And Only to Deceive

by Tasha Alexander

  “And what do you expect me to say to that?” I asked, finally able to meet his eyes.

  “I expect nothing. Forgive me if I have offended you. I would never want to bring you any discomfort.”

  “That is precisely what you have succeeded in doing, Mr. Hargreaves,” I said, my heart pounding. “I have never sought love from you, and your conduct tonight has ensured that my feelings on the subject shall never be any different. Would you be so kind as to hail a cab for me? I should like to return to my rooms.” He did as I asked immediately and helped me up to my seat.

  “Know that you can call on me at any time if you are in trouble. I could not live with myself if anything happened to you, Emily.”

  “I hope I should have better sense than to put my trust in you ever again, Mr. Hargreaves.”

  Much to my chagrin, he kissed my hand very sweetly, looking intensely into my eyes the entire time. I had nothing to say.

  I DID NOT RETURN to the Meurice but instead directed the driver to take me to Cécile’s house. As the cab took me across the river to the Left Bank, I could not stop thinking about what had transpired between Colin and myself on the Pont-Neuf. Try though I did to redirect my thoughts, my mind remained full of the memory of his body pressed against mine. It horrified me that a man whom I believed to have played a significant role in the disappearance, if not demise, of my husband could elicit such a physical response from me. I shuddered, wondering if our encounter had been an attempt by Colin to distract me from my purpose. The cab approached Cécile’s grand house on the boulevard Saint-Germain, where my friend opened the door for me herself. I was thankful she had remained home for the evening, and after she scolded me violently for running off so thoughtlessly, she embraced me and sat me down next to her in the blue drawing room.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so flushed, Kallista. I know that my reprimand cannot have affected you so greatly. Pray, what is going on?”

  “Oh, Cécile, it’s just the photograph—” I stopped.

  “You don’t fool me for one second, chérie. It’s been hours since you left Renoir’s studio.” She narrowed her eyes and scrutinized me. “Have you been alone this whole time?”

  “Yes. No. I saw Mr. Hargreaves briefly and do not wish to discuss it.”

  Knowing Cécile and her seemingly clairvoyant ability to detect clandestine romantic interludes, I felt certain that she knew exactly why my face had turned red. I sighed, resigned to the fact that I had little hope of escaping from a conversation during which I would be coaxed into revealing every detail of my encounter with Colin.

  “Ah.” Cécile looked at me knowingly. “We shall discuss it later. Do not think that I shall forget; Monsieur Hargreaves fascinates me. But for the moment I am infinitely more concerned with your reasons for rushing out of Renoir’s. It is obvious, of course, that your missionary friend is not all that he appeared to be.”

  “Clearly not.” I walked over to a dainty eighteenth-century desk and seated myself in its matching chair. “I think the time has come to consider very carefully what is going on. There are two problems before us: the first being the question of Philip. Is he alive or dead?” I did not look up as I said this. Despite having spent a great deal of time that afternoon trying to come to terms with the probability that my dear husband was in fact dead, I had failed miserably. “Second is the issue of the forgeries and thefts from the British Museum.”

  “I fear this discussion calls for very strong coffee,” Cécile said, ringing for a servant. I frowned. “I realize that you despise it, but it will fortify you.”

  “I suppose,” I replied, pulling a piece of paper from the desk’s drawer. “I shall take notes. Let us begin with the question of Philip.”

  “What evidence do we have that suggests he is alive?”

  “The letter Arthur received, the rumor Ivy heard, and the story Mr. Prescott told when he delivered the photograph to me. Obviously we cannot precisely trust Mr. Prescott. Philip did not give him that picture.”

  “No. If anything, your good friend Andrew did,” said Cécile, directing her footman to place a large coffee tray on a table near her. I added an extravagant amount of cream and sugar to the hot brew she gave me, the end result being almost drinkable.

  “I find it difficult to believe that he would do such a thing, but I must admit to the possibility,” I said. “I cannot imagine what would motivate him.”

  “Did he have any other reason for desiring to go to Africa?” Cécile asked. “He certainly agreed quickly to making the trip. Could he have been too short on funds to go on safari this year? Perhaps he hoped to combine purposes, knowing that if he went to find Philip, you without question would insist on paying his way.”

  “I suppose it is possible. But doesn’t it seem an extraordinary thing to do? I had already told him I would pay for everything.”

  “He could have set the plan in motion before you told him, or he wanted to ensure that you wouldn’t change your mind.”

  “Maybe he thought that my getting the picture in such a circumstance would put my mind at ease during what he knew would be a difficult trip. He may be reasonably confident that Philip is alive, and hoped to reassure me.”

  “From what you have told me, it appears that Andrew is the type of man who likes drama and extravagance, so your explanation could be true. But it does seem unlikely.”

  “I am going to wire the Anglican Church Missionary Society immediately, asking for more information on Mr. Prescott. Whatever the explanation, Andrew has not been truthful.”

  We sat quietly for several minutes before Cécile interrupted the silence. “I am afraid that I do not trust Andrew much at this point, Kallista,” she stated flatly, shaking her head.

  “Nor do I, and I do not wish to travel into Africa with a man whose motives are not perfectly clear.” The knowledge that Andrew had so deliberately deceived me hurt me deeply. I hardly knew what to think. “I don’t want to abandon Philip, but I cannot depart for Africa until I know why Andrew has lied to me.”

  “Of course not, chérie. But for now there is nothing to do for Philip. And do you not find it strange that you have been thrust into the center of two mysterious situations? Perhaps they are connected,” Cécile suggested.

  “It is possible,” I admitted.

  “Perhaps solving one question will lead toward the answer to the other.” Cécile fed a small biscuit to Caesar, who swallowed it before Brutus could attempt to steal the treat. Brutus begged for one of his own, but she refused him, doling out what she believed to be a small measure of justice against the dog’s namesake.

  “There may be some sense in that, Cécile. At any rate, you are right that we cannot prove anything about Philip as long as I am in Paris.” I crumpled the piece of paper that I had filled with random scribbles and placed a clean one in its place. “I think we must determine from whom Philip purchased his stolen artifacts. That person may also have directed Mr. Attewater to make the copies.”

  “You must try to get more information out of this Attewater character.”

  “He’s in London. I shall send him a letter, but I do not expect him to give much assistance. He has made it perfectly clear that he will not reveal his contacts.”

  “It is understandable, I suppose. His discretion ensures his commissions as much as his talent does,” Cécile said. “Have you any other ideas?”

  “I believe Colin to be involved.” I shared with Cécile my theory that Philip had decided to stop his involvement while Colin had insisted on continuing. She did not take to my hypothesis as readily as Ivy had.

  “It is, of course, possible. We have no evidence to the contrary.” Cécile shrugged and then smiled. “Perhaps it is time for you to expand your own collection of antiquities. I should hate to waste all those fascinating contacts I made in the black market. Could you lure Philip’s contact to you?”

  “Yes, but if Colin is at the heart of all this, he shall recognize me and protect his own identity.” />
  “True. Well, I shall have to do it myself. About what piece do you think I should inquire?” Cécile asked, looking rather pleased with herself.

  I realized immediately that she had never intended to allow me to rob her of the pleasure of returning to the nefarious world of illegal antiquity trading. I envied her the adventure and wished that I could conjure up something equally interesting to undertake myself.

  “What would you say to an entire panel of the Elgin Marbles?” I asked, a wide smile spreading across my face. “You’re very rich, Cécile. No one would doubt your ability to pay for it. And such a purchase surely would attract the attention of whoever runs the whole show, don’t you think?”

  “Is it too much?”

  “No. Mr. Attewater told me that he began the project once but never completed it. It sounded as if the money had fallen through.”

  “Money would be no object here.” Cécile clapped her hands and the little dogs leapt to her lap. “I rather like the idea. Where do you think I should put the piece? It would be quite large, I suppose.”

  “You shan’t actually get it, Cécile,” I scolded, knowing full well she was teasing me. “You must find out who could acquire such a thing for you and then insist on meeting with the man himself; no underling can be trusted to handle such a transaction. Once the appointment is set, all we shall have to do is wait for our man to show himself for the thief he is.”

  14 APRIL 1888

  HÔTEL CONTINENTAL, PARIS

  Never before so willingly left Africa earlier than planned. There is so much I must do before my marriage—so much work to finish—do not know how I shall ever accomplish it. Saw Fournier today; excellent talk with him, although have not yet forgiven him for owning the discus thrower. Offered me little help on my latest quest. Thought of marrying K within two months put me in such a generous frame of mind that I let him have a fragment of an Etruscan frieze without countering his offer. Monsieur LeBlanc very disappointed I did not drive up the price.

  Have found my wedding gift for K. It is more simple, perhaps, than what she may expect: a brooch of ivory flowers, delicately carved. To my mind it captures her elegant innocence, and I hope she prefers it to something more ostentatious. Lord knows she will have enough of that sort of thing once my mother’s jewellery is sent to her. To date, our relationship has been less personal than I hope it will be in the future; another diamond necklace would only be more of the same.

  28

  CÉCILE HAD PROMISED TO CONTACT ME AS SOON AS SHE returned from her black-market adventure, but as the morning passed in what seemed to be geological time, I grew tired of waiting for her in my room and decided to go to the lobby and sketch. I was comfortably settled in a quiet corner when I heard two gentlemen conversing as they walked past me.

  “I’m sorry not to have more time to talk,” Colin Hargreaves said. “I’m late for a rather important meeting.”

  This piqued my interest. As soon as Colin walked out of the hotel, I followed him, keeping a careful distance between us. It quickly became apparent that he was going to the Louvre. Once inside, I hung back as he walked purposefully up the Grand Escalier. I waited until he was out of sight to ascend the staircase myself. Unfortunately, before I got there, I saw Monsieur Pontiero.

  “Lady Ashton! What a delight to see you back in Paris.”

  “Thank you, Monsieur Pontiero.”

  “How is your drawing?” He motioned to the sketchbook I was holding. “May I see your work?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have time at the moment. I’m in a dreadful hurry.”

  “Very good, very good. Perhaps we can meet soon?”

  “I shall send you a note,” I said, rushing up the steps, hoping that I was not too late to figure out where Colin had gone when he reached the top. As soon as I reached the landing on which stood the Nike of Samothrace, one of the most beautiful statues in the museum, I saw Mr. Murray, the keeper from the British Museum, speaking excitedly to Colin.

  “…removing a piece from its gallery is no small undertaking.” He stopped immediately when he spotted me and bowed politely after I nodded to him. Colin turned around, clearly surprised to see me. Never before had I seen him look unruffled in the slightest; now, however, I detected a trace of color on his cheeks and something less than his usual cool demeanor.

  “I’m sorry to have interrupted you,” I said, fervently wishing I had heard more of their conversation.

  “Not at all, Lady Ashton!” Mr. Murray cried. “I had no idea you were in Paris. I’m pleased to see you.” Colin said nothing, nodding almost imperceptibly to acknowledge my presence.

  “I am only here for a short time and thought I would take the opportunity to revisit my favorite pieces at the Louvre. Incomparable beauty to be found here.”

  “Quite,” Mr. Murray replied as Colin stood motionless, looking rather irritated, his arms crossed over his chest.

  “Don’t you think that this statue is terribly displayed?” I asked. “It is most difficult to view.” No one replied. “I should think a piece like this would merit an entire room, not a mere landing.”

  “As always, Lady Ashton, you make a keen observation.” And that, apparently, was all I was to have from Mr. Murray on the topic of the Nike of Samothrace. I waited for him to comment further, but he said no more. Obviously his thoughts remained with the subject he and Colin had been discussing.

  “I shall leave you two to your conversation,” I said, aware that I would learn nothing more from them today. I descended the staircase and walked back through the Rotonde and into the Salle Grecque. After pausing to admire the lovely panels from the Temple of Apollo on Thalos, I hired a cab to take me back to Cécile’s.

  “Where have you spent the day?” she asked, patting Caesar. I wondered where Brutus was hiding.

  “The Louvre. And I was not the only person of your acquaintance there.” I quickly told her of my encounter with Colin and Mr. Murray.

  “Monsieur Hargreaves again.” She sighed. “Such an interesting man. What a coincidence to find him speaking to a keeper of antiquities about removing artifacts.”

  “I don’t see how even you can defend him now.” Brutus emerged from under the chair in which I was sitting, darted beneath my skirts, and started to chew on my shoe. I unceremoniously removed him and dumped him in his owner’s lap. “Perhaps I should buy you a cat.”

  “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 the
y 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?”