The Serpent and the Scorpion

by Langley-Hawthorne, Clare

  Ursula was roused from these thoughts by the image of Eustacia Mortimer crossing the room to greet Harrison with a wide smile. “Chief Inspector,” she said, holding out her hand to shake his. “And remember, it’s Doctor—not Miss.”

  A week later, Ursula met Hugh Carmichael at an airfield set up by local enthusiasts just outside Preston. Hugh flew down from Newcastle and executed a near-perfect landing along the wide strip of grass, which Ursula captured on her Brownie camera. Hugh was preparing to enter the Chicago air show later in the year, and was undertaking a series of flights designed to test the speed limits of his new experimental aircraft.

  Ursula was standing among a group of onlookers, clapping, as Hugh alighted from the plane and threw his fist into the air. He had just made the journey from Newcastle to Preston in under an hour.

  “Well, you’ve certainly inspired all the young men round here,” Ursula said as she and Hugh walked along the landing site. About ten young men were busily inspecting his aircraft. Hugh accepted a steaming mug of tea from a lady standing next to a kerosene stove by a low stone wall.

  “I hope so, sweetheart, I hope so!” Hugh replied with a grin.

  “So when do you leave for Chicago?” Ursula asked.

  “In about a week. Now that the deal with Vilensky is finalized, I can afford to take a little time off before the shipyards go into full production. I’ll just leave everything in your capable hands.”

  “I’ll try not to break anything,” Ursula reassured him with a smile.

  “Have you seen him yet? Dobbs, I mean,” Hugh asked.

  Hugh Carmichael, like Peter Vilensky, was one of the few people who knew the truth.

  “Yes,” Ursula replied coolly. “At a garden party in London.”

  “Sounds nice,” Hugh responded with sarcasm.

  “It was, except for his presence.”

  “I’ll bet. Was your lord there too?”

  Ursula’s smile dropped. “No,” she responded quickly. “He’s still at Bromley Hall, recovering, I believe, from his injuries.”

  “You’ve not visited him, then?” Hugh asked lightly, but Ursula was not deceived.

  “You know I haven’t,” she answered brusquely.

  Hugh raised an eyebrow. “It’s still like that, is it?”

  Ursula stared out across the airstrip. She merely nodded.

  Hugh seemed to know better than to pursue any further questioning. Instead it was Ursula’s turn to ask him one last lingering question regarding Katya and Arina.

  “Depends what it is,” was Hugh’s wary reply when she asked.

  “I wanted to know what Katya told you in confidence in Egypt—the secret you refused to divulge to me.”

  Hugh ran his fingers through his graying hair. “Oh, that.”

  “I have to assume it was something other than the fate of those poor settlers in Palestine—for one thing, Dobbs never tried to have you killed.”

  “No, I guess he didn’t.” Hugh still seemed reluctant to say much more.

  “Surely the danger to me has now passed.”

  “Yes, it’s passed.”

  “So why can’t you tell me?”

  Hugh sighed. “All right, then.” He hesitated before continuing, “Katya told me the night of the khedive’s cocktail party that Vilensky had found out that she had forged his signature on some loan documents. One loan was to a small Egyptian nationalist group, another to a group of Bolshevik sympathizers in Poland, and the final one was to . . .”

  “Arina?”

  Hugh nodded.

  “I’m also guessing the loan to the Bolsheviks was probably for Kolya Menkovich.”

  “Yes.”

  “And Vilensky found out?” Ursula prompted him again.

  “Yes, and of course he saw it as yet another instance of Arina’s influence over her sister. It also helped fuel his obsession that Katya was lying to him—not just about the loans, but also about her feelings. I think Vilensky sensed that Katya had confided in me, and it incensed him—just helped convince him that Katya and I were—”

  “Lovers?”

  “Yes—of course, that couldn’t have been further from the truth. I felt more like her father confessor.”

  “Why did she tell you?”

  “I think at first I was just someone she could tell to ease her own conscience, but the more I thought of it, the more I wondered if she wasn’t trying to gain my sympathy so that should anything happen to her, I would help support and protect Arina.”

  “But she still didn’t tell you what she had discovered in Palestine?”

  Hugh shook his head. “She hinted at something, and when—when she was killed, I feared that it had something to do with the loans she had made. I couldn’t work out whether it was the nationalists or the government—or even if it was Peter Vilensky himself. All I knew was that whatever Katya had been involved in was dangerous, and it likely as not got her killed.”

  “Why did you not—,” Ursula started to ask.

  “Not tell you?” Hugh interrupted. “I didn’t tell you because I could see the fire in your eyes, the same fire I saw in my dear wife’s, the fire of determination to find out the truth. I couldn’t risk fueling that any further.”

  He looked at her sadly. “I lost my wife and sweetheart. I know how consuming the search for the truth can be.”

  Hugh gazed out over the field. A group of boys, with their fresh little faces and flat caps, were peering over the stone fence, staring in awe at the Blériot plane. “Would you look at that!” he said with a smile, breaking the awkward silence between them. Ursula knew better than to say anything further. She just patted his arm.

  As they walked back across the field to the plane, Ursula couldn’t help but muse, as much to herself as to anyone else, “I wonder who got the money? Arina certainly never used it to buy a ticket to Palestine, that’s for sure.”

  Hugh didn’t hear her, and as soon as Ursula spoke the words, she knew with certainty who that someone must be. Alexei. No doubt he would justify stealing Arina’s money as he had justified everything else. All done in the name of the greater good—the workers’ global struggle.

  “Miss Marlow, are you feeling all right?” Hugh asked

  “Yes,” she replied slowly. “Just another reason for me to declare, once and for all, that I shall die a spinster.”

  “That bad, huh?” was all he said. Ursula shrugged. “Want some advice from an old romantic?” Hugh lit a cigar with a grin.

  Ursula sighed. “Not really.”

  “Well, I’m giving it to you, whether you like it or not. When you’ve found true love, hold on to it. I found Iris, and she was taken away from me all too soon, so don’t you dare waste the time you have. Go to him. You’ve shown the world you can stand on your own—now show the world you can stand next to him.”

  Twenty-six

  Bromley Hall

  SEPTEMBER 1912

  Samuels drew up in Bertie at the familiar gilded ironwork gate, got out, and turned his collar up against the wind as he dashed forward and opened the gates. They banged against the tall stone wall with a clang. Ursula leaned forward in the rear passenger seat and tilted her head up beneath her hat to catch a glimpse of the Wrotham family crest, mounted in all its medieval splendor upon the gate. Sequere iustiam et invenias vitem—Follow justice and find life.

  Just beyond the gates, on either side of the driveway that led up to Bromley Hall, were the wild meadows that had once been the family’s deer park. Even now there were deer roaming free, and as Samuels drove along the way, Ursula caught glimpses of them dotted here and there, sheltered beneath the dark green elms and grazing in the open meadow. Samuels drove past the ornamental lake with its central Italianate fountain, and they followed the curved avenue until Ursula caught a glimpse of the silver-gray limestone facade of the east wing. Samuels drew up outside the wide stone staircase at the entrance. He stopped the car, pulled down his peaked cap, and alighted to assist Ursula. Following such a wet summer,
the driveway was rutted into deep trenches of mud that Ursula tried gingerly to avoid as Samuels helped her out of the car.

  She gazed up at the tall windows that flanked the impressive carved doorway, took a deep breath to try and compose herself, and climbed the stairs. The door opened as she got to the top.

  “Miss Marlow!” Ayres could not contain his surprise.

  “Good morning, Ayres,” she said, trying to keep her voice from betraying her anxiety. “Sorry to arrive unannounced, but I was wondering if Lord Wrotham was home?”

  “Yes, Miss.” Ayres face returned to its usual impassive state. “He is taking one of his long walks.”

  Ursula gave a small smile. “I thought he might be. Which route did he take?”

  “The one to the edge of Rockingham Forest. He left almost an hour ago, so I expect he will be on his way back. Do you wish to wait in the Green Drawing Room?”

  “No, Ayres, I’m going outside to find him.”

  “Very good, Miss. We shall have tea ready for your return.”

  Ayres, like Biggs, could always be relied upon to remain composed.

  “Thank you, Ayres. I’ll see myself out the back.”

  Ursula made her way through the vaulted entrance hall, through the old medieval receiving room, and down the long picture gallery to the end of the east wing. It felt strangely comforting to be back at Bromley Hall, and with each tap-tap of her walking shoes along the parquetry floor, Ursula was reminded of last summer, as if the memories had permeated the wood and stone, fixing them forever. She reached the end of the gallery and ducked out the French doors that led out onto the grand terrace. She walked quickly, trying to rid herself of the nervous energy that had built up during the long journey here. As the wind gathered strength, she buttoned up her tweed jacket and hurried on toward the avenue of cypress trees that formed a pathway to the edge of the Wrotham estate and Rockingham Forest.

  The leaves were already turning on the giant English oak, and the wind sent showers of leaves into the air with each gust. Ursula pulled her jacket in tight, flapping her arms to try and release some of the tension as she strode along the path down between the cypresses and then into the fields beyond. The grass was wet beneath her feet, and her boots were soon sodden, but she was too intensely focused ahead to care. By the time she started to climb the low hillock that led up to the ruins of a mock Roman temple, the hem of her dress was saturated and muddy. From the top she gazed down on the ornamental lake that formed the border of the estate. On the other side was the dense, dark fringe of the forest. Just below her Lord Wrotham was standing by the edge of the lake, his two collies bounding joyfully around a stick that lay at his feet as they waited for him to make the next toss.

  Now that she was here, she felt giddily nervous. The knot in her stomach had twisted in upon itself till she felt she would burst. The apprehension was almost unbearable, but with a deep breath she steadied herself.

  At that moment, he turned and saw her.

  Despite all her mental rehearsals, she was utterly unprepared for the impact of his gaze. He looked like Keats’s knight, “alone and palely loitering,” his dark hair swept back by the wind, his blue-gray eyes mirroring the bleak grim sky.

  A flock of ravens wheeled above her head, and the dogs began barking madly.

  “Quiet!” he ordered, and they both dropped to their haunches as she walked toward him. A gust of wind heaved and pounded the tall grass along the bank of the lake. She drew in her breath. He was waiting for her to speak.

  “I’m hoping it’s not too late.”

  The wind carried her words like a leaf.

  He made no reply but remained as he was, immutable, like stone, standing before her. She approached him, slowly, as if in a dream.

  “I’ve been a fool,” she said. “Thinking that the only way I could stand on my own was to do it without you. I’ve been fighting my own shadow. But now”—she took a deep breath—“now I’m here, as your equal, as someone who knows for a certainty what she wants.”

  His eyes flickered for a moment.

  “And it is you,” she continued. “Always. Forever.”

  She hesitated in midstep. “Tell me it’s not too late.” This time her voice was little more than a whisper.

  He looked down at the ground, and a dark lock of hair fell across his forehead. Ursula was besieged by doubts. Had she wounded him too deeply for him to trust her now? Was he weighing up the risks and deciding she wasn’t worth the gamble? Had Lady Winterton found a way into his heart? The stark outline of his countenance and the rigid set of his jaw reaffirmed all her fears. Her body began to shake; she couldn’t suppress the pain she felt at the prospect that all she hoped for had been destroyed.

  Then his eyes met hers. Three strides, and he was beside her. She was in his arms, feeling the beat of his heart against hers, and the fierceness of his embrace.

  “Marry me!” she demanded between their urgent kisses. He held her tight as they stumbled, still entwined, onto their knees in the wet grass. She gazed up at him as he took her face in his hands. He regarded her with searching eyes. “Really?” he asked. “Will you truly marry me?”

  She looked him straight in the eyes and with fierce determination replied.

  “Yes.”

  The light was fading as they made their way back to Bromley Hall. Lord Wrotham’s two collies waited patiently at the door to the long picture gallery for Ayres, who opened the French doors, bearing a towel over one arm and a bowl of water in the other, to minister to their needs.

  “Ayres!” Lord Wrotham called out. “Stop spoiling the dogs!”

  He held Ursula’s hand as they climbed the long, wide steps of the terrace. “You’ll soon get used to his idiosyncrasies,” Wrotham said to her with a smile. “He hid them well when you visited last summer—but be warned, once we’re married, you’ll soon find out that this house has a way of running itself.”

  “Sounds like Chester Square,” Ursula replied. Then a terrible thought hit her. “Oh, God,” she said. “What’s going to happen when Ayres meets Biggs?!”

  “Hmm,” Wrotham replied as he walked through the door. “I’d better contact the Foreign Office. That requires more diplomacy than my talents allow.” He then caught sight of the look of genuine concern on Ursula’s face.

  “My love,” he said, kissing her forehead lightly, “only you would be worrying about the servants just minutes after agreeing to become Lady Wrotham.”

  He guided her through the door, and they followed Ayres and the dogs along the picture gallery toward the Green Drawing Room.

  “The dowager has been down,” Ayres informed them calmly as he opened the door to the Green Drawing Room. Lord Wrotham hesitated at the threshold.

  “She decided to return to her rooms, my lord, until dinner is called,” Ayres assured him. “But after hearing of Miss Marlow’s arrival, she has left you one or two items on the drawing room table.”

  Lord Wrotham raised an eyebrow. “What could my mother have possibly—?” He left the question unfinished.

  “I believe one is a draft of the betrothal notice she wishes to have placed in the Times,” Ayres replied, a faint smile playing at the edges of his mouth. “The other is a suggested guest list for the wedding breakfast.”

  Ursula’s eyes widened. She had half expected the dowager to take to her room in a fit of horror at the thought of her son marrying the daughter of a coal miner’s son, but it seemed that the expediency of wealth won out. The entire household must have guessed what Ursula’s unannounced arrival precipitated, and the dowager, ever the Machiavellian pragmatist, was determined to take advantage at once.

  Lord Wrotham was unperturbed.

  “See,” he said with a deadpan expression. “I told you Mother would be pleased.”

  Twenty-seven

  NOVEMBER 1912

  Ursula and Lord Wrotham sat down at a corner table in the opulent Palm Court of the Ritz Hotel. It was one of their first public outings as a betrothed couple
, and it amused Ursula to see the reaction of London society, even though for most of last year the gossip mongers had already chewed over the details of their relationship until it was little more than gristle for the penny weeklies. This time was different. Although members of polite society still regarded Ursula as something of an oddity—a twenty-five-year-old heiress, suffragette, and businesswoman was certainly not the norm in Belgravia—she had garnered a modicum of respect for her deal with Peter Vilensky and Hugh Carmichael. Lord Wrotham remained the bastion of the conservative aristocracy, but the ladies were more than a little intrigued by his choice of a wife—perhaps beneath that cold exterior beat a passionate heart after all. Together they obtained a certain degree of notoriety that now appealed to society’s penchant for the eccentric.

  Ursula tilted her chin and gazed across at him beneath her Italian hat of black tulle with pink roses.

  “I have something for you,” she said with a smile, “from Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith.”

  He looked up from the menu, raised one eyebrow, and said, “It’s not another one of her appalling lists, is it? The last one suggested a four-foot-high wedding cake, a series of betrothal dinners hosted by my mother, and a honeymoon in Monte Carlo.”

  “No, nothing like that. . . . It’s a list of houses in Mayfair she thought we might like to look at.” Ursula’s lips twitched.

  Lord Wrotham placed his menu down on the table and sighed.

  “Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith has been talking to my mother again.”

  “So it would seem.”

  Ever since she had heard of their engagement, the dowager had been angling for Lord Wrotham to find himself a new home, one not only suitable for his new bride but also where his mother could spend the London season. Given the dowager’s intemperance where money was concerned, Ursula calculated that if she came to London unrestrained, Ursula’s entire wealth could be dissipated in a matter of weeks.

  “So what are your plans for the afternoon?” he asked, anxious to change the subject.