by Anne Perry
Vespasia went for another walk in the garden, ignoring the increasing threat of rain, because she wished to be alone to think. Anything she might learn from Rosalind, Amelia, or Georgiana was unlikely to be relevant, and there was no time to be oblique. And frankly, she was too worried to disguise her inquiries in the usual meaningless chatter. She was older than any of the women, and today she felt it. It was not a tiredness or an aching in the bones but an awareness of the reality of treason and attempted murder, and a certain darkness that threatened them all. Particularly, it threatened Victor, and in ways that he was not prepared to share with her. There was no use arguing with him. It would only increase the division between them; and, apart from the pain of that, which was deep and raw, it would stop them working together.
Deducing was fine, when they had lots of information and time to spare to gather more. They did not. After Christmas, they would part and all go to their own homes. But far more pressing than that, Iris was still in danger, if there was any chance at all that she had seen who had struck her. And that was the other thing! Who else might be in danger? They needed to know what this was about.
And maybe she needed to know about the past episode that had ended tragically and had left such a deep and still aching scar on Victor.
Of one thing she was certain: The present danger of violence must be dealt with first. She walked in the opposite direction from this morning, around the lawn with its damp earth and grass long enough to wet her boots and the hem of her skirt. She was going toward the large lily pond, bare of flowers now, although it must be surpassingly lovely in the summer. She stood on the gravel and watched the wind shivering across the smooth surface of the water, then in a lull, ironing it out to be gray brown until the next fan of breeze troubled it. How deep did it go? An inch? Two inches? And that’s all she and Victor were doing with the problem: tickling the surface.
They must dig deeper, in all the places a clue might be. Someone in the house had known Iris would keep her appointment. Had she simply told him where and when? She spoke to everyone quite openly. There was no need for coded messages. She just must not be seen handing anyone a package. It was large enough to be conspicuous. Someone would be bound to comment. There was no way to explain it and keep it secret that was reasonable.
James did not know anything about it, and he was inclined to be jealous, even if Narraway was twice his age. Iris was not the first young woman Vespasia had seen show a personal interest in Narraway. He was lean, elegant, so sure of himself on the outside that he exuded power. He was clever and wise enough to hide it most of the time. And he could be both sensitive and funny. He loved great art—whether it was music, literature, or painting—and he did not conceal his acute pleasure in it.
Would she have fallen in love with him though she was less than thirty? Quite possibly. And would he have found her beautiful, interesting, used her lightly, and then moved on? Yes, that was possible, too. And would she have forgotten him? Perhaps not.
It was better now, when they were both wiser and gentler, daring to drink deep of their emotions, to care and admit it. And she would still be hurt.
But Iris was lying unconscious in the housekeeper’s room, guarded as well as could be. And whoever had struck her would doubtless try to find the package. He had only to look thoroughly enough. Would he do it himself? Or ask his wife to? Would she agree? Was she part of it? Or could he think of a suitable lie as to why she should do such a thing? Would Vespasia do that, if Victor asked her? She did not know the answer to that. It was another thought to consider. A man alone? Or a man and his wife willingly? A man and a wife coerced?
She saw dimples of rain on the surface of the pond. The air was colder. It was time to get back to the house. She turned and walked with the wind behind her, pushing her a little. She had come without a hat and it was pulling at her hair. She would have a pot of tea sent up to her bedroom while she tidied herself.
* * *
She was in the bedroom before the mirror when Narraway came in. She had dried her hair and was pinning it back up again.
“I got caught in the rain,” she explained.
“You were out!”
She looked at his eyes in the mirror and did not bother to reply.
He sat on the bed, watching her. It was something that pleased him, even now. “Why did you go out?”
She heard the tone of his voice. It was a demand for an explanation based on anxiety, not a perceived right to know. “To think clearly,” she replied. “Without having to make idiotic conversation. Some people find it comforting, but…”
“Women talk such rubbish,” he said, dismissing it. “How can anyone make idle chatter at a time like this, with Iris…Even if they know nothing else, they know someone is violent! And…”
She turned round, facing him across the deep, rich bedroom carpet. “You are listening to the words, Victor. They don’t matter. If a man speaks, he has something to say. But with a woman, it is not the words, it is the message that matters: I am concerned for you, I like you. I understand. Or, You can trust me. I am listening. Whether it comes out as nonsense is not the point.” She looked at him steadily. “Do you really not know that? Or are you testing to see if I know it, too?”
He looked startled for an instant, then he decided to be honest. “No, I wasn’t aware of that.”
Vespasia swallowed what she had been going to say, and even kept her eyebrows from rising in incredulity. “Just like men boasting to each other. I imagine that translates roughly like gorillas beating their chests.”
He really did not want to, and it was plain in his face, but he could not help laughing. “I had no idea you saw us in such farmyard terms.”
“Gorillas in the farmyard?” This time her eyebrows did go up. “Really, Victor. This is nothing so alarming. It is the jungle. And you know that even better than I.”
The laughter vanished and he was very serious again. “And the chaos of the jungle is a part of life, and we need to understand it.”
“And we need to understand the people in it,” she replied. “First, find a better place for the package. This man will search our room soon enough. The question is, will he do it himself, or will he ask his wife to do it? Does she know who or what he is? And would she help him? Willingly or unwillingly. Or will he bribe a servant? Either is dangerous, unless his wife shares his belief.”
“Or understands the threat to him,” he added. His voice sank even lower, as if saying it more softly robbed it of some of its power. “There are several motives for treason, apart from idealism. There is money, fear of exposure for something, and sheer hatred of those you feel have slighted you, passed you over, or—more honorably, I suppose—those you believe have betrayed their allegiances by denying their own code in something. I’ve seen that.” A cloud crossed his face. “Had to execute a man whom I admired more than I did those whom he betrayed. It’s an old story.” But it was clearly one that still mattered to him.
She did not question him further. “Don’t tell me where you put it: Just take it from here. They’ll look, they’re bound to, and if we caught them, it would be very helpful.”
He tensed. “Vespasia! You are not to hide it! You are not to pretend to hide it! Do you hear me?”
“Of course I hear you!” she replied. She swallowed her indignation. She knew the comment came from fear. It was in his eyes, in his rigid hand on the lush coverlet of the bed where he was leaning. “Nor, I think, will I spend much time in the room alone,” she added. “It is nearly time we changed for dinner. They have to search in here. It is the perfect bait. But wherever you hide it, be careful! Whoever this man is, he is perfectly capable of following you and killing you, and making it look like an accident.”
“You don’t need to spell it out! I have been doing this for years.” His voice was not hard-edged; it was more sad and boastful. “Please, for my sake if
not your own, be more careful yourself!” There was a flicker of humor in his eyes, as if he had been going to lighten the mood for a moment, then changed his mind. “I don’t know whether not telling you where I put it lessens your danger or increases it.”
“Lessens it,” she said immediately.
He looked grim. “If you know, then at the worst threat, you could tell him.”
She stood up. “Victor, don’t be an ass. You, of all people, are a realist. Don’t protect me as if I were a child and couldn’t work it out for myself. If it comes to that, and he would kill me if I don’t tell him, then if I do, he would kill me afterward.”
“I’m sorry….” He looked wretched.
“Don’t be!” she said gently, realizing she was now afraid, too. She walked past him, round the end of the bed into the middle of the rose-colored carpet. “I’m your wife, not your child! If you talk down to me, I shall slap you. If you’ve forgotten, I fought at the barricades in Rome during the revolution of forty-eight. You wouldn’t know about that.” She was deliberately reminding him of the one fact she hated: that she was considerably older than him. “And I slap very hard indeed!” she added. She let her breath out slowly. “I think I shall wear the gray and silver gown, with diamonds, this evening. It is a color Amelia likes, and it suits me far better than it does her. It will infuriate her.”
“And you want to do that?” he said slowly, unsure whether to laugh or not.
“Of course I do.” She looked at him over her shoulder. “People make mistakes when they’re angry. If you lose your temper, you also lose your judgment.”
He stood up as well. “We can’t rely on other people’s mistakes.”
“No, but we can certainly use them!”
* * *
Dinner was magnificent, as if everyone was deliberately denying that anything at all could be wrong. The room was decorated in wine red, the shade of the velvet winter curtains. There were golden balls attached to all the silk-tasseled swag ropes. Red candles burned on the mantel and on the table, set, of course, with silver candelabra. Light gleamed on crystal goblets and on the magnificent array of silver knives, forks, spoons, soup spoons, and dessert forks.
The flowers in three vases were red and gold chrysanthemums, smelling exquisitely of damp earth. It would almost be a shame to overwhelm them with the aroma of food.
The company took their places in silence, the ladies each assisted by a footman.
Iris was still unconscious. James was sitting at her bedside, watching, willing her to come back to him. The housekeeper would take him supper on a tray.
Amelia was dressed in warm, glowing shades, which flattered her remarkably. She wore the Cavendish rubies, very valuable and very beautiful. She smiled at Vespasia. “Charming,” she murmured. “Gray is so…so…discreet.”
Vespasia turned slightly so her diamonds flashed in the blistering light of the chandelier. “So generous of you,” she murmured. “I’m sure Christmas is going to be wonderful.”
Cavendish sat at the opposite end of the table from Amelia. He looked steady, totally calm. “I’m glad that distressing events did not drive you away, Lady Vespasia. I was so afraid you would feel compelled to leave early. It could not possibly be the same pleasure without you.”
That caught Vespasia by surprise. “For such an unfortunate event, one does not abandon one’s friends,” she replied with a gentle smile. “I wouldn’t dream of leaving.”
The color flushed up Amelia’s face. Contrastingly, Cavendish went white. What did he feel, or know, that Amelia did not?
Vespasia smiled even more graciously, but the difference intrigued her. She had not thought Amelia and Cavendish antipathetic to each other. There had always been some tension there, but she had supposed it was due to the fact that both the title and the money were hers. Now Vespasia recognized that it was more than that. But what? The petty things that became annoying over time, or something major, blocking out the light?
She was risking being rude to Rosalind Allenby by remaining half turned away from her, even though it was in order to face Amelia. It was easy to do because Rosalind was a quiet woman, almost serene, as if she knew some inner security that was a secret to others. Like the Mona Lisa, Vespasia thought ruefully. Was Rosalind actually like Vespasia herself, with an iron discipline to appear warm and charming on the outside, perfect as an evening sky, and yet underneath as capable of pain, doubt, and loneliness as anyone else? Could you have raging winds underneath a stainless sky? Of course! Why not? Perhaps Rosalind Allenby hid far more than she revealed.
“Shall we have snow, do you think?” she said to Rosalind. “It’s so beautiful at first, but like fresh fish, it is less charming by the third day.”
Rosalind smiled back, a sudden warmth in her face. “I’m so glad you didn’t say ‘like houseguests’! They, too, are supposed to wear rather thin by that time, so the saying goes.” Her eyes were sparkling with inner life, clashing thoughts she probably never gave voice to.
“Good or not, I think it will be a Christmas we shall not forget,” Vespasia replied. “However much we might try…” she added.
“Please don’t say that!” Rosalind begged.
“I’m sorry.” Vespasia was taken aback.
“You’ll make me laugh,” Rosalind explained.
“Oh.” Vespasia let out her breath in a sigh.
They continued the conversation with considerable pleasure. Vespasia knew quite a lot about Allenby himself, and shared her knowledge through a delicate and warm series of anecdotes, some merely a sentence long. She appreciated that Rosalind loved him, even though she was perfectly aware of his shortcomings. It was because of a health issue that she did not travel with him, but he wrote her long descriptive letters, sharing not only where he was but the feelings it awoke in him.
Vespasia had seen the courage in him, the physical endurance, and the intellectual curiosity. She had not seen what Rosalind had: his pleasure in sharing with her the beauty unnoticed by others, the delight in the artistic workmanship of the simplest objects, the patience with a stubborn or frightened animal. He was not ashamed of that side of his nature, but perhaps a little embarrassed by it.
And Rosalind protected him with her silence. Theirs was a subtle relationship, but Vespasia understood it instinctively. Perhaps there was something of Victor in Allenby? Moments of tenderness that he had guarded, seeing them as vulnerability, not strength. How many people were so ill understood? On the other hand, how many were regarded as more, when the only wisdom they possessed was to keep tight the covers over their emptiness?
Conversation was sparse. Recent events lay heavily over the party. No one was prepared to pretend that James had attacked Iris, which meant either it was fiction that some unseen person had broken into the house in the middle of the night and then gone without trace to the orangery, where there was nothing to steal, not even any ripe oranges. And who would prefer that to all the wealth of art and trinkets lying around the rest of the house? Any alternative supposed that Iris had also gone to the orangery alone, in the middle of the night…and what innocent purpose would answer that? An assignation with a stranger was possible, but no one believed it. The only credible alternative was that someone at this table was guilty.
It was only when Cavendish himself finished his dessert and began to speak that Vespasia realized with dawning horror that Narraway was the one most reasonably to be suspected.
“You must find life very quiet, Narraway, now that you’ve retired,” Cavendish remarked. “I don’t see you as a man who moves from one house party to the next. I always perceived you as someone who did not go anywhere without a purpose….” His voice trailed off, as if the words were a question and required an answer.
Georgiana Brent looked at Narraway curiously. She clearly had no idea that he had until recently been head of Special Branch, or what that w
ould mean. For obvious reasons, it was not an appointment made public. Cavendish was being indiscreet.
Everyone was waiting for an answer.
Vespasia glanced at Cavendish. She saw no humor or innocence in his eyes. In fact, there was something bright and hard, which she read with a chill as malice. Why? Personal? Professional? Social, because Narraway also had married an earl’s daughter but had finally achieved a title all his own? It was ridiculous, but she knew men who had hated for less.
Narraway was being too slow to answer, and yet if she answered for him the implication would be that she believed he would not match wits with Cavendish himself.
Everyone had stopped eating. There was no clink of silver on porcelain. Only the movement of a hand caused the chandelier to glint on a diamond on a wrist or finger.
“What man would not wish to be in society every so often, if he could take Lady Vespasia on his arm each time?” Narraway said with a smile, to rob it of the vulgarity of boasting. Nevertheless, the pride was there.
Was it an act? Surely. Narraway was not a vain man, nor a brash one, so it must be a barb returned, to let Cavendish, and anyone else, know that the battle was real and sharp and he was for it. Amelia was not a woman one took anywhere to show off, for either her beauty or her wit. She was adequate, reliable—words of value, but damning to the vanity. Vespasia said nothing, but winced inwardly. She felt a fleeting moment of pity but shrugged it off. This was no place for a lapse of attention.
The silence seemed to overcome everything.
“Here I was, thinking we were complimented by your presence,” Cavendish replied at last, looking at Narraway, “when all you wanted was a chance to be seen. Aren’t you a little…mature…to be doing that? Or perhaps mature is not the right word. But the right word would be old, and that would be unkind at best.”
