Dorchester Terrace

by Anne Perry

  All sorts of emotions can mask themselves as something else, until they grow too unbearable. That could be as true of Adriana Blantyre as of anyone.

  PITT WAS TOO LATE getting home that evening to visit Blantyre, but he did so the following morning. He could not afford to allow any more time to slip through his fingers.

  He arrived at Blantyre’s house early, in case Evan had intended to go anywhere other than to his office.

  “Another development?” Blantyre said with surprise when Pitt was shown into his study. He was busy answering correspondence; notepaper and envelopes were stacked on the corner of the desk, the cap was off the inkwell, an elegant thing in the shape of a sleeping lion, and there was a pen in his hand.

  “I apologize for disturbing you,” Pitt began.

  “I assume it must be necessary.” Blantyre put his pen down and recapped the ink. “Something has happened? More word of Duke Alois? Please sit, and tell me.”

  He indicated a comfortable, leather-padded captain’s chair.

  Pitt obeyed.

  “It is the death of Serafina Montserrat that concerns me today,” he answered. “I don’t know whether it’s connected to Duke Alois or not, but I can’t afford to assume that it isn’t.” He hated having to tell Blantyre this, but there was no escape. “I’m afraid there is no question that she was murdered. There is no other possible conclusion from the evidence.” He saw the surprise and dismay in Blantyre’s face and dreaded the possibility that Narraway was right. Was that why Blantyre had seemed so protective of Adriana? Because he knew she was so emotionally fragile that she could be capable of such a thing? How does any man protect the woman he loves from the demons within herself?

  Blantyre was waiting, his dark eyes searching Pitt’s face.

  “The amount of laudanum in her body was far more than an accidental second dose could explain,” Pitt went on, knowing it was irrelevant. “I have to consider the possibility that she knew something that has bearing on the reasons for the attempt on Duke Alois. And what she knew might tell us who is behind it.”

  Blantyre nodded slowly. “Of course. Poor Serafina. What a sad ending for such a brave and colorful woman.” He lifted his shoulders very slightly. “What can I tell you that would be useful? If I had the faintest idea who was behind the attempt to assassinate Duke Alois, I would have already told you. I am still learning whatever I can, but there are dozens of dissident groups of one sort or another within the Austrian Empire. All of them are capable of violence. I still don’t know if Alois is any more than he seems to be on the surface, or if he is merely a pawn to be sacrificed in some cause we haven’t yet identified—at least not specifically. All I know is, if it happens here, no one will be able to cover it up, or pass it off as an accident.” His expressive face reflected a sharp, sad humor. “Or a suicide,” he added.

  “Are you suggesting that what happened at Mayerling was a concealed murder?” Pitt asked with surprise.

  “No.” Blantyre did not hesitate. “I think they did what they could to keep it private, perhaps mistakenly. Rudolf was always high-strung, veering between elation and melancholy, and his childhood was enough to turn anyone into a lunatic. God knows, his mother is eccentric, to put it as gently as possible. He grew up with literally dozens of tutors, and no friends, no parental support …”

  Pitt did not interrupt. Blantyre spoke softly, looking not at Pitt, but somewhere beyond him.

  “Austrian politics are infinitely more complicated than ours. The Hungarians are afraid of both Germany overtaking Austria itself, to their west, and all the Slavic parts of the empire, backed of course by Russia, to the east. The Ottoman Empire is falling apart, and Russia will surely pounce there, wherever it can. Serbia and Croatia could be the gateway to a slow erosion that will eventually eat into the heart of Austria itself.”

  He smiled bleakly, looking at Pitt now. “And of course Vienna is a hotbed of ideas about the socialism that is raging all over Europe, the ideas and philosophies that Rudolf admired. There was nothing of the autocrat in him. He was a dreamer, a man in love with the idealism of the future as he wanted it to be.”

  The ashes settled in the fire with a very slight sound, but Blantyre did not move to restoke it.

  “He was friendly with our own Prince of Wales,” he went on. “They were distantly related, as most European royalty is, but far more than that, they were in extraordinarily similar positions. Like Edward, everything was expected of him, but he seemed to be waiting for it indefinitely. Unlike Edward, he had a wife he couldn’t abide: cold, critical, boring, but eminently suitable for a Habsburg emperor.”

  “And then he fell in love with Marie Vetsera,” Pitt concluded.

  “No. I think he just came to the end of the road,” Blantyre said sadly. “There was nothing left for him to hope for. He had syphilis, among other things. Not a pleasant disease, and of course incurable.”

  “I have learned a great deal more about Serafina Montserrat’s past,” Pitt said quietly, wanting to turn the conversation back to the matter. “Including her presence at the beating and execution of one Lazar Dragovic, and her rescue of his eight-year-old daughter, Adriana.” He saw Blantyre’s face lose its color. If any proof had been needed of Adriana’s identity, the expression on Blantyre’s face would have been sufficient. “Apparently, it is still not known who betrayed Dragovic to the Austrians,” he added. “Unless, of course, Serafina knew.”

  Blantyre breathed in and out, and swallowed. His eyes met Pitt’s without wavering, but he did not speak.

  “In her rambling, it is possible that Serafina told Adriana, either directly,” Pitt continued, “or enough in bits and pieces that Adriana was able to piece it together and deduce the truth.”

  Blantyre swallowed again, with difficulty.

  “Are you saying that Adriana believed it was Serafina who betrayed her father?” he asked. “Why, for God’s sake? Serafina was an insurgent herself. Are you suggesting that she was secretly on the side of the Austrians?” There was intense disbelief in his voice.

  “I don’t know why,” Pitt admitted. “It makes no political sense, from what we know, but there may be other elements that we know nothing about.”

  Blantyre thought for several seconds. “Personal?” he said at last.

  “Perhaps.” Pitt waited for him to say that Dragovic and Serafina had been lovers. Did Blantyre know that? If he had been involved in the uprisings himself, on either side, then he might. Or he might have deduced it from what others had said.

  Blantyre’s face twisted into a gesture of misery and contempt. “Are you suggesting that they were once lovers, and she took his rejection so bitterly that she was prepared to betray him, and the cause, to have her revenge? I find that impossible to believe. Serafina had many lovers. I never knew of her taking revenge for anything. Life was too short and sweet for that.”

  “And Dragovic was loyal to the cause?” Pitt explored another line of thought.

  Blantyre’s eyes widened. “As far as I know. But if he wasn’t, what has that to do with Serafina’s death now? Are you saying that she admitted to betraying him because he was a traitor himself? That’s nonsense. No one would believe her. Dragovic was a hero. Everyone knew that; he was willing to die rather than tell the Austrians who else was involved. There is no doubt about that, because no one else was ever arrested. I know that myself.”

  “Could he have been betrayed by one of Serafina’s other lovers, out of jealousy over her?” Pitt asked. He hoped that was true. It would remove suspicion from Adriana, and he wanted that very much, for her sake, for Charlotte’s, and above all for Blantyre himself.

  “Yes …” Blantyre said slowly. “Yes … that makes more sense. Though God knows who!”

  “Someone who cares about their reputation enough to kill Serafina in order to preserve it, and is not only still alive, but is here in London, aware that Serafina was rambling and could betray the truth accidentally,” Pitt replied. “And of course, the person would ha
ve to have had access to the house in Dorchester Terrace in order to poison Serafina with laudanum. That must restrict the possibilities to a very few indeed.”

  Blantyre rubbed a hand across his face in a gesture of intense weariness. He sighed. “Nerissa Freemarsh?”

  “Do you think so?” Pitt asked with surprise.

  “She has a lover,” Blantyre said. “Though I doubt very much that you will get his name from her. She is a … a very desperate woman, no family except Serafina, no husband, no child. Such women can be very … unpredictable.” He frowned.

  Pitt thought of Lord Tregarron, and what Tucker had told Narraway about Tregarron’s visits to Dorchester Terrace. He needed to know a great deal more about that, absurd as it seemed. What on earth could Nerissa Freemarsh offer a man in Tregarron’s position? A hunger, a need for his attention that perhaps his wife no longer had, unquestioning praise, a willingness to do anything he wished, which again, perhaps his wife would not? Maybe it was no more than simply a safe escape from pressure, duty, and fulfilling other people’s expectations. The more he thought about it, the more reasons there seemed to be.

  Had Serafina somehow discovered that, and raised a fierce objection? Considering her own past, it would surely not be on moral grounds; possibly a concern for Nerissa’s reputation and the damage such an affair would do to it, if discovered?

  Nerissa might misinterpret whatever Serafina said as a moral judgment, even a condemnation. If she loved Tregarron she would see it as her aunt ruining her last chance for love.

  “Apparently Lord Tregarron called to see Mrs. Montserrat.”

  Blantyre stiffened. “Tregarron? Are you sure?”

  “Yes.” There was no avoiding it any longer. “And Mrs. Blantyre visited her often. But you know that.”

  “They have been in touch, on and off, since that time,” Blantyre said quietly, “and the death of Adriana’s father is never spoken of. I don’t know how much Adriana remembers. I hope very little: just confusion and pain, and then of course the loss. Her mother was also dead. Serafina had no time for a child, especially one with extremely delicate health. Adriana lived with her grandparents until I met her. She was nineteen then, and the most beautiful girl I had ever seen.

  “The shadow of tragedy gave her a haunting quality, a depth other women did not have,” Blantyre continued. “I would be grateful to you if you did not mention that time to her, unless it is absolutely necessary for the safety of the country. I can promise you that if she knew anything about Duke Alois, or about Tregarron, for that matter, she would have already told me, and I would have told you.”

  “Of course I won’t mention it,” Pitt promised, “unless my hand is forced—and I can see no reason that should be. But I may have to ask her about her visit to Dorchester Terrace on the night Mrs. Montserrat died, in case she saw or heard anything that can shed light on her death.”

  “Then you will do so when I am present.” It was said gently, but it was not a request. The power in Blantyre’s voice, the force of his emotion, filled the room.

  “As long as you will not cause delays I cannot afford,” Pitt agreed. “Of course.”

  Blantyre smiled very slightly, but there was a warmth in it. “Thank you. I am obliged.”

  CHARLOTTE HAD HAD A delightful day with Adriana. Their friendship had become much easier and more fluid, and they laughed together often, over the amusing and the absurd.

  Today they had been to an afternoon soirée. The singing had been very pleasant, but agonizingly serious. They had looked at each other in the middle of the performance, and had been forced to stifle giggles and pretend a sudden fit of sneezing had attacked them. An elderly lady of a very sentimental nature had been concerned for Adriana, and she had then been obliged to pretend she had suffered an unfortunate reaction to some lilies.

  Charlotte had come to her rescue with a long and totally fictitious story about lilies at a funeral affecting her the same way. She had added to the verisimilitude of it by weeping, and everyone had praised her good nature and gentleness of heart—qualities she was perfectly sure she did not possess, as she admitted to Adriana later.

  She had accepted the elderly lady’s admiration with a straight face, and she and Adriana had excused themselves hastily before they burst into giggles.

  Charlotte had arrived home still smiling. She found Minnie Maude in the kitchen clearing away tea after Daniel and Jemima. There was a pile of crusts on the plate. She whisked them away very quickly when she heard Charlotte’s footsteps, swinging around to hide them with her body. Her eyes widened.

  “You do look lovely, ma’am,” she said sincerely. “You should get another dress that same color of goldy-brown. There’s not many as can wear that.”

  “Thank you,” Charlotte said, but in her head she was wondering why Minnie Maude was not making the children eat their crusts. She would let it go today. It would seem churlish to make an issue of a small thing after such a nice compliment. But next time she would have to say something.

  “I shall be down for dinner, but I must change out of this gown. It is rather too much for the parlor, I think!” She laughed, and turned to leave.

  “Can I ’elp yer, ma’am?” Minnie Maude offered. “Them back buttons, any rate.”

  “Thank you. That would be a good idea.” Charlotte turned and allowed Minnie Maude to undo the top half dozen or so at the back of her neck. Then she started for the door again. She had reached the bottom of the stairs when she recalled that she had not asked Minnie Maude to set the table in the dining room. As she turned back, she saw Minnie whisk into the cellar with what looked like the dish of crusts in her hand.

  She went up the stairs slowly. Was she not giving Minnie Maude enough to eat? The girl should not have to pick at crusts. There was plenty of food in the house, and she was more than welcome to have as much as she wished. She had settled in so well, Charlotte thought, in the way she performed her duties and with her extremely agreeable nature. She should make time to look into the matter more carefully.

  But when Pitt came home he was clearly worried, and for the first time since the present case began, he wished to talk to her about it. After supper, when they retired to the parlor, she had barely begun to tell him about the soirée when he interrupted her.

  “You know Adriana quite well now. You must talk to each other about many things. Does she ever mention Serafina Montserrat?” he asked.

  She saw the earnestness in his face. This was not a question of polite interest.

  “Only briefly,” she replied, trying to read his expression. “She was very saddened by her decline.”

  “And her death?”

  “Of course. Why are you asking, Thomas?”

  “I need to know.”

  “That means it has something to do with Special Branch.” The deduction was obvious. “So Serafina knew something of great importance, after all.”

  She was so used to asking questions that the old habit asserted itself before she could think. She realized it too late. “I’m sorry … I didn’t mean to pry.”

  He smiled. “Not at all, Charlotte. I asked you in the first place. I need to understand Adriana a great deal more than I do. Who better to ask than you? And I cannot expect you to give me the answers I need if I don’t tell you what the questions are.”

  His eyes were gentle, and there was an oblique humor in his face. But she heard the emotion in his voice; Adriana was somehow tied into the case, and he could not tell her about the issue that kept him at work late into the evenings and stopped him from sleeping through the night.

  “What do you need to know about her?” she asked. “She talks quite freely now. I hate breaking confidences, but you wouldn’t ask if it was not necessary.”

  “Do you know when she first met Serafina Montserrat?”

  Charlotte thought back to their conversations. “No. She speaks as if she has known her as long as she can remember.”

  “As a child?”

  “Yes. I think
their encounter was brief, and at a time very painful to Adriana. They met again after Adriana was married, but I don’t think she ever knew her as well as she did in the last few months. Why?”

  He ignored the question. “What does she say of her father?”

  Charlotte felt increasingly uneasy. “Quite a lot. Not so much directly, but she mentions him in passing; she adored him, and she had already lost her mother when he died. He seems to have been brave, funny, kind, and very clever, and to have been devoted to her. He died when she was eight. She still misses him terribly. I suppose when you lose someone when you’re that young, you tend to idealize them a little, but if even half of what she recalls is true, he was a fine man. Certainly they were very close.”

  Pitt’s face was bleak, his lips pressed close together for a moment. The sorrow his face showed worried her.

  “He was,” he answered. “His name was Lazar Dragovic. He was a fighter for Croatian freedom from Austrian rule. He was the leader of a spectacular plot, which failed because he was betrayed by one of the conspirators. All of the others escaped but he didn’t. He was beaten and then shot because he would not give away the names of the others involved.”

  Charlotte was stunned, even though she had known from the way Adriana had spoken of it that her father’s death had been tragic.

  “I’m sorry. That’s terrible. But it was thirty years ago, and in Austria. Why does it matter to Special Branch now?”

  “Serafina was there. She rescued Adriana from the scene,” he said simply.

  “Adriana saw it?” Charlotte’s stomach lurched and knotted inside her. She thought of Jemima at eight, her face soft and innocent, her eyes unafraid. She ached to reach back in time and protect the child Adriana had been.

  Pitt nodded. “It was Serafina who took her away. She left Adriana with grandparents.”

  Charlotte had known Pitt long enough to make the leap of deduction. “Did Serafina know who betrayed Adriana’s father? Is that what you are afraid of? She knew, and she told Adriana, whether she meant to or not?”