by Emma Newman
Will threw that note on the fire too. Bertrand had picked an excellent location; the family would be keen to keep the circumstances of the death as quiet as possible and it was in keeping with Freddy’s unsavoury habits. It was the third death he felt responsible for, even though he hadn’t committed the murder itself. Would there be more? The first was the only one he truly regretted, the second was unpleasant but justified and the third was…business. Was that reason enough?
He closed his eyes and rested his arm on the mantelpiece, thinking about what Tate said about his family. He wondered whether his father had done anything like he had to protect their influence in Aquae Sulis. He would never know; it was hardly the sort of thing his father would elect to tell him and he could never ask. But even though Will felt heavy and sickened by his own behaviour, he couldn’t deny it was achieving the results he wanted. Londinium was falling into line after his success with the highwaymen problem, Bertrand would be a powerful ally and the Shopkeeper had barely reacted to his announcement that he would be supplying his products now—he hadn’t given him any reason to worry. Once he and Derne were happy that Will’s taking over wasn’t going to affect the quality of the products he would start to turn the arrangement to his advantage.
Tired of politics and plans, Will felt no desire to go to Black’s and be roped into a conversation about the city. Cathy was meeting Margritte, something he’d only agreed to in an effort to demonstrate he trusted her. Margritte was of no concern now that her efforts to disrupt his Court had failed but Cathy seemed to think it was important to at least try to open a dialogue.
He went to the nursery wing and knew it was the right thing to do as soon as he stepped through the door to Mundanus. Sophia’s laughter was echoing down the corridor and sped his steps. She was in the schoolroom with Uncle Vincent, trying to catch bubbles he was blowing from a loop of plastic.
“Will-yum!” she cheered and raced to him with open arms. He did his best to ignore the scars that covered her throat.
He scooped her up and soon his face was covered in tiny kisses. His uncle smiled and set the bottle of bubble mixture down. “Hello, Sophia,” said Will.
“Cathy brought me some dollies, do you want to see them?”
“I would love to,” Will lied, and she ran from the room.
“She’s healed well,” Uncle Vincent said. “And she’s sleeping better too.”
“Good,” Will said. “Is she bothered by the scarring? I’ve got some plans for removing them.” He’d put in an order with Tate at the end of their meeting. She said it would take between three to six months to gather the ingredients but it was worth the wait.
“No, she doesn’t mention it.” Vincent pointed at the small bottle. “Catherine gave that to her. You should have seen her face when I blew the first bubble. She thought it was magic.”
Will smiled. “And Cathy bought her dolls too?”
“Mmm.” Vincent sat on the windowsill. “Catherine means well, I’m sure.”
“Look!” Sophia was back and thrust a doll towards Will. “This is Josephine. She has the same hair as me!” Will took it from her, surprised to see it dressed in safari gear with its own little pith helmet. “She’s an explorer. That’s why she’s wearing trousers, like a boy, so the creepy-crawlies don’t bite her legs and so she can climb trees to take pictures of elephants and dinosaurs.”
“Climb trees?” Will looked at Vincent who shrugged.
“Yes. Girls are allowed to climb trees, Cathy told me, but Uncle Vincent won’t let me.” She pouted in his direction.
“And what about the other dolls?”
He put the explorer down and Sophia pulled out the other two from under her arm. “This one is called Jessamine and she’s an ark…leegist. She finds old things and puts them in museums. That’s why she has a brush and book. The brush is for the dust on the treasure and the book is to write it all down. That’s very important.”
“Archaeologist,” Will said and Sophia nodded.
“That’s what I said. And this is Jemima.”
It was the only doll that looked like any his sister had owned. She was wearing a silk ballgown and tiny jewels. “Ah. Is she a princess?”
“Yes! She’s a princess who can fire laser beams from her eyes and fly and she can lift whole houses! She finds bad people and locks them in prison and everyone loves her because she’s good and strong.”
“I see…” Will didn’t know what to say. “And you thought this up all by yourself?”
“No, Cathy told me all about them. She said I could be anything I want to be, not just a princess. I said I want to be one and be pretty and she said it was better to be a princess who can fire laser beams! Anyone can wear a dress and look pretty but only super-duper girls like me can explore Africa and find treasure because I’m clever.”
“Has Auntie Cathy been playing with you then?”
“Yes and I love her and I don’t want to go home, Will-yum. It’s boring there and no one plays with me. I can write my name and read books too, shall I show you?”
“Yes, but put the dolls away first, darling.”
When she ran out he looked at Vincent. “Cathy’s been busy.”
“So it seems. I talked to her about those dolls and she said Sophia needs to aspire to more than getting married.”
Will folded his arms, irritated that Cathy was imposing her own views on Sophia.
“I think she’s right, Will. We both know that Sophia can’t be married off like Imogen will be. I’m not even sure she can have a life in the Nether.”
“What have Mother and Father said?”
“Nothing. I don’t think they want to deal with the problem. She can’t be hidden away for ever.”
“They haven’t even visited her.” Will hadn’t bothered them for fear a reminder would prompt them to take her back. Now he wondered if they wanted her back at all. He’d expected them to insist on taking her home after the attack and he’d dreaded the accusation that he was incapable of providing a safe environment for her, but there had been nothing of the sort.
“Well…they know I’m here and I keep your mother informed.” Vincent looked out of the window at the rain. “But I think they don’t know what to do either. The family is more high-profile than most. I have the feeling they’ll ship her off somewhere eventually.”
“They will not,” Will said. “She has a home here and I’ll inform Mother she can stay indefinitely.”
“You’re even more in the public eye, Will. It’s a risk.”
“Hang the risk. Besides, I think it does Cathy good to have her here.” He looked at the bottle of bubble mixture. Whilst he wasn’t sure about the strange dolls, he was touched by how she’d clearly been spending time with Sophia when he hadn’t had a chance to do so. She was thoughtful, in her own way. “I just want her to feel safe and be happy,” he added.
“Sophia or Catherine?”
Will smiled. “Both.”
20
Margritte didn’t want to go back to Hampton Court ever again but there seemed to be no other locations suitable for meeting Catherine. As Duchess it was unreasonable for her to be expected to leave Londinium and they needed a private place to keep the gossips at bay. She didn’t expect any threat to her personal safety but she still wanted to feel secure.
She picked a room they seldom used when Bartholomew was alive and went in through the servants’ entrance for fear of triggering memories that would leave her incapable of keeping a clear head. There was only a skeletal staff in residence and the palace felt horribly empty but she managed to keep her composure whilst waiting for Catherine to arrive. She had to keep her mind focused on what she wanted: a meeting with William in person, away from the Court.
The sound of a carriage on the driveway brought back memories of waiting for dinner-party guests to arrive. She looked down at her black dress, trying to remind herself that it was different now and there was no need to keep thinking of the past. Instead she tried to work out wh
y Catherine had requested a meeting. Was it a strange sense of guilt for being the cause of William’s actions without being responsible for them? Was it simple concern for someone who was becoming a friend before everything went so horribly wrong? There was the possibility that William had sent her to determine whether she intended to cause any more trouble. No doubt he knew of her attempt to lure residents away by now; Georgiana had told her that those she’d written to were the first to receive their stolen goods back.
“Her Grace, the Duchess of Londinium, Catherine Reticulata-Iris,” announced the footman and Margritte readied herself, still uncertain how to play it when Catherine entered.
She looked well and was dressed in a deep burgundy dress with a high collar and the narrow line of the late Victorian period. She also looked as nervous as a debutante at her first ball.
“Your Grace,” Margritte said and curtsied deeply, as Georgiana had to her that night she’d briefly been Duchess.
“Margritte, thank you so much for agreeing to see me.”
“Would you care to sit down?”
Catherine did so and Margritte gave the nod for tea to be brought. She hadn’t entertained formally since the bereavement and she was a little uncomfortable. It felt too soon, and therefore disrespectful.
“How are you finding your new role?” she asked and Catherine squirmed.
“Umm…oh, God, this is awkward.”
Margritte almost smiled. She’d forgotten how open the girl was.
“I asked to see you because we need to talk,” Catherine said, her words slow and carefully chosen. “But before I get to that, I wanted to say how sorry I am about…what happened. It was such a shock.” She grimaced. “It must have been so much worse for you, I don’t want to sound like…oh, for the love of…”
“I understand, and thank you.” Margritte wanted to make her feel more comfortable. She wanted her to let down the flimsy guard.
“Are you…coping? That didn’t come out right. I mean, are you all right? No, of course you’re not all right, I mean…” She released a long breath. “I’m so sorry, I’m making a complete mess of this.”
“Bereavement is difficult for everyone,” Margritte said. “One never knows what to say.”
“Exactly!” Catherine smiled. “It’s just that Bartholomew was such a wonderful man and you were both so very kind to me and I…”
Margritte clenched her teeth at the sound of his name. And she was right; they had been so kind to her—and William—yet it had meant nothing. She used the arrival of the tea to mask her anger.
Catherine fell silent as she watched it being poured. “Have you been here the whole time?”
“No, I’ve been spending some time with my eldest son in Oxenford.”
Cathy knew of the reflected city but had never been there. She said as much, adding, “Is it nice?”
“It’s a beautiful city.” She handed over the cup of tea. “Now, you said there was something you wanted to tell me. Is it about who attacked you?”
Catherine’s cup rattled in the saucer and she set it on her lap so quickly that some of the tea slopped over. “No.”
“Have you fully recovered?”
“Almost.”
“I understand you were very badly hurt. Did your husband catch the perpetrator?”
Catherine just stared at her, a terrible flush rising up her face from her throat. How, Margritte wondered, could this girl be a Duchess?
“It’s all…in the past now. All of it.”
“But it’s left scars. On both of us.”
“Will didn’t—” She looked down at the spilt tea. “Please, I don’t want to talk about it.”
Margritte watched Catherine attempt to compose herself. It was clear she was hiding something, but what? Did she know who had really sent an assassin? Or perhaps she’d discovered the man behind the attempt was her husband, or even the Sorcerer of Wessex, creating the perfect excuse to attack Bartholomew. She decided to let it go until the girl had settled down.
“I…wanted to see you to talk about the group that meets at Mr B’s.”
It was the last thing Margritte expected her to say. “I beg your pardon?”
“The one started by Miss Rainer. She was my governess and I found her again and she managed to tell me about the group. And I know you and Bartholomew were members.”
Margritte set her cup down with a loud chink. “Where is she? We looked everywhere!”
“She’s in a household near Kew Gardens. She’s a scullery maid. The Agency did something terrible to her. And Charlotte too—I think that was her husband. I’m tracking down where they took the others, the ones who dared to speak out.”
“You’re…you’re one of us?”
Catherine’s face transformed with the most beautiful smile. “Yes! And it’s just eating me up that you and Bartholomew would have been perfect to change everything—that’s what you were going to do, wasn’t it?”
Margritte nodded, struggling to adapt to the new course the conversation was taking. “Is William a progressive?”
“Not yet. But I think he will be. He’s gentle and thoughtful and—” She stopped and the usual awkwardness resurfaced. “You must think he’s a monster but he really isn’t. He wouldn’t have done that if…he wouldn’t have normally…”
Catherine’s eyes were filled with the need to tell the truth. “Your Grace, everyone believes that my husband sent another to kill you. They think he’s a base creature who obtained the throne by attacking his competitor’s wife. Do you realise how hard that is to live with?” Catherine nodded silently. “You know it couldn’t possibly have been Bartholomew. You spent hours talking to him, you know he was a good man, now you know just how remarkable he was. Surely William must be told to look elsewhere for the villain behind this terrible affair?”
“It’s…complicated.”
“Is it? It seems very simple to me. Bartholomew’s name must be cleared. We’ve lost everything, and the least William can do is restore his honour.”
Catherine was blinking rapidly, unable to look her in the eye. “I don’t think I can speak for Will. I wanted to ask you if you’d help me with the cause. If we worked together…”
Margritte stiffened. “You want me to be your adviser in Londinium when I cannot even show my face in the Court?”
“What I’m trying to say is that we need to try and salvage what we can.”
“I’m trying to salvage my entire life! You come here, wife of the man who murdered my husband, to talk about changing Society for the good of women and you can’t even offer me the most basic reassurance that my family’s name will be cleared?”
Catherine was shaking. “I can understand how angry you are. I shouldn’t have…I should have given you more time. It was selfish of me to think you’d be able to help, I’m sorry.”
Margritte forced herself to calm down. She’d pushed Catherine too far. “I’m sorry too. It wasn’t your fault. And I’m truly…heartened that you see the need for change in Society. But it will come to nothing unless William can be brought onside. The Patroons will dismiss anything we do, but they won’t be able to ignore the Duke of Londinium.”
Catherine nodded, crushed. “You’re right. But it’s not going to stop me trying. The men and women who’ve been silenced need my help and it will carry on happening if we don’t actively strive for change. I’m not asking you to forget your husband—nor what Will did—and I’m not asking you to come back to the Court and act as if nothing happened. But is there nothing I can do to convince you to help our cause? This is a difficult time for Will but I’m certain he’ll come round. The more I can achieve before then, the better, and you’re the perfect person to help.”
Margritte felt the briefest sadness at Catherine’s earnest plea. If she abandoned her need for justice and took up the position in Oxenford she would be free to help her and the others in the secret group. She knew it was the noble thing to do. But, as she took a breath to agree, the thought of Willia
m Iris keeping the throne made it catch in her throat. Of course he would never clear Bartholomew’s name; he didn’t want to risk his own reputation. He would live a long, long life and because of his barbarity she was forced to live without the man she loved. She had to at least try to restore her husband’s honour, otherwise she would never forgive herself. “How can I help when all I can think about is the injustice committed against my husband?”
“But…surely you see how hard it would be for Will to say anything about what happened?”
Margritte nodded, seeing the way to get what she wanted opening up before her. “I do. He needs to preserve his own reputation, I understand that. But if he truly is the gentle man you believe him to be, surely he feels some remorse?”
“Oh, he does!” Catherine seemed convinced at least.
“Then would it be possible to ask him to express that remorse to me—in private—and offer his personal regret? If he could do that, my heart would be eased and the Duke of Londinium would no longer be monstrous to me.”
“I…”
“It would also offer proof that he could indeed be persuaded to support our struggle. I would have hope for the future once more.”
Catherine stood. “I’ll ask him. I’ll do all I can to try and change things for the better, for you and for all of us.”
Margritte kissed her on both cheeks, stifling the guilt rising in her chest. “Thank you, your Grace. We must all do what we feel is right.”
Ten minutes into the meeting and Sam was still there at the head of the table. No one had told him it was all an elaborate hoax. He’d been waiting for someone to tell him that for the last twenty-four hours, but it seemed he really was Lord Iron.
The problem lay in the fact that even though the suited lawyers, accountants and directors seated at the table treated him like their new billionaire boss, he still felt like an unemployed computer programmer from Bath. Now he truly understood those people who looked shell-shocked after a massive lottery win and why they said their lives wouldn’t be changed. It was simply impossible to grasp how different everything could be, so they clung to their old life out of terror, like it had been taken out of a bathtub and chucked into an ocean.
