And Only to Deceive lem-1

by Tasha Alexander

  "I will refrain from passing judgment on the gentleman, having had great success on my own today. You may remember that when I made inquiries for you about Philip, I met a Monsieur LeBlanc, a man through whom some black-market dealers sell their wares. He is of interest to me at present because he has the means of passing on messages to a man who goes by the sobriquet of Caravaggio."

  "Caravaggio?"

  "I cannot explain the rationale of these criminals," Cécile said with a disinterested shrug. "That he chooses to style himself as an Italian is of no concern to me."

  "Perhaps he is Italian?"

  "No, not at all. Even LeBlanc knows that he is English."

  "Is he Colin?" I paused. "Colin Caravaggio. It does have rather a ring to it, don't you think?"

  "Hardly. I have no indication of Caravaggio's identity, but Monsieur LeBlanc assured me that he is currently in Paris and would respond to me quickly." Cécile reclined on her couch. "I also learned much more regarding your husband's illegal dealings."

  "From Monsieur LeBlanc?"

  "Non. After leaving my note for Caravaggio, I visited three more shops and managed to bully a good deal of information out of a weaselly little man. When Philip wanted something, he informed the appropriate parties in the black market. These dealers, if we can call them that, scoured private collections and records of recent sales to locate the object. Whoever could find the object in question first received a handsome bonus. Your husband always made it clear that he had absolutely no interest in the provenance of any of the pieces, saying that he didn't care whence they came, only that they wound up in his collection."

  I sat silently for a considerable time, pulling at my handkerchief. Caesar tugged at my skirts; I did not bother to push him away.

  "'What are thou, boldest of the race of man?'" I paused. "I realize that this information provides details of things we already know, but somehow it makes his actions sound worse, doesn't it?" I asked.

  "Kallista, you have built the man up too much in your head. He was an adventurer who hunted animals and antiquities. If he is still alive, you will have to accept him for what he is, not what you have styled him to be."

  "I know you are right."

  "I think it is perhaps time for you to tell me of your mysterious meeting with Monsieur Hargreaves after you fled Renoir's. Shall I ring for coffee or champagne?"

  "Coffee," I said severely. "There really isn't anything to tell."

  "Then bore me. I do not mind."

  "I was upset. He consoled me, as is his style. Then he had the audacity to kiss me without first asking permission or begging my forgiveness afterward."

  "How exciting! Philip grows less attractive with each passing moment," Cécile mused.

  I glared at her. "Exciting is not how I would describe it."

  "I would, after having seen your face when you arrived at my house that night."

  "I shall not dignify that with a response," I said. "Can we please return to the subject at hand? Did you learn anything else this afternoon?"

  "Only that no one I spoke to is familiar with Mr. Palmer or his unfortunate brother."

  "Of course that doesn't mean much," I said. "Especially if either of them is Caravaggio. Did you ask about Colin?"

  "I did. Only one person recognized him, and he laughed when I mentioned the name Hargreaves."

  "What on earth could that mean?"

  "If Colin is Caravaggio, I may have unearthed someone who knows his true identity. On the other hand, he may not have known him at all. He may have laughed because I described Colin as having the face of Adonis."

  "You are impossible, Cécile." I frowned. "I should very much like to speak with that man."

  "Do not consider it, Kallista. The people with whom I spoke this afternoon are not the sort with which you would want to trifle. They are dangerous. I have a certain reputation for idiosyncrasy that made my entrée into their society possible. You would not have such an easy time at it."

  Before I could protest, a footman entered and handed Cécile a note from Caravaggio, requesting a meeting the following afternoon. Barely pausing before starting to dictate her reply, Cécile agreed that her mysterious contact could come to her house on the boulevard Saint-Germain at three o'clock. I felt strongly that the meeting should take place in a public location where we could easily get assistance if matters took a dangerous turn. Cécile, however, insisted that would seem suspicious.

  "I am, as far as he is concerned, merely an eccentric old woman who wishes to buy some very famous, yet-to-be-stolen art. Would it make sense for me to conduct such business in public? Never. He shall come here. Besides, it will be much easier for you to observe us unnoticed. I shall receive Monsieur Caravaggio in the red drawing room, and you can listen from the back hallway."

  "Will I be able to hear you through the door?" I asked.

  "Yes. I did the same thing numerous times myself when my dear departed husband received lady visitors there. Discretion never was his strong suit," she said with a shrug. "I shall attempt to get Caravaggio to tell me as much about his operation as possible. If I am lucky, I will get enough evidence to bring about his arrest."

  "And if you do not?"

  "Then I shall have to go through with my purchase of the panel of the Elgin Marbles and turn him in afterward."

  "That could take months!" I cried. "I cannot wait that long to depart for Africa."

  "Well, then I shall have to do my best to collect information," Cécile observed. "I do rather hope Colin is Caravaggio; it would delight me to use all my wiles on him."

  "You are terrible, and I am leaving," I teased, rising from the table.

  The day had given me much to consider. My thoughts turned to Philip. Could he escape prosecution for his own crimes? A good barrister could probably argue that Lord Ashton knew nothing about the source of his prized collection and was guilty of nothing more than poor judgment and ignorance. I sighed, wondering what it would be like to live with such a man as my husband on a daily basis.

  Thoroughly disheartened by the time I reached the Meurice, I ignored the telegram Meg handed me as I walked into my suite and headed straight for the bathroom, desperate for a hot bath. After a satisfactory soak, I stepped out, slipped into a lacy pink tea gown entirely unsuitable for a woman in mourning, and told Meg to bring me tea as quickly as possible. Back in my sitting room, I opened the telegram.

  I read it through twice before storming to my desk and scrawling a brief note. I shouted for Meg and thrust it at her, filled with an anger I had never before experienced.

  "Take this to Mr. Palmer and tell him that I expect to see him immediately."

  23 APRIL 1888

  BERKELEY SQUARE, LONDON

  K greatly surprised that I arrived back in London before expected. She is more lovely than when I last saw her. Am delighted that she has no objection to my returning to Africa in autumn — it is a fortunate man who finds such a bride.

  My mind is still full of Africa and plans for the next safari. I've yet to do a Masai lion hunt with spears. Wonderfully primitive — and a decided challenge after growing used to the ease of rifles. Perhaps in autumn...

  29

  "I am surprised and delighted to see you dressed in such an inappropriate color!" Andrew cried when he saw me.

  I ignored his good humor. "Sit, Andrew." I handed him the telegram. "Could you please explain this?"

  "I don't understand," he began. "How is this possible? We shall have to change our course of action, but that is not-"

  "I do not think it is quite so simple, Andrew. The Anglican Church Missionary Society states rather clearly that they have never heard of Mr. Wesley Prescott. Whoever that man is, he obviously is not recently returned from the mission at which my husband is recovering."

  "Yes, I am quite stunned."

  "I find that rather hard to believe," I said, looking directly at him. "After all, aren't you the one who gave Mr. Prescott my wedding photo?"

  "Emily...how could y
ou think-"

  "Spare me the lies. I know you removed it from Renoir's studio. Enlighten me, Andrew. What is going on?"

  He closed his eyes and sighed before speaking. "All right, you have found me out. I should never have done it. I don't know any better than you whether Philip is alive or dead. When you told me you wanted to go to Africa with us, I realized that if we discovered that Philip is in fact dead, I would have the perfect opportunity to renew my suit for your hand. If you could only imagine the hope this brought to my heart! But I began to fear that your friends would convince you that the trip would be too dangerous, too hopeless. I thought Prescott's story would ensure that nothing could keep you from traveling with me. I never meant to hurt you, Emily. You already had good reason to believe that Philip is alive. I only wanted to give you further confirmation."

  "You have manipulated my emotions in an unforgivable way, Mr. Palmer. The game is up, and you may as well accept the fact that I shall never marry a man of so little principle."

  He bristled visibly when I said this and leapt from his chair. "I admit that what I did was wrong. Obviously you have never desperately loved someone who did not return the emotion. You may insult me if you choose, but I will suggest that you consider your husband more carefully before you call me unprincipled. Perhaps you did not know Philip so well as you think."

  "I can assure you that I am painfully aware of his shortcomings."

  "And should I assume that you are prepared to overlook his blatant disregard for all things decent?" He flung the telegram to the ground. "Of course you are! Rich aristocrats will do anything to avoid scandal."

  "I do not like your temper."

  "Forgive me. It infuriates me. People like Ashton, Hargreaves-they always get what they want. He never deserved you."

  "You feel this way, yet you were prepared to travel to Africa to rescue him?"

  "You know my feelings for you. I would do anything to bring you joy. Lord, what a fool I have been!" He stomped out of the room without a word of good-bye.

  Thirty minutes later I received an impassioned note from him begging my forgiveness and informing me that he planned to leave for Africa in two days' time, with or without me.

  And so my adventure in Paris began to draw to a close. Cécile's meeting with Caravaggio would confirm the identity of our villain. Then I would figure out a way to stop the thefts and return Philip's stolen originals to the British Museum. Much though I hated the idea of letting Andrew and Arthur go to Africa without me, I could not travel with them. I drafted a letter to Lord Lytton at the embassy, giving him what information I had about Philip's possible survival and asking him to help me organize an official search party. I considered the possibility of having my husband's body exhumed but did not think my evidence sufficient to merit such a thing. Furthermore, the scandal that would ensue from such an occurrence really would terrorize the entire Ashton family. This thought made me wonder if I should write to Philip's sister, informing her of the recent events and begging her husband's assistance.

  By six o'clock, having completed neither letter to my satisfaction, I decided to go out to the parts of Paris that Philip, if he were still alive, would almost certainly forbid me to see. I dressed in a fine gown of black silk and headed straight for Montmartre, with every intention of visiting the Moulin Rouge. Reality struck me less than halfway there; I could not go to such a place unescorted, not to mention while I was still in mourning. Confining though society could be, I did not want to abandon it completely. Instead I went to the Café Mazarin. Being on the north side of the boulevard Montmartre, it technically would not have been appropriate for a lady, but my Baedeker's guide assured me that the clientele at this particular café were perfectly within the bounds of propriety.

  I ordered the blanquette de veau, which was delicious, and ate slowly. Afterward I had an absinthe, which seemed a bit daring, and began to plan what I would do after Cécile's meeting with Caravaggio. The liqueur was rather awful, but I choked it down nonetheless as I contemplated my future. It would be preferable to stay in Paris rather than London while waiting for news of Philip. I had no desire to answer to my mother, deal with social obligations, or pretend that nothing was wrong until I knew my husband's fate. Then, if he was alive-and I did, despite my misgivings, desperately hope that he was-I would of course defer to his wishes. Most likely he would want to return to England immediately.

  And if he was dead, I would not go back to London; I wanted to go to Santorini. There I could determine my true desires free from any outside influence. I would apply myself to learning Greek and explore every inch of the island while I mourned the loss of Philip for a second time.

  Fortified by another absinthe, I thought of Aline Renoir and her marriage. Never again would I marry for less than the happiness she enjoyed, nor would I do it before I knew better what I wanted from my life. If Philip was alive, I would devote myself entirely to him, confident that together we could capture more than an adequate amount of passion. I hoped that he would support me as I tried to discover what a woman in my position could be other than a society wife. If he would not-I pushed the thought out of my mind, sat back, and spent the rest of the evening reveling in the Parisian atmosphere.

  8 JUNE 1888

  BERKELEY SQUARE, LONDON

  My last night as a bachelor. Hargreaves and I marked the occasion with a magnificent '47 port.

  K's things have been sent from Grosvenor Square. She will find all in good order-Davis saw to the details rather than letting the maids do it. I hope she will be happy in my house.

  It is far too late, yet I cannot seem to sleep. Must try, though, as I have no intention of getting much tomorrow night.

  30

  I slept far later the following morning than I had intended to and wound up having to rush to get to Cécile's in time for le déjeuner. I wore a new dress, a deep midnight blue rather than black or gray. Mr. Worth and I never reached agreement as to whether it was technically appropriate for my last month in half mourning, but I did not care. It fell smoothly over my hips, flared as the skirt reached the floor, and had no bustle. On Cécile's recommendation I'd had it fitted with my corset tied extremely loosely and was well pleased with the results. The bodice still had a smooth appearance, but I could breathe, bend, and very nearly slouch. Happy with my appearance, I hurried through the lobby and slammed directly into Colin.

  "Good day, Mr. Hargreaves," I said, ignoring my pulse's instant reaction to him. I flew past him toward the door, feeling rather excited that at last I would know the identity of Caravaggio. The thought caused me to pause and turn, taking another look at Colin. My eyes met his, and I raised one eyebrow, wondering if I would see him in a considerably different setting this afternoon. If Colin was the head of the forgery ring, I might get to slap him again; I smiled despite myself.

  I greeted Cécile cheerfully and hugged her before joining her at the dining room table.

  "You're in a fine mood for someone who obviously stayed up far too late," Cécile observed. "What was so interesting?"

  "Absinthe," I said with a smile.

  "I am impressed, Kallista. Paris will make an artiste of you yet."

  "Terrible stuff. I could barely get it down." I dove into the vol-au-vent placed before me. "I am glad to have tried it, though. You should read this," I said, handing her the telegram denouncing Mr. Prescott.

  "Not much of a surprise," Cécile admitted.

  "I confronted Andrew."

  "Mon Dieu! What did he say?"

  I recounted our conversation.

  "Do you believe him?"

  "Does it matter?"

  "I suppose not," Cécile said, feeding Caesar and Brutus, who sat patiently on her lap waiting for scraps from her plate. "I presume you will not be accompanying him to Africa?"

  "Of course not," I replied, applying myself to the rest of my luncheon. "I wrote to Lord Lytton requesting his assistance. I shall not withdraw my financial support of Andrew and Arthur's trip, but I do not
believe that I can entirely rely on them. I wonder how long it will be before I know the outcome."

  "Try not to think about it too much, chérie," she said, rising from her seat. "Come help me with my miniatures. I want to rearrange the queen's bedroom furniture."

  We passed the next hour tending to Cécile's Versailles. The closer the time came for Caravaggio's arrival, the more tense I grew. Any residual excitement that remained deep inside me vanished when the footman announced a visitor.

  "Put him in the red drawing room," Cécile said. She took my hands. "Remember, the most important thing you can do is try to identify the voice you hear. Listen carefully to what he says and take notes if you can. I had Louis leave paper and pen in the hallway." She handed me off to Odette, who had appeared out of nowhere to lead me to the back passageway, where I stood, trying not to pace. Soon I heard the door open and close and the click of Cécile's heels as she entered the room.

  "Monsieur Caravaggio, I am delighted to meet you," she said. "You are not, I believe, Italian?" She laughed. I held my breath and waited for the reply.

  "Not at all, Madame du Lac," he said. "I am English to the core. The Italian name lends a nice touch, though, don't you think?"

  "I shall not offend you by insulting your country, monsieur, especially when I have such great hopes for our business relationship. Will you please sit?"

  "If you will forgive me for being crass, madame, it is clear to me from your home, your jewelry, and your reputation that you are indeed in a position to afford a panel of the Elgin Marbles. That you want such a thing is a testament to your excellent taste. That you knew to contact me indicates that you possess a superior intelligence. There is no one else who could arrange the procurement of such a famous work."

  My head was spinning; I sank to the ground. It was not Colin Hargreaves. Only Andrew would speak in that arrogant tone; I recognized his voice at once. There could be no mistake. The same anger that prompted me to confront him the previous day started to surface again. Every suspicion I had about Colin was now redirected to Andrew, the man who wanted me to travel to Africa to rescue Philip. I pushed my hands against the cold marble floor and put my ear against the door, not wanting to miss a word uttered by the abhorrent man.