A Poisoned Season

by Tasha Alexander

  “Where is Ivy this afternoon, Robert?”

  “With the Duchess of Petherwick, I believe.”

  “Of course.” I managed another smile but suspected that he could see me seething behind it. “Are you a friend of Mrs. Brandon’s?” I asked his companion.

  “I’m not much acquainted with her,” the lady replied. This came as no surprise.

  “How unfortunate. So nice to see you both. I’ll leave you to your walk.” I did my best not to spit out the words but cannot vouch for my success. As they walked away from me, I looked at the paper that was still in my hand:

  Although the message was short, the Greek was beyond my sight-reading abilities, so I went home, where, with the aid of my lexicon, I was able to translate the passage: Eyes, how long are you draining the nectar of the Loves, rash drinkers of the strong unmixed wine of beauty?

  23

  I WAS NOT SURE WHAT TO DO NEXT. THE MATTER OF DECIPHERING THE letters was certainly urgent. Finding my admirer was something that might provide answers beyond those that I sought for personal reasons. And then there was the question of what Robert was doing with Mrs. Reynold-Plympton. All this was in addition to the problem of solving the murders in Richmond.

  Saving Jane Stilleman from a guilty verdict deserved primary importance, and it could be argued that the letters and my admirer tied in to this. But can I be faulted for wanting to help Ivy first? I penned a note to the one person in London who would be able to provide the most possible information about Robert’s friend; I only hoped it would not take long for her to reply.

  Next, I wrote a notice for the Times:

  What an exhilarating encounter. I’d prefer that next time you stay long enough for a chat. Many, many thanks for the letters.

  I debated asking to set up a meeting but rejected the idea. I’d do better trying to catch him following me. If only there were some simple way to draw him to me. I would think on this later. For the moment, I needed to apply myself to unlocking the secrets of Marie Antoinette’s correspondence with Léonard, but no sooner had I set out the letters than I was interrupted.

  “Hard at work?” Colin asked once Davis had closed the door after announcing my visitor.

  “Always,” I replied as he kissed my hand.

  “I’ve checked up on Berry and am convinced that he had nothing to do with the wayward coach.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because he went straight from Lady Elinor’s to a…er…club of sorts with Bertie.”

  “You believe him?”

  “I believe the Prince of Wales.”

  “Mr. Berry needn’t have been inside the coach himself, you know. He might have hired someone to drive it.”

  “A valid point, but I don’t see how he could have alerted the driver to our departure from the party. The prince collected him at the Routledge house, and they left together more than an hour after we did.”

  “And was Mr. Berry never out of sight during that hour?”

  “Lady Elinor’s watching Isabelle like a hawk—didn’t let her out of sight the entire evening. She’s a chaperone nearly as ferocious as your own mother.”

  “You’ve never had to tolerate my mother as a chaperone.”

  “Ashton told me all about it.”

  “Oh.” A feeling of vague discomfort swept over me, but I forced myself to ignore it. “He could have arranged it ahead of time.”

  “He might have, but I’m certain that the coach was not following us.”

  “It could have been on a street out of sight, waiting to see us leave Lady Elinor’s. As soon as we’d passed, it rushed to Berkeley Square ahead of us and was there, ready, when we arrived.”

  “I shan’t discount the possibility,” he said. I handed him one of the letters I’d been working on. “Will you help me? I’m close to cracking it.”

  “I think you’re headed in the right direction,” he said after I’d told him my theory about the number words being the key. I kept track of each system I’d tried, and the list was growing hideously long.

  “Paragraphs—that’s what I’ve ignored,” I said, my head bent over the letter before me. “Of course. It’s not simply the third letter of each word. The code doesn’t begin until the third paragraph.” I quickly copied the letters; more nonsense. I threw down my pencil and picked up another note.

  “It’s incredibly frustrating, isn’t it? I’ve a colleague who refuses to spend more than thirty minutes on any single code. Insists that if he can’t break it in that time, he’ll never be able to.”

  “Thirty minutes?”

  “Well, he’s quite good. There’s not much he can’t crack that quickly.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Vienna.”

  “How unfortunate.”

  “Have you tried applying the numbers to the next note in the series?”

  “Yes, no luck.”

  “What about the dates?” he asked. “They’re the only other place that numbers appear.”

  “Combine them with the others, you mean?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. I stared at the document in front of me.

  “Yes, I think that’s it. Look, the number in this one is vingt, and the date is the vingt-trois juillet. Subtract twenty from that and you’re left with three.” I scribbled down the pertinent letters. The result appeared to be another random string, so I decided to skip to the third sentence, and when that failed, to try every third letter of every third word. This last attempt didn’t result in enough letters, but I was convinced that I needed to look at every third word. Maybe every other letter of every third word?

  And this, at last, provided something other than nonsense, which I read aloud to Colin, translating from the French:

  Safe house found. B will travel with LC.

  “Louis Charles. The dauphin. My dear girl!” He pulled me out of my seat, put his hands around my waist, picked me up, and spun me in a circle.

  Truly, it was exhilarating. But we could not afford to bask in the moment and immediately applied the system to the next letter:

  S sympathetic. May help with escape. Travel unlikely before fall at earliest. LC in good health, asking after MT.

  “You’ve no need of my help,” Colin said, his eyes shining. “Brilliant work, Emily.”

  “MT” was undoubtedly Marie-Thérèse, the dauphin’s sister, but I had no clue who “B” or “S” might be. Perhaps Mr. Wainwright at the British Library would have an idea. Both of the letters I had decoded were from Léonard. Now I turned my attention to one written by the queen.

  Longing for mon chou d’amour. I trust B but worry about this S. Promise they will send him where we discuss ed.

  I could hardly wait to read the rest. But I would have to learn patience, for no sooner was I poised to delve into the next note than my mother arrived.

  “Mr. Hargreaves! What a pleasant surprise.”

  “Delighted to see you, Lady Bromley,” he said, leaping to his feet and kissing her hand. “You look well. Are you one of those ladies immune to aging?”

  This was too much, but I resisted the urge to glare at him. “You are too kind, sir,” she said, an expression of smug satisfaction on her face, and sat down. “I must say, I had no idea how much Her Majesty depends upon you. When Emily and I were having tea at Windsor…”

  Clearly, this was a dialogue that could go on without me, so I kept at my work, paying only the slightest attention to what they were saying. Colin played my mother flawlessly, in turn flattering her and asking for advice about mundane household matters. He needn’t have wasted his time; there was no question but that she would support a marriage between us. Nonetheless, it was amusing to watch him play the part of aspiring son-in-law.

  “What are you working on over there, Emily?” she asked, ready to draw me into the conversation.

  “Oh, nothing of significance,” I said. “Just my Greek, as usual.”

  “She’s a very smart girl, you know.” Her voice was a melodramatic whisper
.

  “Only one of her many charms,” Colin replied, and I decided I’d had enough of this nonsense. I walked over to them and sat next to my mother on the settee.

  “Did you receive my note?”

  “I did and thought discussing it with you in person would be preferable to writing an answer. I don’t entirely trust your servants. Discretion is my utmost concern.” This last sentence was directed to Colin.

  “Quite as it should be, Lady Bromley. Shall I leave you alone with your daughter?”

  “It might be best, sir.”

  “Very good,” he said. “May I call on you again tomorrow, Lady Ashton?” His eyes danced with laughter.

  “Of course,” I replied.

  “He is all politeness!” My mother exclaimed as soon as he had left the room. “You’d be hard-pressed to find a man who could better him, although I do wish he were a peer.”

  “He’s rich enough to make up for that,” I said. She could not have missed my wry tone but did nothing to acknowledge it.

  “His family has been prominent in England since the time of William the Conqueror, and rumor has it that no fewer than two of his ancestors refused offers to become peers. A bit strange, but wealthy men are often eccentric. And as fond as the queen is of him, I shouldn’t be surprised at all if she bestowed a title on him.”

  “I wonder if he would accept it.”

  “Of course he would! How could you think otherwise?”

  “He might follow the lead of his ancestors.”

  “Hmpf. And tell me, have you seen much of Bainbridge?”

  “He’s been a bit scarce lately.”

  “Make sure you encourage him, Emily. There’s no need to cast him aside unless you’ve a settled arrangement with someone else.”

  I decided to change the subject. “Have you information about Mrs. Reynold-Plympton for me?”

  “Your note was most interesting, Emily. Are you at last taking an interest in society?”

  “Just Mrs. Reynold-Plympton.”

  “Her husband is a retired ambassador. They spent years in the farthest reaches of the empire, and she’s always been rather…untamed.”

  “She’s much younger than her husband, isn’t she?”

  “He’s at least thirty years her senior. They’ve eight children; the oldest stands to inherit a most significant fortune. If she is a friend of Mr. Hargreaves, I shouldn’t let it trouble you much. She’s perfectly discreet. Still, I should insist that he break it off before the wedding.”

  “Why would you think she’s his mistress?”

  “Mrs. Reynold-Plympton has been linked with more than one bachelor since her return to England seven years ago. Her husband’s health has been in decline for some time. He must be seventy-five years old if he’s a day, and it is Mrs. Hamilton—do you know her?—who takes particular care of him. They were attached to each other in their youth, but his parents wouldn’t let him marry her. No money in her family.”

  “So now he forsakes his wife for her?”

  “Don’t play naïve, Emily. It’s most unbecoming. People find a way to cope with arranged marriages. It’s a necessity of life.”

  “Sounds more like sanctioned hypocrisy to me.”

  “It’s very bad of Mr. Hargreaves to have let you find out about this. Perhaps you should take Bainbridge instead. He is discretion itself.”

  “Colin is not involved with Mrs. Reynold-Plympton. I’m only interested in her because I saw her in the park with another gentleman.”

  “Really? Who was it?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “Don’t be tedious.”

  “I’m not about to start spreading unfounded gossip.”

  “Fine. I’ve no interest in playing silly little games with you.” She stood. “I do hope you’re prepared to make a quick decision about your wedding. The queen will expect to hear news about it before the end of the Season.”

  “Perhaps I shall have to flee to Greece before then.”

  “Don’t even consider it.” She departed without another word. I returned to my desk after watching her carriage pull away and had just picked up my pencil when the window at the front of the room shattered as something flew through it, the missile landing on the side table next to Colin’s favorite chair. Tied onto the brick was a note with a simple message:

  A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing. Stop now.

  24

  EVEN BEFORE I COULD RING FOR DAVIS, THE POLICE WATCHING my house mobilized and set off after the person who had thrown the brick. Although none of them had actually seen the act, an instant before he heard the crash of breaking glass, one alert officer had noticed a man run off at top speed, and his cries immediately caught the attention of the plainclothes policeman in the square.

  Davis and three footmen appeared in the library almost at once, clearly relieved to find me unhurt. It was lucky that I had not been sitting on the window seat, as was often my habit. The abrasion on my cheek from when the coach tried to run me down had healed, but the anxiety caused by knowing that I’d been targeted for harm had not faded with my wound. This latest incident only increased my feeling of unease.

  Unfortunately, the miscreant eluded his pursuers, and the police were baffled as to his identity. There was very little more they could do. Inspector Manning was called to the scene, and he, along with Colin, whom Davis had sent for, examined the note. Not unexpectedly, it bore no identifying features. The only thing we were able to determine was that the handwriting was significantly different from that on the missives I had received from my admirer. Hardly surprising. I wouldn’t have expected him to start flinging objects through my windows. It wasn’t his style.

  “We’re taking every precaution we can to ensure your safety, Lady Ashton,” Inspector Manning said. “But I would suggest that you perhaps consider heeding the message. There’s no point in exposing yourself to further danger.”

  “The only way for the danger to be averted is to solve the crime, Inspector,” Colin said. “And I’ve come to see that Lady Ashton’s contributions in such matters are inestimable. I suspect the culprit knows it, too, or he wouldn’t feel so threatened by her.”

  “So you think this has something to do with the murders in Richmond?” the inspector asked.

  “I’m certain of it,” I replied.

  “I’m not,” Colin said. “It may be that the letters you’re deciphering are completely unrelated but dangerous in their own right.”

  “The police are confident in the case against the maid,” Inspector Manning said.

  “That does not mean they’re right,” I said.

  Perhaps the most baffling thing to me at that moment was the connection between the murders and the thefts. If Beatrice were culpable, then why would the news reports of the pink diamond have correlated with her husband’s death? Could learning about the stone have made her want to kill the man she claimed to love?

  I looked to Ivy’s masquerade ball to provide a much-needed respite in the midst of all this excitement. When at last the night of the party arrived, it seemed as if all of London had descended upon Belgrave Square. The line of carriages crowding the street paralyzed traffic for blocks, and an atmosphere of gaiety permeated the entire neighborhood. Ivy, always the most considerate of hostesses, had some of her footmen bring cider and cakes around to all the coachmen while they waited. I had arrived early to help my friend with any last-minute catastrophes but found I had nothing to do. Ivy was far too organized to allow for emergencies.

  She had decided not to impose upon her guests a theme, and the result of this was a house filled with costumes of every sort. I counted at least two queens of Sheba, three Cleopatras, and, not surprising given the current goings-on in town, no fewer than eight Marie Antoinettes. Lord Fortescue had come as Cardinal Richelieu. I was dressed as Helen of Troy, in a long tunic made by Mr. Worth from the finest white silk, artfully held together at the shoulders by gold brooches. Meg had spent nearly an hour arranging my hair
in a complicated series of upswept braids and curls to a stunning result. My ensemble was completed with dainty golden sandals.

  I had planned my costume before deciding that I would wear something of Marie Antoinette’s to the ball, and by the time I had arranged to do so, it was too late to order something different. So my Helen wore an anachronistic choker fashioned of diamonds that came from the infamous diamond-necklace affair. They weren’t the actual stones; I was unable to persuade the current owner to part with them. She did, however, agree to pretend that she had sold them to me, and lent me the paste copy that she’d had made years ago for times when she wanted the look of the necklace without having to worry about losing it.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you look more lovely,” Ivy said, coming to me as soon as the bulk of her guests had arrived.

  “I do well so long as I stand away from you,” I said, smiling. She was resplendent as Britannia. Her flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes commanded the attention of any gentleman in her immediate vicinity. “No one stands a chance next to you.”

  “You underestimate yourself,” she said. “Have you seen Colin yet?”

  “No. Has he arrived?”

  “Yes. He’s dressed as an Elizabethan courtier and looks devastatingly handsome.”

  Robert, appearing as the emperor Charles V, came up next to his wife. “Who is devastatingly handsome?”

  “You of course, darling,” she replied with the sweetest sort of smile. He kissed her lightly on the cheek, and, I’m happy to report, didn’t seem distracted in the least. Nonetheless, I couldn’t help but wonder if Mrs. Reynold-Plympton was on the guest list.

  In the ballroom the dancing had started. Isabelle, as a shepherdess, wore the most sweetly innocent costume in the house. She was positively beaming at the gentleman who guided her across the floor. It was Lord Pembroke. My heart felt heavy for the girl, and I hoped her mother would not notice her choice of partner.

  Charles Berry, proving once and for all his complete lack of imagination, appeared as Louis XIV and was hanging lecherously on a very young and very pretty girl whom I did not recognize. I couldn’t find Colin but had promised the next dance to Jeremy, who was decked out as a Roman soldier, complete with bronze armor. Although he did not dance so gracefully as Colin, he was a good partner, and we spent a pleasant time together on the floor.