When Jeremy and his mates at the Turf Club organized a shooting party, Amity insisted on accompanying them and then shot better than any of the gentlemen. When they wanted to camp in the desert, she organized the details for them, and saw them off with a spectacular breakfast to fortify them on their journey. Upon their return, she had arranged for them all to be pampered like sultans and hosted a fantasia the following night in their honor. When, after a long evening that included too much wine with two of his Oxford chums, Jeremy staggered into the lobby at Shepheard’s, very nearly causing a scene, Amity did not rebuke him. Instead, she laughed—that irresistible, sultry laugh—and told him that if he were her husband she would insist that he promise never to change his debauched ways.
“I am not so very debauched,” Jeremy said. They were strolling through the expansive Ezbekieh Gardens, just across from the hotel, on a warm, starry evening. “Just debauched enough.”
“I do adore that about you,” Amity said, no hint of irony in her voice. “Furthermore, I understand you, your grace.” Now he heard irony, as he always did when she addressed him formally. “So much is expected of you, and none of it amusing in the least. My family is much the same, even if we have no title. I am to be a good little wife and have good little children and lead a perfectly tedious life. It is abhorrent to me. When I see you, a gentleman who has managed to remain vivacious and true to himself in the face of so much pressure, I cannot help but … well … I suppose I ought to say I cannot help but admire you.”
“Ought to say?” Jeremy asked. “What do you want to say instead?”
“Nothing that would do me credit.”
“I like the sound of it better and better.” He stopped walking and turned to face her. “Tell me.”
“No.” She met his eyes and held his gaze.
“Tell me,” he said.
“Never.” They were standing so close together she could feel his breath on her cheek. “You wouldn’t want a sensible wife, would you?”
“Never,” he said.
“I wouldn’t want a sensible husband.”
“Tell me more.”
“We’ve both so much money we could never run through it even if we tried,” she said. “Imagine the fun we could have, refusing to be sensible together. We could devote ourselves to the pursuit of decadence. From what I understand, that is already what you do.”
“Who told you that? Jack?”
“Your brother is your greatest admirer.”
“I am not sure about that. He worries that I won’t do my duty when the time comes and, hence, ruin his plans for further adventures.”
“Perhaps you are right. Perhaps he isn’t your greatest admirer.”
“No?”
“Perhaps I am.” She moistened her lips while keeping her eyes focused on his. “It is wholly inappropriate to say, I know, but then, perhaps I am wholly inappropriate.” And with that, she leaned forward and kissed him. He put his arms around her trim waist and pulled her close, forgetting himself, but only for an instant.
“I am so terribly sorry.” He stepped away from her. “I should never have—”
“Never have what? Kissed me back? It would hardly have been gentlemanly to leave me the only one kissing.” She pursed her lips and gave him what he could only describe as a very saucy look. No sooner had he thought it than he was ashamed of himself. “I see what you are doing, your grace. You are struggling with your upbringing. Nice young gentlemen don’t trifle with nice young ladies, do they?”
“Of course not. You are not, I hope, suggesting that I would ever trifle—”
“With me?” Amity laughed. “No, I don’t think you would.”
“We ought to return to Shepheard’s. Your mother will not be pleased that we came here without a chaperone.”
“You English are so very adorable! Do you really think my dear mother cares about such things? She knows I am perfectly capable of looking after myself and my reputation. I would never have agreed to walk here with you if I were worried that news of our excursion would ruin my chances with any of the myriad sunburned and tedious gentlemen who call on me to pay court. I want something else entirely. Something they can never offer.”
“What?” Jeremy asked.
She took two steps closer to him. Her scent was intoxicating, sweeter than the flowers in the garden. “You, your grace.”
Jeremy stepped back.
“I have shocked you,” she said. “Good. Come to me tomorrow and we shall see what happens next. I shall be in my rooms at two o’clock.” She turned away, then looked back over her shoulder and smiled before starting down the path.
“Amity! Wait! You can’t go alone. Allow me to—”
“I am quite good at taking care of myself, your grace. You never need worry about me. Do not even contemplate following.” She waved and disappeared from sight.
Jeremy stood, flustered. He looked around, wondering how many people in the garden had watched their exchange. There would be gossip, that much was certain, but Amity truly seemed not to care. His heart raced. That kiss. That kiss. Could it be that, at last, he had found someone who could make him forget another kiss, on a cold day in Vienna? A kiss that ought never have happened, but that still consumed him, even after all these years? He pulled a cigarette from his silver case and lit it, then drew smoke deep into his lungs. He smiled. Amity. Amity Wells. Could such a girl really exist?
8
Amity’s offer of friendship to me coincided with a new pattern of behavior. She made a constant and dramatic show of protecting Jeremy. No longer did she encourage his debauchery, and she explained this—in excruciating detail—to be a direct result of his aborted ocean swim, which, she insisted, had not resulted in him falling ill only by the grace of God. Had she not gone on at such length, I almost certainly would never have given the matter a second thought, but her near obsession with the topic struck me as the lady protesting too much, and it left me unsettled, which, in turn, reawakened my suspicions about Mr. Neville’s death.
Not wanting to draw any attention to my activities, I begged off a countryside picnic planned by the Wells parents—evidently no one was feeling too morose for such a thing any longer—and stayed behind in town. I saw them off in front of the hotel, waving with great vigor until their carriages were out of sight and feeling a pang of guilt at abandoning Colin. I consoled myself with the knowledge that Cécile would spend the day praising his unearthly good looks while Margaret alternated between playing chess with him and badgering him about Latin poetry.
Once they were gone, I retreated inside, where I spent an extremely pleasant hour reading Philoctetes in the original Greek. I shall leave it to the astute reader to decide whether my choice of this particular work of Sophocles was appropriate to the situation. Confident enough time had passed that there was little chance of the picnickers returning for some forgot item, I set off on an errand of my own.
I started with visits to apothecaries, where I discretely inquired as to the availability of certain poisonous substances. My questions did not lead to anything of significance until I spoke with my fourth apothecary.
“We have occasional cause for such things, madame, especially for the elimination of pests,” he said. “As for strychnine in particular, the taste is so very bitter it puts off even the rats. May I inquire as to your interest in the substance?”
“It is only that—” I stopped.
“Are you a friend of the English gentleman who took his own life at the Hotel Britannia by this very means?”
“I am.”
“Then I am most heartily sorry for your loss,” he said. “I am afraid it will offer no consolation, but your friend’s choice of method tells me that he had planned this in advance. No one in Cannes sells it—we have no need to—so he must have brought it with him.”
“You are quite certain?”
“There can be no question of this,” he said. “Arsenic and belladonna I have on hand, as do my colleagues. But strychnine? Neve
r. I am confident about this. The town is small enough that we all know each other and our stock well.”
The notion that Mr. Neville had come to Cannes with the express intention of ending his life—and even had carried poison with him—made not the slightest bit of sense. Were he in such a morose state of mind, why would he have chosen an engagement celebration as the occasion on which he would commit such an act?
I thanked the apothecary and stepped into the street outside his shop, unsure of what I should do next. What exactly did this revelation mean? I walked for a while, considering the question. The fact that the entire bottle of whisky had been poisoned still tugged at me. Why would Mr. Neville have risked someone else drinking from it? Had he assumed its deadly nature would be immediately apparent to whoever found his body? Had he poisoned it before leaving London, knowing that none of his friends would balk at finding whisky in his luggage, particularly when he was traveling with Jeremy, but not wanting to risk carrying the poison separately, lest it be discovered? Or was his mind so full of despair that he had never considered what would become of the rest of the tainted whisky after his demise?
I wandered aimlessly, following side streets away from the water, up the hills, and then back down again. The second time I reached La Croisette, I changed direction, and walked parallel to the sea, going back and forth, street by street, until the sun hung directly overhead. The morning was behind me, but I felt I had not squandered it, even if I still wrestled with the questions that tormented me. As I crossed a narrow road in order to avoid a pile of rubbish on the pavement, I noticed a sign hanging above a doorway, indicating a physician’s office. This was precisely what I needed.
Not, of course, to treat any ill of my own. My constitution is hearty, and I rarely succumb to the complaints that aggravate tourists. No, I wanted to speak with a doctor about Mr. Neville and suicides in general. Fortified with purpose, I pulled on the door handle, but it did not budge. All decent Frenchmen stopped work for a civilized lunch; my pursuit of knowledge would have to wait. I glanced at the watch pinned to my lapel and considered my options. It was unlikely the doctor would return to work for more than an hour at least—the French idea of a midday break is rather different from its English equivalent. I was not near the hotel, so I decided I would grant a respite of my own and walked until I settled upon an agreeable looking café, where I took a table and ordered lunch.
The waiter, a stout, personable man, treated me like an old friend rather than an inconvenience, an attitude quite unlike that of many of his Parisian counterparts. Noticing a flush from exertion on my cheeks, he suggested a glass of rosé, to which I did not object, and he brought it while I lingered over the menu. After a bit of lively discussion with him about the choices, I asked for ratatouille, and sat back, munching on the bread he had left for me.
My table, outside on the pavement, afforded me an excellent view of all the passersby in the street. A steady stream of tourists, identifiable by the red Baedeker’s guides clutched in their hands, processed in seeming endless quantity, their line broken only on occasion by a Cannois, obvious by the bags they carried, full of fresh produce—and the occasional live chicken—from the local market. I sipped my wine. The rosé was lovely, crisp and cool, fruity and light, and somehow managed to diminish the burden I felt I was carrying whenever my thoughts returned to poor Mr. Neville.
The relief proved temporary. A prickling sensation on the back of my neck returned me to harsh reality. Someone was watching me, but considered analysis of the scene before me revealed nothing. Twice the gentlemen at a table near mine thought I was looking at them, and I blushed with embarrassment. Further study, however, revealed a slight figure standing in the shadows of a doorway on the far side of the street. His hat was lowered, obscuring much of his face, but the slim hands with their long fingers clasped over his walking stick were unmistakable. I recognized them at once as the fingers I had watched stroke the wings of that unfortunate butterfly, back at the castle wall.
Augustus had followed me.
Augustus, whom I had seen with my own eyes that morning enter the carriage occupied by his parents. Surely the picnic had not been abandoned. Rather than pretend I had not noticed him, I decided to take decisive action. I waved and shouted.
“Mr. Wells! Have you lunched? Do please join me!”
He started at the sound of my voice, but had few options other than to respond. He crossed the street and stood next to me. “I am not hungry, Lady Emily.”
“What happened to the picnic?” I asked. “You may not be hungry, but that is no cause to refuse all refreshment. Take a seat and I shall order you a glass of rosé. It is lovely.”
He frowned, but did not object. “The picnic … the very idea was tiresome. I thought I ought to join them, but we had gone no further than a mile down the road before I felt the inane conversation would drive me out of my mind. I ordered the carriage to stop so that I might alight from it. I walked back to town, and have been…” He paused here, his voice hanging in the air. “I have been having a bit of a wander. As have you, Lady Emily.”
My heartbeat quickened. Had he seen me visiting apothecary after apothecary? “My husband suffers from the occasional headache, and while peppermint oil offers him substantial relief, I have read that a concoction of neroil, sweet marjoram, and rosewood oil can prevent them from occurring altogether. It seems that the marjoram and rosewood are easy enough to come by, but I have yet to locate any neroil.”
“Where have you looked?” he asked.
“Several apothecaries.” I gulped the rest of my wine.
“I should try the Marché Forville, the local market. Do you know where it is, on the rue Louis Blanc?”
“I believe I do,” I said, shocked that he was offering what appeared to be a useful suggestion.
“There is a woman there who sells herbs and has a selection of oils. If she does not have that which you seek, she may know someone who does.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wells. I am much obliged. You are quite knowledgeable for someone who has never before been in Cannes. I am impressed.”
“I make it my business to know useful things. One never knows when they will come in handy.”
The waiter appeared with my ratatouille. Augustus looked at it with disdain and asked if he might have some tapenade. The waiter obliged quickly, bringing with it more fresh bread.
“Why did you wish to avoid the picnic?” Augustus asked as soon as the waiter had disappeared.
“I own the idea did not appeal to me,” I said, debating how candid I should be with him. “I am still upset by Mr. Neville’s death and am finding it difficult to dedicate myself to the pursuit of pleasure. I do hope my inability to do so with abandon has not impinged upon your sister’s high spirits.”
“Amity has never let anything impinge on her high spirits, as you so charmingly call them.” He covered a slice of bread with a thick layer of tapenade. “It is one of the many qualities in her that I admire and wish I could emulate. As it is, I am left to feel slights more deeply than she ever would.”
“Are you often slighted?”
“I am well aware that my manner appears odd to many people,” he said. “I pretend not to care and react by armoring myself with further eccentricities.”
“I am sorry if you feel misunderstood.”
“I have never been misunderstood, merely disliked. Amity is the only one who has ever taken pleasure in my company, and now I am to lose her.”
“You shan’t lose her, Mr. Wells. She will always be your sister, but I do understand that her living in England after her marriage will change your relationship significantly.”
“Oh, she won’t live in England, Lady Emily. She would despise that.”
“I am afraid she won’t have any choice in the matter. Her husband-to-be sits in the House of Lords and has an estate to manage.” Granted, Jeremy had not voluntarily seen the inside of the Lords on any day but that of the State Opening of Parliament since he had inheri
ted his title, and even then, he insisted he only went because he liked the figure he cut in his ducal robes.
“I think she would prefer to be even farther away from our parents,” he said.
This took me aback. It was a shocking confidence, blunt even for an American. I wanted to ask him to expound on his statement, but I did not wish to draw attention to it in case it scared him off. “I have always felt that England is not large enough to put adequate distance between myself and my mother.”
“Perhaps I have spoken out of turn,” he said. “I do not mean to leave you with the impression that my dear pater and mater are in any way unsatisfactory.”
“I would have thought no such thing. Your parents seem perfectly amiable.”
“I shouldn’t think you would hold that opinion after the way Pater spoke to you on the pier.”
I coughed. “I was not aware anyone other than myself had heard his comments.”
“That is not quite true, is it, Lady Emily? My sister told you Bainbridge overheard the conversation, and I hear everything. I make that my business, too.” He popped the last bite of bread into his mouth. “Are you planning to finish your ratatouille? It did not appeal when I first saw it, but tempts me now and I should very much like a taste. You don’t mind, do you?”
* * *
After lunching with Augustus, I felt more off balance than ever. He had proven simultaneously more congenial and more strange than I could have ever expected; I hardly knew what to make of him. When our table was clear and our check paid—by my companion—I excused myself, explaining that I intended to see a physician. I hoped he would not make further inquiries into the reasons for my plan, but, alas, Augustus Wells knew no social bounds.
“Are you ill? You seem fit as a fiddle.”
“What a charming expression,” I said. “I am not ill, but there are some matters … it is best that I do not explain.”
He stared at me, without blinking, until I started to wonder if he was having some sort of a fit.
“You will excuse me?” I waited for his response, but none came. “Mr. Wells?”
The Adventuress Page 9
