A Poisoned Season lem-2

by Tasha Alexander

  "If you were married and had a mistress, would you be able to keep your wife from suspecting anything was amiss?" I was once again in Colin's fine library.

  He raised his eyebrows. "If I were married, it would be to you, and my fidelity would make you the envy of all of London."

  "Really, Colin, I'm not talking about us. Theoretically, do you think a spouse could conceal such a thing?"

  "In many marriages, yes, I don't think it would be difficult at all. How many of your friends married because they felt true affection? Even when they're not arranged, marriages are usually entered into because of the status or the financial advantages the match will bring."

  "I had no idea you were so cynical."

  "I'm not cynical in the least, just realistic. Why do you think I've remained a bachelor for so long?"

  "Well, I'd like to believe it was because you hadn't met me," I said, smiling.

  "You've no more interest in a society marriage than I do. They're business arrangements, really, and I've no desire to share my house with a business partner."

  "Put aside the notion of a society match. Imagine a marriage in which there is genuine affection. Could an affair be concealed in that?"

  "Perhaps if there is only genuine affection. Not if there is passionate love."

  "Surely if there is passionate love, there would be no need for an affair," I said and swallowed, suddenly finding my breath difficult to control.

  "No, there wouldn't be," he said. We both sat very still, neither of us able to tear our eyes away from the other's. The tense pleasure was almost unbearable, and just when I thought I couldn't stand it any longer, Colin leapt to his feet. "Some port?" he asked, heading for a tray on which stood two decanters.

  "Please," I replied. He handed me a glass that I accepted with a trembling hand. He poured for himself from the other decanter. "Whiskey?" I asked, noting the color of the beverage.

  "Yes."

  "You prefer it to port?"

  "Sometimes."

  "May we return to our marriage discussion? The question of the affair."

  "Right. I'll be candid. People can be discreet, very discreet. But I don't believe that it is possible to hide entirely from one's spouse the transfer of affections to another person. Unless, of course, the spouse doesn't care."

  "I can't imagine not caring."

  "Nor can I."

  The walk home passed quickly, and back at Berkeley Square Davis opened the door before I had reached it. "There's been another delivery, madam," he said, ushering me inside to the drawing room. "The smell is rather overpowering, so I thought you'd prefer not to have them in the library. I didn't separate them, as I thought you'd want to see the full effect."

  The room was crowded with flowers, vases stuffed with lilies, roses, freesia, covering every table. Sitting on the center of the mantel was an envelope, which I opened at once. Davis was right; the scent of the flowers, though lovely, was overwhelming, and I went back into the hall to read the note, which I knew came in response to my notice that had appeared in the Times the previous day.

  ...if ever thou dost cast a clouded glance on me, I gaze on winter, and if thou lookest joyously, sweet spring bursts into bloom. Beneath the Greek was a simple statement: You'll never again receive any but the freshest flowers from me.

  16

  It was with a certain degree of trepidation that I called on Beatrice the following day. I wanted to learn more about her marriage without making her suspect that her husband had a mistress. Assuming, of course, that she did not already know. She was in the garden when I arrived, filling a basket with cut flowers, their bright colors a perfect contrast to her dull black dress.

  "This heat is dreadful," she said when she saw me. "I quite envy you your dress." She looked longingly at my gown, which was fashioned from a pale pink lawn.

  "It may look cooler than yours, but I can assure you that it doesn't feel it."

  "Black's so oppressive, don't you think? Particularly in the summer." Sweat trickled down the side of her face. "But there's something cleansing about being in mourning. A sort of justice. It wouldn't be right for one to go on as if nothing had happened."

  I took the basket from her and followed her down the path to a shaded grove, where we sat on a small stone bench. "I've found one of Léonard's letters," I told her. "And I'm wondering if your husband had the rest of them."

  "How can that be possible? We've combed every inch of the house. They are not here."

  "I think they may have been stolen, possibly with the snuffbox."

  "Does this help Jane?"

  "It may," I said. "I'm not sure."

  "I cannot bear this, Emily. The poor girl is rotting in prison — "

  "Please do not upset yourself. I need your help. Think carefully: Did your husband's manner or mood change at all in the days before his death?"

  "No, not that I can remember."

  "Did he ever seem withdrawn?"

  "David was the most constant man I ever met."

  "A perfect husband?"

  "As near as one could be."

  "Was there never any strife in your marriage?"

  "Not really. We argued on occasion, as everyone does."

  I thought of my own brief marriage. Philip and I had never argued. We hadn't known each other well enough. "About anything in particular?"

  "I sometimes complained that we did not go out much in society, but there is no use in trying to change a husband. I knew when I married David that he preferred a quiet life."

  "But he did go out, didn't he? With Mr. Barber? And to his club?"

  "Yes, of course. That's very different from going about in society, though. He went to a political meeting every Sunday at his club. I can't think that he ever missed one."

  "What sort of politics?"

  "Oh, I haven't the slightest idea. He never told me details, but there was an energy about him when he returned. I can't quite describe it."

  "And they always met on Sundays?"

  "Yes." She laughed. "It was a concession to the wives. When they first started, they met three nights a week. Can you imagine? The wives complained, and eventually they were persuaded that happiness at home required them to curb their enthusiasm for politics."

  "Did you complain?"

  "Actually, I didn't. I could see that the meetings did him good. He felt useful. And, at the time, I was rather glad to be by myself."

  "Why is that?"

  "It was a difficult period for me, Emily. David and I had been married for more than seven years, and not once was I with child. It was hard to accept that I would never be a mother."

  "I'm sorry."

  "There's no need to apologize. I came to terms with it years ago."

  "How did Mr. Francis react?"

  "He handled it with grace and understanding. Never complained, never made me feel my failure."

  "Perhaps it wasn't your failure at all. It could have been his."

  "No, Emily, it was mine. I'm sure of that."

  Davis could not hide his pleasure as he handed me the mail that afternoon, and when I sorted through my letters, I knew why. "Have we both had letters from France today, Davis?" I asked. "Is Odette glad to be home? Or does she long for England?"

  "I'm sure I wouldn't know, madam; she wrote only to inform me of her safe arrival in Paris."

  "Hmmmm." His cheeks took on a slight color as he bowed quickly and left the room. I tore open my letter from Cécile.

  Ma chère Kallista,

  There is no joy more complete than that felt when returning to Paris. London has its diversions, but nothing could compare to the beauty of my own city. Monet and Renoir have both inquired after you; Monet has finished the paintings for the villa, and is shipping them to Madame Katevatis, where she will have them ready for your arrival on Santorini in the fall.

  There is sadly little to report to Monsieur Hargreaves, but tell him not to despair. I have made the acquaintance of Monsieur Garnier. He will not be a stranger to m
e for long. Already I have captured his attention — he is an oddly attractive man — I know I shall enjoy working on him.

  How is Davis? I am being subjected to unbearable waves of melodrama here, Odette mooning about and singing mournful arias from Italian operas. Beware, Kallista, I may be forced to steal your butler, as I can tolerate lovesickness for only so long.

  I smiled as I read this, and then looked through the rest of my mail. The next envelope I opened contained a note from Mr. Sinclair, who single-handedly restored my hope that the work I was trying to do for the British Museum was not futile. He'd consulted with the Keeper of Greco-Roman Antiquities at the museum, Mr. Murray, who agreed with my assessment of the Archaic statue I had seen in Richmond. In view of the piece's intrinsic value to scholars, Mr. Sinclair had immediately donated it to the museum. It turned out that his wife had never been overly fond of the piece, so the decision did not cause any strife in the house.

  I scrawled a quick reply, expressing my gratitude, and then, my confidence bolstered, penned a message to send to the Times. Not only did I need to uncover the identity of my admirer, and, of course, thank him for the flowers, I had to confirm that he had more of Léonard's correspondence. You've overwhelmed me with flowers. Care to do the same with L's letters?

  That taken care of, I changed into something suitable for walking and set off for the park, where I was to meet Ivy and Margaret. They were waiting for me in front of the statue of Achilles when I arrived, Ivy a picture of English perfection, her delicate skin shaded by a frilly parasol, Margaret dressed in a modern-looking suit and carrying a stack of books bound together with a leather strap.

  "These are for you, but I won't make you carry them," she said. "I've decided to bludgeon you with Latin until you agree to take up the study of it."

  "I'm sorry, Margaret, you'll not convert me yet. I'm nowhere near being satisfied with my mastery of Greek, and I think I shall turn to hieroglyphs when I want something new."

  "You're both so clever," Ivy said, looking at the ground.

  "Perhaps you can convince Ivy to discuss Latin with you," I said.

  "No, no, I've no head for that sort of thing."

  "I think you do," Margaret said. "You don't give yourself enough credit." Ivy blushed furiously, and her knuckles turned white as she clutched her parasol.

  "You're perfectly capable of learning it, but don't let Margaret bully you. She won't be satisfied until she's at Oxford reciting Ovid until all hours of the night."

  "I wish the Season was over," Margaret said, slinging the books over her shoulder.

  "I think it's unfortunate that Jeremy isn't willing to embrace his classical education. If he were, you might just marry him."

  "He'd make a decent husband," she admitted. "He's a brilliant kisser —"

  "Margaret!" Ivy cried.

  "Well, you knew I'd have to check."

  "I rather assumed he would be," I said. "He's very..." I smiled as I considered Jeremy.

  "Yes, exactly," Margaret said.

  "I haven't the slightest idea what either of you is talking about," Ivy said.

  "That, my dear, is because you are too good," I said, squeezing her arm. The park was bursting with the best of society, mothers parading their daughters, gentlemen looking as dapper as possible in the heat, young married women bending their heads together, asking and giving advice, gossip, and encouragement to one another. We had to pause every few feet to nod greetings to acquaintances, but it was impossible not to notice that no one seemed interested in actually speaking with us. Until, that is, we came to Lady Elliott, my mother's bosom friend. She stopped and forced a pained smile onto her face.

  "Mrs. Brandon, Miss Seward, how delightful to see you." She did not so much as look at me. "Dreadful heat, don't you agree?"

  Ivy managed a sputtered but genteel reply. Margaret glared at Lady Elliott, who walked on without further comment.

  "Emily, she deliberately cut you," Ivy said. I felt the unwelcome sting of tears in my eyes.

  "Are you all right?" Lady Elinor and Isabelle approached us.

  "We're fine," Margaret snapped.

  "Thank you, Lady Elinor, for asking," Ivy said.

  "I saw Lady Elliott. Dreadful. Pay her no mind, Emily. She's a petty, jealous woman."

  "Thank you," I said, pulling my shoulders back. "I hadn't realized I was in such disgrace."

  "Oh dear," Lady Elinor said. "You've not heard the rumor then?" I shook my head. "Ivy, will you walk ahead with Isabelle?"

  "It must be quite awful if you're unwilling for her to hear it," I said, trying to inject into my voice a light tone as Ivy and Isabelle pulled away from us.

  "One would think the fact that the two of you are walking together would put an end to all this, but apparently not." She looked back and forth between Margaret and myself as she spoke. "The story goes that the Duke of Bainbridge had a large quantity of flowers delivered to you as a gesture of thanks after you had...well...you can imagine what they think."

  "That is absolutely outrageous!" Margaret cried.

  "Do lower your voice, Miss Seward. Any hint of excitement on your part will do nothing but appear to confirm this rumor."

  "I received flowers, but they weren't from Jeremy," I said.

  "They say that you prominently displayed the card he sent on the center of your mantelpiece."

  I could not speak. This was beyond awful, more terrible than I could have imagined. People might talk and criticize me for indulging in a romantic flirtation with no intention of marrying Jeremy, but if they believed that the relationship had progressed to an actual affair, and that we were so foolish as to not be discreet — that could ruin me.

  "I won't stand for this," Margaret said. "We have to do something."

  "There's very little we can do," Lady Elinor said. Ivy looked back over her shoulder, her face full of questions. "The duke has of course denied it, but no one would expect a gentleman to do anything else."

  "So Emily is to sit here and allow this trash to fester? No. Not acceptable."

  "You could perhaps go abroad, let the scandal die down."

  "That would be tantamount to admitting guilt," I said. "I shan't do that."

  "I see your point, but I do hate the thought of your being subjected to all this," Lady Elinor said. "I'm afraid that Lady Frideswide has been particularly vocal about you."

  "I suppose that shouldn't come as a surprise," I said.

  "This is my fault," Margaret said. "I've taken advantage of your generosity, Emily." She turned to Lady Elinor. "Mrs. Taylor and my mother won't give me a moment of peace. They hover over me mercilessly when Jeremy calls. Emily's kind enough to let me meet him at her house, and this is the thanks she gets."

  "Hush, Miss Seward. Telling people that Emily allowed you to have inappropriate interactions with the duke will not help her reputation."

  "I didn't say she let us do anything inappropriate."

  "No, but that would be implied, wouldn't it, after you say that your chaperones are too severe and that meeting at Emily's house is an improvement?"

  "I hadn't considered that," Margaret said, and fell silent.

  "Isabelle, come back, dear," Lady Elinor called. "I want the three of you to walk with us for a bit. It will do you good to be seen in company, Emily."

  Ivy did not ask what had happened but drew my arm through hers as we walked. No one whom we encountered would meet my eyes.

  Following Lady Elinor's advice, we spent three quarters of an hour meandering through the park. Not a single acquaintance offered me more than the most basic courtesy, but at least no one save Lady Elliott cut me. Still, I was thoroughly disheartened when my friends and I returned to the library at Berkeley Square.

  "I don't care what Lady Elinor says," Margaret said. "I blame myself entirely for this."

  "Don't, Margaret," I said, letting my head fall against the back of my chair, eyes focused on the ceiling.

  "How could anyone think such things about you?" Ivy asked.
We had waited until we reached my house to tell her the story; she was horrified. "What will you do? What will Colin say?"

  "Colin is the last person we need to worry about," Margaret said.

  "I don't agree," Ivy said. "Colin matters more than anything."

  "Please! I can't have the two of you arguing." I wished I could loosen my corset. "Colin will know it's all nonsense. As for the rest of society, there's nothing to be done. I shall have to sit out until the scandal blows over."

  "You can't be serious," Margaret said. "You need to fight back."

  "It won't do any good to make a spectacle of yourself, Emily," Ivy said.

  "Fine. Then come to Oxford with me. Or go to Bryn Mawr. University life would suit you."

  "Thank you, Margaret, but I don't think so. I'd rather stay and face this than run from it."

  "You must think carefully about what will be the best way to approach this," Ivy said. "You don't want to lose your position."

  "Her position?" Margaret slammed her hand on the table that stood next to her chair. "I hardly think that her position —"

  "I don't think you fully understand the situation, Margaret. Emily is in danger of losing everything if she does not carefully consider how to best reconcile herself in society. Perhaps you could host a dinner party, Emily. Your parents would, of course, come, and you can count on Robert and me. A royal guest would work wonders for your reputation. Colin's with Bertie so often these days because of Mr. Berry, and your mother's friends with Princess Alix — "

  "You can't be suggesting that hosting the Prince of Wales, a notorious profligate, is going to improve Emily's situation."

  "I am well aware of the prince's flaws, Margaret, but you know that people are more than willing to overlook them," Ivy said.

  "Can you bear this hypocrisy, Emily? You are falsely accused of having an affair. To save yourself, you should invite to dinner a man with more mistresses than sense."

  "There's no need to insult the prince," Ivy said.