position of needing to lie. Charlotte wondered if Gracie knew just what cost he had paid to please her. She looked across at Gracie's back, stiff and straight as she paid attention to the hot bubble and squeak in the frying pan, and very carefully lifted it on the slice to avoid breaking the crisp surface as she set it on the plate beside the cold mutton. Perhaps she did.

Tellman took the plate from her appreciatively. "Thank you." He began to eat after only the slightest hesitation when Charlotte nodded to indicate he was welcome to begin.

"So wot are we gonna do, then?" Gracie asked, damping the fire down and filling the teapot. "We can't jus' leave it. 'E in't gone inter thin air. If summink's 'appened ter 'im it's murder, whether it's both of 'em or just Martin." She turned to Charlotte. "D'yer reckon as Mr. Garrick 'ad one of 'is rages an' 'it Martin, mebbe real 'ard, an' 'e died? An' they're coverin' it up ter save 'im? Send 'im orff inter the country, or summink?"

Charlotte was about to say "Of course not" when she realized that she was actually considering the possibility.

Tellman drew in his breath, but his mouth was full.

"I think we need to know a great deal more about the Garrick family," Charlotte said, choosing her words carefully.

Gracie's face tightened. "Yer gonna ask Lady Vespasia?" she said hopefully. She had not only heard of Vespasia's help in other cases, she had actually met her and been spoken to on more than one occasion. Vespasia had visited Keppel Street. Gracie could not have been more impressed had it been the Queen herself. After all, the Queen was short and more than a little plump, whereas Vespasia was as regal and as beautiful as a queen should be. And more important than that, she was willing to help wholeheartedly in the solving of crimes. She might be a real lady, with all the unimaginable glamour that went with that, but she helped them detect, and that was the ultimate belonging. "She'd know," Gracie added encouragingly.

Charlotte looked at Gracie's eager face and then at Tellman, who hated aristocrats, and amateurs interfering with police business, especially women, and saw his eyes flicker, a shadow of self-mockery with the denial. She hesitated as if deferring to his opinion, then when he said nothing, she nodded.

"I can't think of anything better. As we have already acknowledged, there is no police case to pursue, but there is almost certainly something wrong," he conceded. "There's no help for it."

IT WAS FAR TOO LATE that evening to contact Aunt Vespasia, but in the morning Charlotte dressed in her best calling gown, albeit very definitely last year's cut, which she had had no reason or incentive to alter yet. Since Pitt's demotion from head of Bow Street into Special Branch, she had had absolutely no excuse, or opportunity, to attend social engagements of any importance. It was only now, looking at her overfamiliar wardrobe, that she realized it quite so forcefully.

However, there was no money to spare for unnecessary indulgences such as a fashionable gown when what she had was warm, becoming and perfectly adequate. It was not so very long ago that they had both worried as to whether there would be food and coal.

The thing that stung was that she had not had the opportunity to help Thomas, which would have been an important thing in itself, and as an added benefit would have given her the chance and the excuse to borrow something glamorous from Emily, or even from Aunt Vespasia herself, who, although two generations older, was of a more similar height.

Now she pulled out her plum-colored morning dress and changed into it, pleased that at least it still fit her very nicely. Finding the right hat was less easy, and she settled for black with a touch of soft reddish pink. She did not really like it, but she owned nothing better, and one could not call without wearing a hat of some sort. More important than her own feelings, if anyone else were calling upon Vespasia, she would not like to embarrass her. No one wishes for impecunious relatives, however distant, still less for ones with distressing taste in clothes.

Gracie saw her off with enthusiasm and last-minute advice and instruction. She would not have been so impertinent as to offer it had she thought first, but her eagerness overcame propriety.

"We gotta know wot that 'ouse'old is like," she said with a frown. "They done summink to 'im. We gotta find out wot, an' why."

"I shall tell Aunt Vespasia the truth," Charlotte answered her, standing on the front step and looking up at the sky. It was a beautiful day, bright but decidedly crisp.

"It in't gonna rain," Gracie said decisively.

"No, I can see that. I was just thinking it is the sort of day when everyone and their mothers will think to go out calling. I may be fortunate to find her alone, and it is really not the sort of conversation where I would care to be interrupted."

"Well, we gotta try," Gracie urged. "An' I can't think o' no one better than Lady Vespasia. We don't know nob'dy else, unless Mrs. Radley knows 'em?"

"Emily isn't of much help," Charlotte replied, stepping off onto the pavement. "She has not really been around long enough. I will be back when I can do no more. Good-bye." And she set off with determination, now intent upon getting a hansom rather than saving money and losing time by taking a series of omnibuses. If she did the latter she would have to get off some considerable distance from Vespasia's house. One could hardly arrive to call on Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould having alighted from a public omnibus.

However, when she arrived, Vespasia's maid, who knew her well, told her with much regret that Lady Vespasia had decided in such clement weather to take the carriage to the park and go for a walk.

Charlotte was surprised how sharply disappointed she was. London was full of parks, but when society referred to "the Park" it only ever meant Hyde Park, so there was nothing to do but find another hansom and direct the driver to take her there.

Earlier in the year, during the season, she might have found a hundred carriages in or near the park, and looking for an individual would have been a waste of time, but now in the sharper autumn sunshine of late September, with a very decided chill in the breeze, there were not more than a dozen carriages at the nearer end of Rotten Row, and perhaps the same at the farther. Footmen and coachmen stood around gossiping with each other in the dappled shade, and keeping a weather eye open not to be caught by a returning master or mistress. Horses stood idly, moving only now and then with a clink of harness, brasses gleaming in the sun.

Charlotte was perfectly prepared to find Vespasia and join her, even if it meant interrupting almost anyone, short of the Princess of Wales. But since the Princess was seriously deaf, it was most unlikely Vespasia would be engaged in conversation with her, although they were friends, and had been so for years. If Vespasia was speaking with a duchess or countess, Charlotte would be unlikely to recognize the fact. She realized with a sharp intake of breath that she had better behave with the utmost circumspection, even if the lady in question should turn out to be of no social consequence whatever. Vespasia was perfectly capable of talking to an actress or a courtesan, if the person interested her.

It was nearly half an hour of walking at a breathless pace, moving from one group to another and wearing a blister on her left heel, before Charlotte finally caught up with Vespasia. She was actually walking alone, her head high, her steel-gray hat with its sweeping brim adorned with a magnificent silver ostrich plume. Her gown was a paler shade of gray, and there was a white ruffle at her throat of such superb lace as to look as if it were breaking foam in the sunlight.

She turned as she heard Charlotte's footsteps crunch on the grit behind her. "You look out of breath, my dear," she said, her eyebrows raised. "No doubt it is something of the utmost importance to bring you in such haste." She looked down at Charlotte's dusty hem and the slightly lopsided way she was standing, due to the blister. "Would you care to sit down for a little while?" She could already see from Charlotte's face that it was not a matter of emotional distress.

"Thank you," Charlotte accepted, suddenly feeling the blister even more profoundly. She did her best to walk more or less uprightly until they reached the next seat, then sank into it with gratitude. In a moment or two she would unbutton the boot and see what could be done to ease the pain.

Vespasia looked at her with wry amusement. "I am consumed with curiosity," she said with a smile. "What has brought you out to an unaccustomed place, alone, and in what appears to be some difficulty?"

"The need to know," Charlotte answered, wincing as she moved her foot experimentally. She smoothed her skirt and sat a little more upright, aware that passersby were looking at her, very discreetly, of course, and almost certainly because she was with Vespasia. No doubt they would be asking one another who on earth she was. Were Vespasia sensitive about her reputation, it would have embarrassed her, but she did not care in the slightest, let the world think what it wished.

"More about Saville Ryerson?" Vespasia said quietly. "I am not certain that I can help you. I wish I could."

"Actually, about Mr. Ferdinand Garrick," Charlotte corrected her.

Vespasia's eyes widened. "Ferdinand Garrick? Don't tell me that he has a connection with the Eden Lodge affair. That is absurd. So much so that it is about the only thing which could possibly redeem it from absolute tragedy. It would then become farce."

Charlotte stared at her, uncertain how serious Vespasia was. She had a sharp and highly individual sense of humor which was no respecter of persons.

"Why?" she asked.

The expression on Vespasia's face was sad, wry, and of slight distaste mixed with memory. "Ferdinand Garrick is what some people refer to as a 'muscular Christian,' my dear," she replied, and saw the answering comprehension in Charlotte's face. "A man of ebullient and officious virtue," she continued. "He eats healthily, exercises too much, enjoys being too cold, and makes everyone else in his establishment equally uncomfortable. He denies himself and everybody else, imagines himself closer to God for it. Like castor oil, he may on some occasions be right, but he is extremely difficult to like."

Charlotte hid a smile.

"Actually, it has nothing to do with Mr. Ryerson," she replied. "Thomas has gone to Alexandria to find out more about Ayesha Zakhari."

Vespasia sat absolutely motionless. A couple of gentlemen strolled past, and both of them tipped their hats to her. She appeared not even to have seen them.

"Alexandria?" she murmured. "Good heavens! I presume Victor Narraway sent him? He could not possibly have gone otherwise. No, I apologize. That was a ridiculous question." She breathed out very slowly. "So he is taking it all the way, after all. I am glad to hear it. When did he leave?"

"Four days ago," Charlotte replied, surprised how much longer it seemed. Even though he was away from the house all day, the nights were horribly empty without him, as if she had forgotten to light the fires. The warmth and the heart of the home were gone. Did he miss her as much on the rare occasions she was away? She hoped fiercely that he did. "He should be there by now," she added.

"Indeed he should," Vespasia agreed. "He will find it extraordinarily interesting. I imagine it will not have changed a great deal, not at heart." Her mouth pulled a little twistedly. "Although I have not been there since Mr. Gladstone saw fit to bombard it. That cannot have increased their affection for us. Not that that usually worries us overmuch. But Alexandria does not bear grudges. It simply absorbs whatever is sent there, like food, and transmutes it into another part of itself. It has done so to the Arabs, the Greeks, the Romans, the Armenians, the Jews, and the French-why not the British as well? We have something to offer, and it accepts everything. Its taste is magnificently eclectic. That is its genius."

Charlotte would gladly have asked questions and listened to the answers all day, but with difficulty she forced her attention back to the only part of anything going on that she could possibly affect for good.

"I need to know something about Ferdinand Garrick because a friend of Gracie's has a brother who has gone missing," she explained.

"Gracie?" Vespasia's interest was immediate. "That little maid of yours, the one with enough spirit for two girls twice her size? From where has the young man gone missing, and why does it concern Ferdinand Garrick, of all people? If he has dismissed a servant he will believe himself to have had an excellent reason, and there will be no arguing with him. He has irredeemably absolute ideas about virtue-and justice is a great deal higher in his estimation than mercy."

"He hasn't dismissed him, as far as we know," Charlotte replied, although she felt a chill as she saw the anxiety in Vespasia's eyes. She was still speaking with a lightness in her voice, but her words about mercy were carefully chosen and Charlotte knew it. "Actually, Martin worked for Garrick's son, Stephen. He was his valet." She shook her head in impatience with herself. "I don't know why I say was. As far as we know he still is. It is just that he has not been in touch with Tilda, who is his only relative in the world, for nearly three weeks now, and that is something that has never happened before. And when Gracie went to the Garrick house to make discreet enquiries, the staff did not appear to know where he was. And for that matter, Stephen himself does not appear to be at home. At first they assumed he was confined to his room, which apparently happens every so often. But there has been no food sent up, and no laundry came down."

"Gracie went to the house?" Vespasia said with a lift of admiration in her voice. "I should very much like to have seen that! What did she learn, other than that neither man is at home and the staff knew nothing as to where they were? Or at least will say nothing," she amended.

"That Stephen Garrick is an unhappy man with a violent temper, which he indulges freely, that he drinks too much, and that no one can manage his moods, or his times of despair, except Martin," Charlotte said succinctly. "So it would make little sense to dismiss Martin, because they would have a terrible difficulty replacing him."

Vespasia sat still for a few moments, apparently watching the occasional parade of ladies in their finest gowns on the arms of gentlemen in dark morning suits or bright military splendor.

"Unless he was unfortunate enough to witness a particularly unpleasant episode," she said at length, her voice low and sad. "And unwise enough to ask for extra remuneration as a result. Then he might be viewed as more cost than he was worth, and dismissed without a character."

"Wouldn't that be very foolish?" Charlotte questioned. "If I had a servant privy to family secrets, I would want him close by me, not looking for work elsewhere, and with a grudge... a justifiable one at that."

Vespasia shook her head very slightly. "My dear, a man of Ferdinand Garrick's stature does not stoop to explain himself, and prospective employers do not ask a servant they are considering what his reasons were for his actions. They would simply accept that he had threatened Garrick with loose talk of family matters. Indiscretion is the ultimate sin in a personal servant. It would have been less severe if he had taken the family silver rather than the family reputation. One can always buy more silver, or even if the worse comes to the worst, survive without it. No one survives without a reputation."

Charlotte knew Vespasia was right. "I still need to know what happened to Martin," she persisted. "If he was simply dismissed, why didn't he tell Tilda? Especially if it was unfair."

"I don't know," Vespasia admitted, nodding to an acquaintance who had seen her and doffed his hat. She looked quickly at Charlotte, so the man did not take her acknowledgment as an invitation to join them. "I think you are right to be concerned."

"What is Ferdinand Garrick like, apart from being religiously unsufferable?" Charlotte wriggled her foot, hoping the blister had eased a little. It had not.

"For goodness' sake, child, take your boot off!" Vespasia told her.

"Here?" Charlotte said in amazement.

Vespasia smiled. "You will make less of a spectacle of yourself removing a boot than you will by hobbling the length of the row back to my carriage. People will think you are intoxicated. I do not know Ferdinand Garrick well, nor do I wish to. He is a type of man I do not care for. He is devoid of humor, and I have come to believe that a sense of humor is almost the same thing as a sense of proportion." She watched with pleasure as a loose-limbed puppy capered about, throwing up gravel with its feet. "It is the absurdity of disproportion which makes us laugh," she continued. "There is something innately funny in punctured self-importance, in the positioning side by side of that which is incongruous. If everything in the world were suitable, appropriate, it would be unbearably tedious. Without laughter, something in life is lost." She smiled, but there was sudden, deep sorrow in her eyes. "Sanity, perhaps," she said quietly.

Then she lifted her chin. "But I shall find Ferdinand Garrick and see what I can discern. I have nothing more interesting to do, and certainly nothing more important. Perhaps that is the ultimate absurdity?" The puppy had disappeared across the grass, and she was regarding a man and woman who looked to be in their fifties, exquisitely dressed in the height of fashion, walking down the middle of the pathway, nodding graciously to either side of them as they saw people they knew. They acknowledged some and looked through others, now and again hesitating until they had glanced at each other and made up their minds.

"Filling your time with games," Vespasia remarked. "And imagining they matter, because you can think of nothing that does. Or you can, but do not do it."

"Aunt Vespasia," Charlotte said tentatively.

Vespasia turned to look at her, enquiry in her eyes.

"I know you would not like to think that Mr. Ryerson killed Lovat," Charlotte said. "Or even that he deliberately helped Miss Zakhari with the intention that she should get away with murdering him, but facing the worst, what do you really believe?" She saw Vespasia smile. "We cannot defend against the worst if we do not acknowledge what it is," she pointed out, but gently, aware of Vespasia's affections. "What kind of man is he, not just what the police will find, but what you know?"

Vespasia was silent for so long that Charlotte thought she was not going to answer. She stopped waiting for her to speak and bent over to finish unbuttoning her boot. She eased it off painfully. There was a hole in the heel of her stocking, which was what had caused the problem. The skin was raw, but it was not yet bleeding.

She felt a touch on her arm and looked up. Vespasia was holding out a large silk handkerchief and a tiny pair of nail scissors.

"If you cut the stocking off, and tie the silk around your foot," she said, "it will enable you to get home with a minimum of additional damage."

Charlotte thought of the appearance of the colored silk above her boot if her skirt swung wide.

"Smile," Vespasia advised. "Better to be noted for eccentric footwear than a sour expression. Besides, who are you going to encounter here that you will ever see again, and whose opinion you would care about in the slightest?"

"No one," Charlotte agreed, smiling far more broadly than the invitation had suggested. "Thank you."

"You are very delicate in your questions, my dear." Vespasia looked at the far trees, only the odd leaf here and there touched by the warm colors of autumn. "But you are quite right. Saville Ryerson is a man of deep emotions, impulsive, and... and physical." She bit her lip very slightly. "He lost his wife in a miserable mischance of fortune in '71, but it was more than that; there was a betrayal involved, although I do not know what, and I certainly do not know by whom." She dropped her voice even lower. "He was furiously angry, even before her death. Not only did he grieve for her, and that he had not been able to save her, but he felt a guilt that he then could never take back the things he had said, even though he believed they were true."

Charlotte finished rebuttoning her boot. "That must have been very hard. But Lovat could have had nothing to do with it, surely? It happened over twenty years ago."

"Nothing whatsoever," Vespasia agreed. "I tell you only so you may know more closely what kind of man he is. He remained alone from that time onward. He served his party and his constituents. They were hard taskmasters, capricious, demanding much and giving little-at times not even loyalty. But the best of them loved him, and he knew it. But it wearied him to the soul, and he did it alone." She made a slight, deprecatory gesture with her pale, gloved hand. "I do not mean he abstained from satisfying his desires, of course, simply that he was discreet, and he had little if any involvement of the emotions."

"Until Ayesha Zakhari..."

"Exactly. And a passionate man who neither gives nor receives anything for himself for over two decades, when he does fall in love, is going to do so with great violence, greater than he understands or can master. He becomes uniquely vulnerable." She said it softly, as if she had seen the reality of it herself.

"Yes..." Charlotte said thoughtfully, trying to picture it in her mind, imagine the waiting, the loneliness over years, and then the power of feeling when finally it came.

"What I do not understand," Vespasia countered, her voice suddenly sharp and very practical again, "is why the woman shot Lovat. Given that he was not a particularly pleasant man and that he may have been annoying her, why on earth did she not simply ignore him? If he really was a nuisance, why didn't she send for the police?"

A far uglier thought came to Charlotte's mind. "Perhaps he was blackmailing her, possibly over something that happened in Alexandria and which he threatened to tell Ryerson? Which would account for why she could not trust him with the truth."

Vespasia looked down at the grass at her feet. "Yes," she admitted reluctantly. "Yes, that would not be impossible to believe. I hope profoundly that it is not true. One would have thought she would have more sense than to do it on a night when she expected Ryerson to come. But perhaps circumstances did not allow her that choice."

"That would also explain why she still does not confide in anyone," Charlotte added, hating her thoughts, but certain it was better to say it all aloud now than let it run in her mind unanswered, but just as insistent. "Although I cannot imagine what it would be, other than some plan to compromise Ryerson... to do with his position in the government."

"A spy?" Vespasia said. "Or I suppose an agent provocateur would be more correct. Poor Saville-set up to be betrayed again." She drew in a very long, slow breath and let it out in a sigh. "How fragile we are." She started to rise to her feet. "How infinitely easy to hurt."

Charlotte stood up quickly and offered her arm.

"Thank you," Vespasia said dryly. "I weep inside for the pain of a man I have liked, but I am perfectly capable of standing up on my own-and I have no blisters. Perhaps you would care for my arm... to assist you as far as my carriage? I should be happy to take you back to Keppel Street... if that is where you are going?"

Charlotte bit back her smile, at least half back. "That is very good of you," she accepted, taking Vespasia's arm but leaning no weight upon it. "Yes, I am going home. Perhaps you would care for a cup of tea when we get there?"

"Thank you, I should," Vespasia accepted with barely a flicker of amusement in her gray eyes. "No doubt the excellent Gracie would make it for us, and at the same time tell me more about this missing valet?"

VESPASIA ENJOYED her tea. She insisted upon taking it in the kitchen, a room she never visited in her own house. When her cook had recovered from her astonishment, she would have been affronted. They met daily in Vespasia's morning room, where the cook came to receive her instructions, and counter with her own suggestions, and in due course a compromise was reached. The cook did not come into the withdrawing room. Vespasia did not invade the kitchen. It was a mutually agreed arrangement.

But Charlotte's kitchen was the heart of the family, where food was not only prepared but also eaten. Gas lamps reflected on the polished copper of pans, the smell of clean linen drifted from the airing rack winched up to the ceiling, and the wooden table and floor were pale from being scrubbed every day.

At first Gracie was quiet, in spite of all her good intentions to the contrary, overawed by the presence of real aristocracy in her kitchen, sitting at her table, as if she were just anyone. And of course even now, Vespasia was the most beautiful woman Gracie had ever seen, with her silver hair, hooded eyes, high fragile bones and porcelain skin.

But gradually Gracie's passion in her cause had won, and she had told Vespasia exactly what she believed, and feared, and Vespasia had eventually left with as much information on the problem as Charlotte and Gracie had themselves.

That was why at a little after half past seven that evening Vespasia stood in the foyer of the Royal Opera House, the diamonds in her tiara blazing, the lavender smoke satin of her gown a column of stillness in the rattle and rustle of pinks and golds.

She regarded the crowd as it passed her, looking for the vaguely familiar figure of Ferdinand Garrick. It had taken her most of the afternoon to discern, with the utmost discretion, where he planned to be this evening, and then to cajole a friend who owed her a favor into parting with her own tickets for the event.

Lastly had come a call to Judge Theloneus Quade, inviting him to accompany her, a request she knew he would not refuse, which caused her a sharp pang of guilt. She knew his feelings for her, and since the return of Mario Corena, honor had compelled that she did not mislead anyone, nor seem to use someone else's affections of which she was more than aware. Also the depth of that fierce love of her most vital years had come back with a tenderness now, a reality that dimmed all other possibilities, and she was not yet ready even to try to let it go. Mario was dead, but what she felt was woven into her inner self forever.

But it was the peril to Martin Garvie that must occupy her attention now, and she did believe it was real. She had not allowed Gracie, or even Charlotte, to see how much it concerned her. She knew a little of Ferdinand Garrick, and she did not care for him. She could not have explained why, it was instinctive, but because there were no conscious reasons for it, it was also impossible to argue it away.

Of course she had confided in Theloneus, not only because she owed him at the very least an explanation for such unseemly haste in attending an opera she knew he liked no better than she did, but also because she valued both his friendship and his discretion too much not to avail herself of his assistance in a cause which might prove far from easy.

She saw Garrick at the same moment that Theloneus did.

"Forward?" he said gently; it was only half a question.

"I'm afraid so," she replied, and taking his arm she started to urge her way through the crowd.

However, by the time they reached Garrick he was very obviously engaged in a conversation with an extremely conservative bishop for whom Vespasia could not even pretend to have a warmth of regard. Three times she drew breath to enter the conversation, and then found the comment dead on her tongue. There were degrees of hypocrisy she could not achieve, even in the best of causes. She felt rather than saw Theloneus's amusement beside her.

"There will be two intervals," he said in little above a whisper as Garrick and the bishop moved away and it was time to take their own seats.

The opera was a baroque masterpiece full of subtlety and light, but it had not the familiar melodies, the passion and lyricism of the Verdi she loved. She occupied her mind with plans for the first interval. She could not afford to wait until the second, in case some mischance should make visiting Garrick impossible. He might become involved in an encounter she could not decently join. Some degree of subtlety was required. He was no fonder of her than she of him.

When the curtain came down to enthusiastic applause she was on her feet as if risen spontaneously.

"I didn't know you liked it so much," Theloneus said in surprise. "You didn't look as if you did."

"I don't," she replied, disconcerted that he had been watching her and not the stage; in honesty she had nearly forgotten how deep his feeling was for her. "I wish to visit Garrick before he leaves his box," she explained. "And preferably before someone else dominates any discussion."

"If the bishop is there, I shall engage him in persuading me into one of his opinions," Theloneus offered with a wry smile, his eyes soft with laughter. He was aware of the sacrifice he was making, and that she was also.

"'Greater love hath no man,'" she murmured. "I shall be in your debt."

"You will," he agreed fervently.

And his intervention proved necessary. Vespasia almost collided with the bishop outside Garrick's box.

"Good evening, Your Grace," she said with a freezing smile. "How pleasant to see you able to find an opera whose story does not offend your morals."

Since the tale in question was one of incest and murder, the observation was of the utmost sarcasm, and she regretted it the minute it was past her lips, even before she heard Theloneus choke off laughter and turn it into a cough, and saw the bishop's face turn a dull shade of purple.

"Good evening, Lady Vespasia," he replied coldly. "It is Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould, is it not?" He knew perfectly well who she was, everyone did. It was intended as an insult.

She smiled charmingly at him, a look that in her prime had dazzled princes.

"It is," she replied. "May I introduce you to Mr. Justice Quade?" She waved her hand delicately. "The Bishop of Putney, I believe, or some such place, renowned for his upholding of Christian virtues, most particularly purity of mind."

"Indeed," Theloneus murmured. "How do you do." An expression of great interest filled his ascetic face, his blue eyes mild and bright. "How fortunate for me to have encountered you. I should dearly like your opinion, as an informed and, of course, enlightened source, on the choice of story for this very lovely music. Is watching such fearful behavior instructive, in that evil is punished in the end? Or do you fear that the beauty with which it is presented may corrupt the senses before the better judgment can perceive the moral behind it?"

"Well..." the bishop began.

Vespasia did not remain. She tapped on the door of Garrick's box, and the moment it was answered, went inside. She was dreading it. It was going to be forced, because they both knew that she would not have sought him out from friendship, and they had no interests in common.

Garrick was a widower and he had a small party with him, his sister and her husband, who was a minor banker of some sort, and a friend of theirs, a widow from one of the home counties up to London for some reason. It was she who provided Vespasia with her excuse.

"Lady Vespasia?" Garrick raised his eyebrows very slightly. It was a good deal less than an expression of welcome. "How delightful to see you." He would have used the same tone of voice had he found an apple core in his pudding.

She inclined her head. "How typical of your generosity to say so," she answered, dismissing it as if it had been a vulgarity apologized for at the table.

His face tightened. He had no choice but to continue the charade by introducing his sister, her husband, and the lady who was visiting. Vespasia's lack of reason for intruding hung heavily in the air. He did not quite ask her what she wanted, but the attitude of his body, the expectant angle of his head, demanded she explain herself.

She smiled at the widow, a Mrs. Arbuthnott. "A friend of mine, Lady Wilmslow, has mentioned you most kindly," she lied. "And she has asked me if I should encounter you to be sure to make your acquaintance."

Mrs. Arbuthnott blinked with pleasure. She had never heard of Lady Wilmslow, who, in any event, did not exist, but she certainly had heard of Vespasia, and was enormously complimented.

Vespasia salved her guilt with generosity. "If you are in town for the rest of the month," she continued, "I shall be at home on Mondays and Wednesdays, and if you find it convenient to call, you will be most welcome." She slipped a card with her address out of its silver case in her reticule, and offered it.

Mrs. Arbuthnott took it as if it had been a jewel, and indeed in social terms it was, and one that money could not purchase. She stammered her thanks, and Garrick's sister hid her envy with difficulty. But then, if she conducted herself with any care at all, Mrs. Arbuthnott was her guest, and she could accompany her without raising any eyebrows.

Vespasia turned to Garrick. "I hope you are well, Ferdinand?" It was merely a politeness, something one would say as a matter of form. The reply was expected in the affirmative; no information was required, or wished for.

"In excellent health," he replied. "And you appear to be also, but then I have never seen you look less." He would not allow himself to be maneuvered into ill manners, especially in front of his guests.

She smiled at him as if she had heard what he had said and accepted the compliment, although she knew it was made for effect, not because he meant it.

"Thank you. You speak with such warmth one does not discard your generosity as merely the instinctive answer of courtesy." There was a dark, angry part of her enjoying this. She had forgotten how much she disliked Garrick. He reminded her of other aggressively virtuous people she had known, closer to home, obsessed with rule-keeping, self-control, and slowness to forgive, a suspicion of laughter, and an icy pleasure in being right. Perhaps her opinion was more supposed than real. She was indulging in exactly the same sin for which she blamed him. Later, when she was alone, she must try to recall what she actually knew about him.

She kept her face deliberately mild and interested. "How is Stephen? I believe I saw him in the park the other day, but he was moving at some speed, and I might have been mistaken. Would he have been riding with the Marsh girl, I cannot remember her name, the one with so much hair?"

Garrick was absolutely motionless. There was no evidence of it, but she was certain that his mind was racing for an answer.

"No," he said at last. "It must have been someone else."

She remained looking at him expectantly, as though the merest courtesy demanded some further explanation. To have stopped there would be a snub.

A flicker of annoyance crossed his face, for an instant quite unmistakable.

Vespasia considered whether to notice it or not. She was afraid he would change the subject.

"I apologize," she said quickly, just before his brother-in-law could rescue him. "I did not mean to embarrass you."

Anger washed up his cheeks, dull red, and the muscles of his body locked rigid. "Don't be absurd!" he said tartly, his eyes stabbing at her. "I was merely trying to think who it was you could have seen. Stephen has not been well. The coming winter will exacerbate his difficulty." He breathed in. "He has gone to stay in the south of France for a spell. Milder climate. Drier."

"Very wise," Vespasia acknowledged, uncertain whether she believed him or not. It was an extremely reasonable explanation in every way, and yet it did not sit well with what Gracie had heard from the kitchen staff at Torrington Square. "I hope he has someone trustworthy to care for him," she said with enough solicitude to be courteous.

"Of course," he replied. He took a breath. "He has taken his own manservant."

There was nothing she could add that would not betray an unseemly curiosity, and curiosity was a social sin of which she had never been guilty. It was vulgar, and implied that one's own life was of insufficient interest to fill one's mind. No one would care to admit to that; it was the ultimate failure.

"I daresay he will feel the benefit," she observed. "I admit I do not care for January and February very much myself. I preferred it when I spent more time in the country. A walk in the woods is a pleasure at any time of the year. London streets in the snow offer a great deal less-mostly wet skirts up to the knees, unless one is fortunate. The south of France sounds more and more appealing all the time."

He fixed her with a flintlike stare. It was not entirely her imagination that there was also enmity in it, a knowledge that she would not have come wholly as a gesture of courtesy to a woman she did not know.

"I am most pleased to have made your acquaintance, Mrs. Arbuthnott," she said graciously. "I am sure you will enjoy your stay in London." She inclined her head to the sister and brother-in-law. "Good evening, Ferdinand," she finished, and without waiting for acknowledgment she turned and went back into the passage leading from box to box. Only feet away, Theloneus was still standing with the bishop, a slightly glazed look on his face.

"... misunderstanding of virtue," the bishop was saying intently. "It is one of the curses of modern living that..."

Theloneus was sorely in need of rescue.

"Bishop, would you come to join us for champagne?" Vespasia said with a dazzling smile. "Or were you going to say that we drink too much of it? I daresay you are right, and of course you are bound in honor to set us all an example. So refreshing to have seen you here. Do enjoy the evening." And she offered her hand to Theloneus, who took it immediately, trying hard to suppress his laughter.

VISITING SAVILLE RYERSON was altogether a more difficult matter to arrange, and in spite of the fact that she was genuinely concerned that Martin Garvie had met with some misfortune, regardless of Garrick's statement that he was in the south of France with Garrick's son, her fear for Ryerson was deeper. At best he was going to be disillusioned in a woman he loved, perhaps not wisely but certainly with all the power of his nature. To find yourself betrayed, not only in fact but in hope, to have your dreams stained beyond repair, was one of the hardest of all tests of the soul. And at worst he could find himself in the dock beside Ayesha Zakhari, and perhaps even on the gallows as well.

She did not bother to try the easy routes first. She could not afford the time taken by failure, nor perhaps the warning to others that she was so keenly interested she would call in old favors in order to see him.

Therefore she went straight to see the appropriate assistant commissioner of police. A long while ago, in their youth, there had been a time when he had courted her, and later, when they were both married, there had been a long weekend house party in one of the great stately homes of the duke of something-or-other. An afternoon in the yew walk sprung to mind particularly. She disliked calling on memories in such a fashion-it lacked grace-but it was extremely useful, and Ryerson's need was too profound for such delicacies to stand in her way.

He received her without keeping her waiting. Time had been kind to him, but not as it had been to her. He was standing in the center of the floor of his office when she was shown in. He looked thinner than in the past, and his hair was very gray.

"My dear..." he began, and then was uncertain quite how to address her. It had been many years since they were on familiar terms.

She responded quickly, to save him embarrassment. "Arthur, how generous of you to see me so quickly, especially when you must be quite certain, when I have come in such indecent haste, that I am seeking a favor." She was dressed in her customary pale colors of dove gray and ivory, pearls at her throat, gleaming to give light to her face. She had learned over the years exactly what became her best. Even the most beautiful of women, or the youngest, have colors and lines which do not flatter them.

"It is always a pleasure to see you, whatever the reason," he replied, and if he was saying only what was expected of him, he did it with an air of sincerity one could not disbelieve. "Please..." He indicated the chair at one side of his desk, and waited until she was seated and her skirts arranged with a single flick, to fall richly and without creasing. "What may I do for you?" he asked.

She had debated for some time whether to be direct or indirect. Arthur had been somewhat unsophisticated in the past, but time might have altered that, and he was now no longer in love with her, which fact in itself would give him a better ability to judge. There was no romantic ardor to blunt his intellect. She decided on directness. To attempt to mislead him would be insulting. But then so would simple statements of need without at least lip service to the past, and the delicacy of memory.

"I have acquired some interesting relatives since we last met," she said with ease, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to discuss. "By marriage, of course. I daresay you recall my late great-nephew, George Ashworth?"

Arthur's face fell into immediate, quite genuine regret. "I am so sorry! What a tragedy."

His words enabled her to dispense with whole paragraphs of explanation.

"There is much tragedy indeed," she agreed with a slight smile. "But through his marriage I acquired a great-niece whose sister is married to a policeman... of remarkable ability." She saw his start of amazement. "I have from time to time involved myself in certain issues, and learned to understand some of the causes of crime in a way I did not when I was younger. I daresay the same is true for you..." She let it hang, not quite a question.

"Oh, yes, police work is..." He lifted his shoulders. She noticed again how much thinner he was, but it was not unbecoming.

"Exactly!" she agreed firmly. "That is why I have come to you. You are in a unique position to give me some small assistance." Before he could ask her what it was, she hurried on. "I am sure you are as puzzled and distressed as I am by this miserable business at Eden Lodge. I have known Saville Ryerson for many years-"

Arthur shook his head. "I can tell you nothing, Vespasia, for the simple reason that I know nothing."

"Of course!" She smiled. "I am not asking you for information, my dear. It would be entirely inappropriate. But I would like to be able to see Saville myself, urgently, and in private." She did not wish to offer any explanation, but she had prepared one in case he should request it.

"It would be most unpleasant for you," he said awkwardly. "And there really is nothing you can do for him. He has all the necessities, and any luxuries he is permitted. The charge is accessory to murder, Vespasia. For any man that is serious, but to one who has had the position and the trust that he has, it is devastating."

"I am aware of that, Arthur. As I said, I have had far more experience of the less-attractive sides of human nature since poor George's death. I have even been of assistance now and then. If I am placing you in a position of difficulty, where honor obliges you to refuse me, then please do me the courtesy, for old friendship's sake, of telling me so directly."

"No, it does not!" he said quickly. "I... I was thinking only of your sensibilities, and embarrassment if you should find him greatly... changed. You may not be able to avoid the conviction that he is after all guilty. I..."

"For heaven's sake, Arthur!" she said impatiently. "Have you confused me with someone else in the pleasant summers of your past? I fought on the barricades in Rome in '48. I am not a stranger to unpleasantness! I have seen squalor, betrayal, and death in many forms-some of them in high society! May I see Saville Ryerson-or not?"

"Of course you may, my dear. I shall see to it this afternoon. Perhaps you will do me the honor of taking luncheon with me? And we shall talk of the parties we used to have when summers were longer-and warmer than they seem to be now."

She smiled at him with true affection, remembering the yew walk, and a certain herbaceous border with a blaze of blue delphiniums. "Thank you, Arthur. I should be delighted."

SHE WAS SHOWN into the room where her meeting with Ryerson had been arranged, and the guard withdrew and left her alone. It was a little before six in the evening, and already the gas lamps were burning inside because the single window was high and narrow.

She had not long to wait before the door opened again and Ryerson came in. Tired as he was, robbed of the immaculate shirts and cravats he normally wore, he looked pale, a little untidy. But he was still a big man, not shrunken or bowed by fear, although she saw it in his eyes as soon as the door was closed again and he turned to her.

"Good evening, Saville," she said quietly. "Please sit down. I dislike having to crane my neck to see you."

"Why have you come?" he asked, obeying her, his face sad, his shoulders a little hunched. "This is no place for you, and you hardly owe me this. All your crusading for social justice does not include visits to the guilty." His eyes did not evade hers. "And I am guilty, Vespasia. I would have helped her move the body to the park and leave it there. Indeed, I actually picked it up and placed it in the wheelbarrow... and the gun. I appreciate your kindness, but it is done in a misapprehension of the facts."

"For goodness' sake, Saville!" she said tartly. "I am not a fool! Of course you moved the wretched man's body. Thomas Pitt is my great-nephew... at least he is by virtue of several marriages. I possibly know more of the affair than you do." She was gratified to see him look genuinely startled.

"Whose marriages, in God's name?" he asked.

"His, of course, you fool!" she retorted. "It would hardly be mine."

His face relaxed in a smile, even his shoulders eased a little. "You cannot help me, Vespasia, but you certainly bring light to the gloom, and I thank you for that." He moved his hand as if to reach across the table between them and touch her, then changed his mind and withdrew it.

"I am gratified," she responded. "But it is incidental. I would like to do something far more practical, and of greater duration. Thomas has gone to Alexandria to see what he can learn of Ayesha Zakhari before she came here, and of Edwin Lovat-if there is anything to learn." She saw him tense again. "Saville, are you afraid of the truth?"

"No!" he said instantly, almost before she had let the last word drop.

"Good!" she continued. "Then let us discuss this without games of words and evasions of what is less than pleasing. Where did you meet Miss Zakhari?"

"What?" He was startled.

"Saville!" she said impatiently. "You are a senior government minister in your middle fifties; she is an Egyptian woman of what... thirty-five? Your worlds do not meet, let alone cross. You are a Member of Parliament for Manchester, a cotton-spinning county. She is from a cotton-growing area of Egypt. Do not pretend to be a fool!"

He sighed and ran his hand through his heavy hair. "Of course she sought me out because of the cotton," he said wearily. "And of course she tried to persuade me to scale down the industry in Manchester and invest in Egypt's spinning and weaving its own cotton. What would you expect of an Egyptian patriot?" Now his eyes were clear and challenging, as burningly dark as if he were Egyptian himself.

She smiled. "I have no quarrel with patriots, Saville, or with their arguments to be fair to their own people. Were I in her place I hope I would have the passion and the courage to do the same. But no matter how good the cause, there are acts that may not justifiably be committed in its furtherance."

"She did not kill Lovat." He made it a simple statement.

"Do you believe that, or know it?" she asked.

He met her eyes, calm and silver-gray, and his flickered first. "But I do believe it, Vespasia. She swore it to me, and if I doubt her then I doubt everything I love and treasure, and which makes life precious to me."

She drew in her breath to say something, then realized she had nothing that would help or answer his need. He was an ardent man who had denied his nature for a long time, and now he was deeply in love. The dam gates had burst. "Then who did?" she asked instead. "And why?"

"I have no idea," he admitted quietly. "But before you suggest it was done to involve me and bring me to disgrace and loss of office, that would hardly benefit the cotton industry in Egypt. Any minister following me would be less likely than I to be of help to them. No single man has the power to change an entire industry, whether he wishes to or not. Ayesha knows that now, even if she imagined in the beginning that she could persuade me to begin such a movement for reform."

"Then why was she still here in London?" Vespasia had no alternative but to be brutal if she was to serve any purpose at all beyond comfort that would last only as long as she was in the room, if that.

"Because I wished her to be," he answered. Then he went on tentatively, as if he was half afraid she would doubt him. "And I believe she loves me as much as I do her."

To her surprise, she did not doubt him, at least not that he spoke the truth of his own feelings. Whatever Ayesha felt she was less certain of, but looking at him where he sat opposite her, there was such intensity in him, such a power of conviction, an unwavering resolve, she would not find it hard to imagine a young woman discovering that barriers of age, culture and even religion might disappear. She also found herself believing that Ryerson would go all the way to trial, even to conviction, rather than betray his mistress. He was a man of absolutes, he had been for as long as she had known him, and time had deepened his character rather than mellowed it. He was wiser, more mature in judgment and temper than in his youth, but in the last analysis his heart would always rule his head. He was the stuff of crusaders, and of martyrs.

What would Pitt find in Alexandria? Probably not a great deal. It was a city where he knew no one, where even the language was strange to him, the beliefs, the long, intertwining connections of who knew whom, of debts and hatreds, relationships and money and faith. Unless either the woman or Lovat himself had been remarkably careless, there would be little to find for a foreign policeman who was not even certain what he was looking for.

Which raised the question in her mind, why had Victor Narraway sent him at all? Was the purpose that Pitt should be in Alexandria? Or that he should not be in London?

She remained with Ryerson another quarter of an hour, but she learned nothing further that was of use. She did not lie by offering him encouragement, she merely asked if there was anything she could send to him to help his discomfort.

"No, thank you," he said instantly. "I have all I need. But... but I would value it above anything else if you would arrange a few comforts for Ayesha. See at least that she has clean linen... toiletries... I... another woman would have..."

"Of course," she responded before he could finish. "I doubt they will permit me to see her, but I shall arrange for such things to be delivered. I can imagine what I would wish myself, and see that it is done."

His face flooded with gratitude. "Thank you..." His voice caught with emotion. "I am profoundly..."

"Please!" she dismissed it. "It is a small thing." She was already on her feet. "I hear them returning for me." She met his eyes. She wanted to add something else, but the words died. She smiled, and turned to go.

IT TOOK HER another day and exhaustive enquiry, again a matter of discreetly seeking the return of past favors, a little flattery and a great deal of charm, before she learned where she could find Victor Narraway, and contrive to run into him. It was a reception to which she had been invited, and had declined. It was an awkwardness she loathed to have now to invent an excuse, and beg to accept instead.

Because her acceptance had been most uncomfortable she felt she had the choice either of dressing in excellent but subdued taste, something conservative in a soft color, or of being as bold and outrageous as possible, defying anyone to comment on her change of mind. She might speak with Narraway with less remark or interruption were she to choose the former, but no matter what she wore, she was not an unremarkable figure. She chose the latter, and had her maid take out a gown she had ordered in a moment of extraordinary confidence, a deep indigo silk of so fine a texture it seemed to float. The low neck and the waist were embroidered with silver thread and pearls in a rich, medieval design.

Standing in front of the glass, she was startled by the gown's drama. She usually chose the aristocracy of understatement, neutral shaded satins and laces, subtle with her silver hair and clear eyes. But this was magnificent, arresting in its simplicity of line, and the somber color was like a whisper of the night itself, elemental and mysterious.

She arrived late at the reception, causing a very considerable stir. It was not her habit to be so obvious. The lateness was her fault rather than her intention. She had left herself little time for the journey, not wanting to be early, and directed her coachman to take a route around the park, which had unfortunately been blocked by a traffic accident-a coach wheel came off, or something of the sort-and they ended arriving late.

She walked into the room alone, and there was a momentary hush. Several people, most of them men, quite openly stared. She had an instant of wondering if she had made a misjudgment, and the gown was wrong after all. She had no jewelry but pearl earrings. Maybe she was too pale, too bleached of her own color for such a depth of tone?

She saw the Prince of Wales, his blue eyes widening with amazement and then appreciation. Beside him a younger man, whom she did not know, cleared his throat, but continued staring at her.

She was greeted by her host, and within five more minutes found herself presented to the Prince. Apparently he had desired to speak to her. They had known each other for years, but it was still a highly formal occasion. One did not presume.

It was over an hour before she managed to find Victor Narraway and converse with him without being overheard.

"Good evening, Victor." She set the tone as she intended to continue it. She did not know him well, but she was quite aware of who he was, and of the regard in which he was held in the highest political circles, both his virtues and his shortcomings. But he was an intensely private man, and of his true self she knew very little. He mattered to her because of Ryerson, and she acknowledged to herself now, even more so because much of Thomas Pitt's future lay in his hands.

"Good evening, Lady Vespasia," he replied, a shadow of amusement in his dark eyes, but also a wariness. He was far too sophisticated to imagine she had found him more or less alone purely by chance.

There was no time to waste, they would be joined within minutes. "I visited Saville Ryerson yesterday," she told him, and saw no change of expression in his face. "He is going to tell you nothing, in part because I think he knows nothing. It makes no sense that the woman intended to ruin him and hope for someone in his place who would be more favorable to Egyptian financial independence. No such person exists, and she must have been as aware of that as we are."

"Of course," he agreed. If he was curious as to what she wanted of him, he was not going to allow her to see it. He remained politely interested, as a dutiful man towards an older woman of rank, but no importance.

It irritated her. "Victor, do not treat me like a fool!" she said, her voice low but her diction so crystal clear as to be cutting. "I know that you have sent Thomas to Alexandria. What on earth for? The first answer that comes to my mind is in order to keep him out of London." She was satisfied to see him stiffen so imperceptibly that she could not have told which muscle had moved, only that the tension in his body had increased.

"Lovat and the Zakhari woman knew each other in Alexandria," he replied. His words were innocent but his eyes held hers, probing, trying to feel for what she sought from him. "It would be remiss not at least to make enquiries."

"To find what?" She raised her eyebrows slightly. "That they had a love affair? One takes that for granted. Ryerson loves her, and I imagine he does not wish to know of her past admirers, but he is not naive enough to imagine there were none."

She stopped speaking as a small, thin woman in peach-colored silk moved past them, clinging to the arm of a gentleman with receding hair.

Narraway smiled to himself, his composure perfect.

Vespasia wished she knew him better. She was aware, with amusement at herself, that were she younger she would have found him attractive. His inaccessibility was in itself a challenge. There was emotion behind the cool intelligence, of what nature she did not know. Was there moral or spiritual courage? The answer mattered, because of his power over Pitt.

"If you are considering the possibility that there was some scandal over which Lovat could have blackmailed her," she went on when they were alone again, "then you could have written a letter to the British authorities in Alexandria and asked them. They would be in a position to find out for you and advise accordingly. They will speak the language, know the city and its inhabitants, and have contacts with the kind of people who inform of such things."

He drew his breath in as if to argue with her, then looked more clearly into her eyes, and changed his mind. "Perhaps," he conceded. "But they will answer only what I ask them, whereas Pitt may find other things, answers to questions I have not thought of."

"Ah..." She believed him, at least as far as he had spoken. There was far more that he was not saying, but had she been able to draw from him anything he did not wish to tell her, then that would have meant that he was inadequate to his job, which thought would wake in her a real fear, deep and abiding.

He smiled very slowly. It had a charm that surprised her. For the first time she wondered if he had ever loved anyone sufficiently profound to disturb that thick layer of self-protection around him, and if so, what kind of woman she had been.

"And of course you are looking into Ryerson, and Lovat's other associates here yourself, or have someone else doing so," she stated. "One wonders whether that other person is more able to enquire into London than Thomas would be... or less able in Alexandria." She did not make it a question because she knew he would not answer.

His smile stayed perfectly steady, but the tension in him increased yet again, perhaps only in the totality of his stillness. "It is a delicate matter," he said so quietly that she barely heard him. "And I agree with you entirely, judging by what we know now, that it makes no sense. Lovat was nobody. Ayesha Zakhari may be vulnerable to blackmail, but I doubt profoundly that anything a man like Lovat could tell Ryerson would affect his feelings for her. It would be infinitely more likely to end in Lovat's being charged, or more simply dismissed from his position in the diplomatic service, and unable to find a new posting anywhere at all. He would probably be blackballed from his clubs as well. He had already contrived to make himself more than sufficient enemies. Also, Miss Zakhari's patriotism is easily understandable, but imagining that she could affect British policy in Egypt shows a naivete which an intelligent woman could hardly have sustained for long, once she was here in London."

"Exactly," she agreed, watching every shadow in his face.

"Therefore..." he said somberly and in little more than a whisper, more like the sighing of a breath, "I am obliged to consider what profound thing it is, worth committing murder and going to the gallows for, that we have not yet considered."

Vespasia did not answer. She had been trying to avoid the thought, but now it was dark and inevitable on the horizon of her mind as it was of Victor Narraway's.