“Would she be willing to lend the book to me?” I asked, and sat, astonished, as I waited for him to inquire. He returned shortly, bearing a well-worn volume.
“It’s an older edition, madam. Mrs. Ockley bought it used.”
I searched through the book until I found the Torringtons and traced my finger along the page, stopping when I came to the children of the fourth viscount: Sarah Elizabeth, Catherine Jane, and Elinor Constance. The estate was in Kent, near Sevenoaks, just where Lady Elinor told me she had spent her childhood.
What, if anything, had the Torringtons known about the dauphin’s escape? Had they helped the boy? And if so, what did Lady Elinor know of it? I had to consider my next move very carefully. So much for letting my thoughts simmer.
30
EVER SINCE SEBASTIAN TOLD ME THAT HE HADN’T STOLEN THE SILVER snuffbox, I’d intended to see if it had turned up for sale anywhere, but one distraction after another had kept me from this task. Today, at last, I was determined to search for it, and by two o’clock had visited no fewer than seven shops, many of them of dubious reputation. I was not foolish enough to think that I would stumble across it on display. Rather, I hoped that one of the shopkeepers could be convinced to reveal anything he’d heard about such an item appearing for sale on the black market.
So far I’d learned nothing, although I had purchased two red-figure vases, both fifth century, one depicting the myth of Zeus and Io, the other the birth of Apollo and Artemis. And though I wrestled with the ethics of it, I also bought a fragment from a charming frieze of the three Graces dancing, their arms entwined, hair and robes flowing. The dealer selling it was notoriously unscrupulous, and the provenance he offered was laughable. I hated to do business with anyone furthering the illegal trade of antiquities, but the piece was so exquisite that I couldn’t bear to leave it behind. If I owned it, it would go to the British Museum; in the hands of someone else, it might be lost forever to scholars. Not a satisfying way to reconcile such a purchase, not when I knew that, in theory, the only way to stop black-market transactions was by eliminating the demand for objects that lacked a verifiable history of acquisition and ownership.
I was musing over whether this was a realistic possibility in my lifetime as I browsed through my eighth shop, and was nearly ready to quietly approach the owner to see if he had anything else in the back, when something caught my eye: a delicate pin in the shape of a bird of paradise, set in gold with sapphires, rubies, and emeralds. I recognized it at once as the one Lady Elinor had been wearing the day Margaret and I first saw Jeremy in the British Museum. My strategy changed at once.
“What an exquisite brooch!” I exclaimed.
The shopkeeper, who had been keeping an eye on me from a distance, gave me a broad smile and walked to the counter in front of me. “Eighteen-carat gold, madam, and the finest-quality stones.”
“However did you get it?”
“The same way I get most of my jewelry. If you’ll pardon my saying so, you ladies tend to exceed your allowances.”
“I should love to buy it, but it’s awfully familiar to me. I’m afraid it belonged to a friend of mine, and it would be rather embarrassing to turn up with something of hers. I don’t suppose you could check?”
“Can’t do that, madam. I offer my clients absolute confidentiality.”
Apparently, absolute confidentiality was worth somewhere in the vicinity of six shillings. I left the shop with the pin and confirmation that Lady Elinor had sold not only it, but several other very valuable pieces in the past few months. I may not have been able to locate the snuffbox, but I was beginning to think that I had a fair idea of who might have taken it.
If Colin had been in town, I could have asked him to make discreet inquiries with the Routledge family solicitor to determine just how dire Lady Elinor’s financial situation was. His connection to the palace would be invaluable in such a situation. I would have to rely on more imaginative means, and decided to call on Lord Pembroke’s mother, the only person I could think of who might have insight into the matter.
“Forgive me for being so direct, Lady Anders, but did you and your husband enter into any sort of negotiations with Lady Elinor when your son wanted to marry Isabelle?”
“Not in any formal sense. I discussed matters with her in a casual sort of way once it had become clear that Tommy was serious about the girl. As I told you before, there’s not a lot of money left, so her dowry would have been very small.”
“How small?”
“Nonexistent, really. I’ll be quite candid with you, Lady Ashton. Lord Pembroke and I would never have allowed Tommy to marry the girl, regardless of how fond he was of her. I hinted as much to Elinor. She’s been a friend, you know, and I hated to think her daughter might have her hopes set unreasonably high.”
“Is it that bad? I thought Mr. Routledge was quite well off.”
“He left Elinor well settled, but somehow the money’s gone. Isabelle’s lucky she managed to secure Charles Berry. I don’t think most gentlemen would consider taking her for so little.”
“Why did Berry take her, then? He’s no money of his own.”
“There must be a very great attachment on his side. Either that or he wants a bride with a good English heritage. Excellent thing for someone with royal blood, you know. There’s hardly a monarchy in Europe without a connection to our own dear queen.”
That may have been true, but to marry the penniless granddaughter of a viscount was a far cry from allying oneself with even a minor princess in the House of Saxe-Coburg-Gotha. Charles Berry had no money, and he had no throne. He needed a wife who could bring him a fortune. It made no sense at all that he had agreed to marry Isabelle, unless Lady Elinor had something else to entice him. Or a way to prove that he was not who he claimed. Maybe she was blackmailing him.
I thanked Lady Anders and considered my options as I drove back towards Berkeley Square. I needed to talk to Sebastian. He surely had some way of proving that he was the true descendant of Louis XVI and was perfectly capable of stopping Mr. Berry. I would have to go, yet again, to the Times, a course of action that was fast becoming infuriating. Why must he make it so difficult for me to contact him? I stuck my head out of the carriage window and called for Waters to stop.
Sebastian had followed me on enough occasions that I thought it reasonable to surmise he was doing so now. I got out of the coach, crossed Knightsbridge, and went into the park, sending the carriage home without me, assuring Waters that I would be safe there on my own. He was not easily convinced, but I eventually managed, pointing out that his loitering outside the park would serve no purpose and refusing to have one of the footmen accompany me. I appreciated my staff’s concern, but I needed to be alone.
I walked slowly along the entire length of the Serpentine, all the while watching for signs of being followed. There were none. I continued on, turning into Kensington Gardens, where I sat on a bench in the most secluded spot I could find. There I waited for three quarters of an hour, going over the facts of the case, making lists of questions whose answers I needed to discover, and checking, at far too frequent intervals, the gold watch pinned to my bodice. Finally I gave up, stood, and surveyed the scene before me. It was getting late, and there were few people in the garden. None, in fact, that I could see, but I was certain that Sebastian was there, lurking somewhere out of sight.
“Sebastian?” I called. “I know you’re here. Won’t you come talk to me?” Leaves rustled in the wind, and I heard the sound of a dog barking far off in the distance, but my admirer did not present himself. “Please! I need your help! Sebastian!” I stamped my foot in frustration and dropped back onto the bench.
“You really shouldn’t lose your composure like that, Kallista darling.” He came, seemingly from nowhere, and sat next to me.
“Why do you insist upon skulking about like this? It’s infuriating.”
“You are lovely when you’re in a temper.”
“Answer the question.”
“I’m merely keeping an eye on you. Do you think it’s safe to trot about, unescorted, after all that’s been happening to you?”
“I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”
“Are you? I could do anything I like to you right now. Take you prisoner; carry you off to my den of iniquity. There’s no one to see or stop me.”
“If I screamed, someone would come. And I imagine that your den is far enough away that it would be difficult to get me there with no one noticing.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps. Fear not, though. You’re in no danger with me.” For the first time, I could see his face. His eyes, as I remembered, were a shocking blue, but the remainder of his features were unremarkable. Although I wouldn’t have described him as handsome, there was a vibrancy about him that was most appealing.
“I’ve lost your mother’s Bible. I’m very sorry.”
“It’s of no consequence to me. If I had wanted it, I would have taken it when she offered it to me.”
“I believe that Charles Berry has it.”
“Well, I hope it amuses him.”
“How can you be so cavalier about all this? Don’t you want to stop him?”
“Berry? He’s a bloody boor. Why would I care to involve myself with him?”
“He’s stealing your heritage.” This brought a hearty laugh from my companion.
“Darling, I do adore you. Such drama! Such enthusiasm!
“I might be able to sight-read, but I’m afraid that my verbal skills are woefully lacking. Translation?”
“Let us run far away, as far as we have strength to go.”
“How did you become so well educated if you were brought up as a servant?”
“I was sent to school by a benefactor.”
“I see. I wondered if you had some sort of hidden trust.”
He raised his eyebrows. “A hidden trust? Where would you get such an idea? Have I been misled about your character? Tell me you don’t read bad fiction. I thought you were devoted to Homer?”
“Don’t try to distract me. Surely you’re not going to stand aside while Charles Berry ascends to the throne in France?”
“What concern is it of mine? My family has done more than enough.”
This simple statement touched my heart. The pain this poor man must have suffered! I could only imagine the horror he felt from the knowledge of the brutality of his relatives’ executions. To think that he’d had to live his entire life denying his identity, posing as a servant, when, by birthright, he should have been surrounded by every luxurious comfort. Despite myself, I took his gloved hand in mine and squeezed it.
“You’re quite right. But you cannot allow him to claim something that is rightfully yours. Even if the monarchy is never restored, he should not be able to say he is the true heir to the House of Bourbon.”
“And you think I am? Oh, this is a delight. No, no, darling, I’m no relation to the poor dauphin. If anything, I’m sick to death of hearing about him.”
“But the Bible? Bernadette Capet? I know that she came to England with the dauphin.”
“Yes.”
“And his daughter was your mother.”
“No, you’ve lost the story completely. Bernadette and her son, my grandfather, brought Louis Charles to England, but they did not stay with him. It was of paramount concern that his identity remain a secret, so the boy was given to the guardianship of a childless couple.”
“Did they know who he was?”
“Of course, but they never told a soul.”
“But Capet was the name given to the royal family.”
“And dear Bernadette adopted it for just that reason. There’s nothing my family is fonder of than honoring the French monarchy. You can’t imagine how tedious it is.”
“If that’s how you feel, why have you devoted yourself to stealing things that belonged to Marie Antoinette?”
“Yes, it’s quite a conundrum, isn’t it? My mother was fixated on the Bourbons and the service Bernadette had done for them. From the time I could speak, she taught me the history of France.”
“Is that so awful?”
“When it’s done to the exclusion of all other things, yes. She had a practiced litany of all the things that had been stolen from the Bourbons. I couldn’t stand listening to it. After I’d gone to school, I knew that I did not want to go back to Richmond. She was horrified that I would consider staying away. Insisted that I remain.”
“She had no other children?”
“No. Just me.”
“Perhaps she wanted your comfort in her old age?”
“No. She believed emphatically that it was necessary for me to stay because that, darling, is what Marie Antoinette would have wanted. Bernadette, you see, swore that she would stay near enough Louis Charles and his heirs to make sure that they were always well. Her son followed her, as did his daughter, and now I am supposed to do the same.”
“You were to watch the dauphin’s heir?”
“Yes. Can you imagine? It’s been a hundred years since the revolution. Surely it’s safe for us to move on.” He picked up a pebble from the ground and threw it with some force over the flower bed across from us. “We had a terrible argument, and I left. Came to London, changed my name, started anew.”
“But you took the name Capet?”
“I’ve never been able to resist such a fine opportunity for irony,” he said. “Before I came to London, she tried to give me that bloody snuffbox, and I wouldn’t take it. It was the most precious thing she owned, you see. The dauphin had given it to Bernadette, and it had been passed down since then. My mother used to show it to me when I was a boy but would never let me touch it. She told me that inside was a piece of paper on which the entire story was recorded, written in Bernadette’s hand.”
“Why did you refuse to take it?”
“Whoever has the snuffbox has tacitly agreed to look out for the dauphin’s heir. I had no intention of doing that.”
“You didn’t return to Richmond, even when she died?”
“No. What would have been the point?”
“I still don’t understand why you are now collecting things that belonged to the queen.”
“I felt a terrible guilt after my mother died. I’d left her alone and mocked what she viewed as the sacred purpose of her life. Shortly after her death, I overheard a gentleman saying that he owned a Limoges box purported to have belonged to the French queen. I knew that my mother would have loved to own such a thing.”
“And you couldn’t afford to buy it from him?”
“Not at all. I’d had a difficult time earning a living in London and had discovered that I possess a certain talent for entering houses undiscovered. And that talent, once developed, offers a handy way to supplement one’s income. It was simple to get the box from Lord Grantham’s house.”
“And the rest?”
“It’s rather addictive, sneaking about like that, causing a stir. Quite exciting.”
“So why did you return the pink diamond?”
“Despite my best efforts, it was impossible for me to completely rid myself of the hereditary awe for the House of Bourbon my family has passed to me. Once I realized that I’d taken the stone from the dauphin’s heir, I thought I ought to give it back, particularly as it was he who paid for my schooling.”
“David Francis is the true heir?” I wondered if Beatrice was aware of this. “You didn’t know this when you took the diamond? Surely your mother would have told you?”
“No. That was something revealed only once a person had agreed to carry on the family business. Absurd, isn’t it? So I didn’t know it was Francis. Not until I read in the newspapers that he owned the snuffbox. When I’d refused it, my mother made a great show of saying that it would be gone from our family forever, that I’d left her no choice but to return it to the Bourbons.”
“Who do you think killed him?”
“I’ve not the slightest idea. Of course this all proves my mother
right. The Bourbons did still need watching.”
“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” I said.
“No, it wouldn’t have.”
“How did you get Léonard’s letters?”
“I’m afraid they were one of the first things I stole. I stumbled on them quite by accident. I’d gone into the library at a country house to get an enameled Fabergé box that was on display. When I removed it, I noticed a bundle of papers behind some books on the same shelf. They were held together with a red ribbon, and I thought they might be love letters. Being the romantic that I am, I pulled them out, hoping for a good read. So far as I know, the gentleman who owned them still has not noticed that they’re missing.”
“Who is it? I should return them to him.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Of course I would.”
“Then I shan’t tell you.”
“Why didn’t you take Marie Antoinette’s letters from Mr. Francis when you stole the pink diamond?”
“I had no idea that he had them.” He rose from the bench and stood in front of me. “This has been lovely, darling, but I’m afraid I must run.”
“No, wait. What about the things you’ve stolen. Will you give them back?”
“Certainly not.”
“Not even Cécile’s earrings? For me?”
“Maybe if they were yours.” He reached down and turned my head to the side, gently touching my ear. “They would look lovely on you.”
“You’re not planning to disappear again, are you?”
“I’ve no reason to stay.”
“Can you at least tell me how to reach you?”
“For what? So that you can abandon the dashing Mr. Hargreaves for me? I don’t think so, darling. But I’ll always come if you need me.”
“I don’t like being followed, Sebastian.”
“You can reach me through the Times.” He bowed and walked away. I didn’t bother to call after him but sighed and looked down at where he had sat next to me. There, on the bench, he had left my notebook.
A Poisoned Season Page 25
