“We will be there, watching and intervening. But if we fail, you might never forgive yourself—or us.”
He remembered the old bell ringer’s words, but shook them off. “I asked her to marry me, but she refused me. Told me she never wished to see me again.” His voice almost broke with the emotion, and he focused his attention on the glass in his hand to steady himself.
The men fell silent.
“You asked her to marry you,” Stillman repeated softly.
“I love her.” Clive shrugged. “I thought she loved me, but she believes an alliance with her will harm my reputation.”
“A woman who is concerned about your reputation.” Garfleet whistled. “In other circumstances, I’d tell you to stay away, to respect her wishes and find a woman who welcomes your attentions. But after the Sinclair trial, you could marry the scullery maid and do no harm to your reputation. She must love you.”
“I agree with Garfleet. Go to the gala or don’t, but before you let her go, you should find out what’s behind that excuse.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Charters removed his makeup, watching as with each brush of the cloth his own face appeared. The scar that etched the side of his face in front of his ear faded, then emerged pink and irritated.
“It’s strange to see you as your true self.” Flute stared.
“My true self. I’ve often wondered which one of my characters that is.” He gestured at his study. “Even this setting is just another role—Lord Montmorency, collector of antiquities, scholar of ancient Greece and Rome. But tonight you shall wear a costume as well, Flute.”
“Me?”
“Yes. I’ll need your ears and eyes with me tonight.”
“Who am I to be?”
“What would you think of a sea captain? I found a uniform at a secondhand clothier’s some months ago. It’s about your size.”
“Was my captain prone to take on cargo from other ships? A pirate turned country squire. I’d like that.”
“That’s the beauty of these characters, Flute. We make them anything we wish.”
“What’s my name?”
“What will you answer to?”
“My first name is Henry. I’d answer to that.”
“Then Henry it is. What last name?”
“Speedwell. It was a flower my mother loved.”
“Captain Henry Speedwell. I like the sound of it. Do you have your knife, Captain Speedwell?”
“Always.” Flute patted his belly. “This narrow pocket you had sewn into the side of the waistcoat is perfect to conceal it.”
“Very good.”
“What is the plan?”
“Miss Frost must die. I have just signed a nice contract to do away with her.”
“What about Somerville?”
“With the deaths of Sparks and his crew, Somerville should grow less of a problem. But we can’t risk that Frost knows something, even if she doesn’t realize it. She dies.”
“You’re letting Somerville live because you don’t like killing within your own class.”
“It’s not a matter of social class; it’s the resources that give me pause. A poor man might suspect his friend was murdered, but he has few avenues for redress. Whereas the pockets of a duke, grieving the death of a beloved younger brother, are bottomless. But Frost’s circle, thanks to Sparks and his crew, has grown used to disappearance and deaths. Her death will be the sensation of an hour or less.”
“How will we do it?”
“We take what opportunity arises. When we find them together, we’ll see what we must do. We may find, in the crush of the crowd, that you can slide your knife between his ribs, and steal his purse, and that will be fine. Just slip away before the body drops to the floor. But one of them, perhaps both, will die tonight.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Clive sat in front of the fire in his brother’s study, alone in the house. Forster had given the household the evening off as well as provided each servant with free tickets to the Rotunda for the next day. Clive’s own ticket lay on the table beside him, next to a half-empty bottle of claret and a tray filled with the remains of his dinner.
Judith had been the only one to take her leave of him, the rest having avoided him and his bad temper for days. She’d refused to advise him, telling him the choice whether to go or not had to be his.
So, he sat, watching the fire and wearing a dark suit to match his mood, waiting for the clock to finally reach the hour that the gala would begin. What else could he do?
The sound of someone at the door dragged him from his chair. Without the butler, Clive had no choice but to answer the door for himself.
Outside stood Joe Pasten, and behind him a carriage with the curtains pulled.
“Ah, Somerville, Edmund said I could find you here.”
“Is there trouble?”
“No, we’ve found Tenney on the docks with a crate filled with forged Old Masters. I thought you might like to go with us.”
“Us?”
“Mr. James is in the carriage. On the way, he’d like to talk to you about whether it would be possible—or even advisable—to reset the leg that was crushed at Waterloo.”
* * *
The musicians were practicing their program, alternating sets of martial tunes with more melancholy laments. Lena had planned the musical settings to convey the pomp and pageantry of war along with its sorrow and loss.
But for the last ten minutes, the musicians had been playing the melancholy pieces, and all Lena could think of was Clive. The way his face had looked when she’d told him to go haunted her, creating a bone-deep sadness that she knew would never leave her. Each expression—from surprise, to disbelief, to confusion, hurt, and betrayal—she felt as a stab to the heart. Even now, days later, her heart felt numb, even dead.
What if Lady Judith was right? A blow to the body might kill, but a blow to the soul thwarted healthful life forever. Lena turned the thought away, but it came back, this time as a memory. She was twelve again, and her father had just forced her into the carriage that would carry her away from her home for the last time. Had her face in that long-ago moment looked like Clive’s when she told him to stay away forever? She wiped the tears from her face.
Clive would eventually thrive, she told herself. He was too practical to hold on to memories of a woman who had rejected him. Though she wished she could have told him she loved him, that would have made parting unbearable for both of them, even if he had agreed to leave. No, he would eventually heal, but she would regret losing him until her last breath. She’d never imagined that such a man existed, one who valued her intelligence, her talent, and even her insistence on doing for herself.
“Lena, my dear, it’s time.” Constance set her hand on Lena’s shoulder, having barely left her side for the last two days. Lena turned to find the Muses gathered at the front of the platform, all waiting to wish her well.
“It’s going to be a crush, Miss Frost,” Kate, who had been helping at the box office all day, announced happily. “The line waiting for the doors to open already circles Leicester Square.”
“The duke’s men have organized the gala-goers into a neat queue by rank and will let them in slowly,” Ariel added. “All you must do is give the word.”
Lena faced the painting, already unveiled so that the guests could be amazed as they entered. It was the Battle of Waterloo in all its horror and glory. The product of three years’ work, it was magnificent. She looked to the spot where the murderers had cut the painting, but even her trained eye could barely discern the repair. All her preparations were about to come to fruition, and she should enjoy it, even if only for a single night. The only thing that could make it better would be if Clive were by her side, but that was impossible.
As scheduled, the band began to play “The Plains of Waterloo,” accompanied by a single strong voice:
“The ancient sons of glory were all great men, they say,
And we in future story will shi
ne as bright as they;
Our noble fathers’ valiant sons shall conquer every foe,
And long shall fame their names proclaim who fought at Waterloo.”
A veteran of the Peninsular Wars, the Duke of Forster, wearing his army uniform, listened for a moment, then joined them. Lady Wilmot took his arm. “Are you certain, Miss Frost, that you wish for me to moderate the ceremonies? London should see the artist behind such a breathtaking painting.”
“No, it’s best this way.” She shook her head. “It will make clear that Horatio is not in London. And I have my own performance to manage.”
She took a deep breath, then turning back to the Muses, she smiled. “We should let our subscribers in.”
* * *
Clive pressed his way through the crowd. But a block away he gave up trying to reach the main entrance in good time. He made his way to the alley and the Rotunda yard. A carriage stood in the alley, blocking the entrance to the yard, but he made his way around it.
At the entrance, Harald, on guard as usual, gave him a curt nod and opened the door into the lower level. Clearly Lena had not told her men of their falling out. Once under the platform, he maneuvered his way around the orchestra to the wall ladder, now covered by a heavy curtain. He climbed onto the platform, but the crush was too great to find Lena quickly—or at all. Taking advantage of the wall ladder, he climbed higher, surveying the crowd, until he found her at the front of the platform, dressed like a French soldier and surrounded by adoring patrons.
It took him almost a quarter of an hour to reach her side.
“Lena.” He pulled her away by the elbow. “I almost didn’t recognize you. Why French dress at an exhibition celebrating the victoy of the English allies?”
“There’s to be a marshaling of arms, and I play the French soldier.” She looked skittish, glancing over her shoulder as if expecting someone to accost them. “Why did you come?”
“I came to wish you luck. But it’s clear you don’t need it. Soon, I predict, you’ll have your first commission from the royal family, and no one deserves it more.”
She blushed. Her eyes met his only for a moment, but long enough to reveal a depth of sadness that equaled his own. He wanted to enfold her in his arms, to whisper “all will be well.” But he knew such actions would be unwelcome. Instead, he looked away, to avoid blurting out a sentiment that would make them both unhappy.
“Your help and that of the Muses was invaluable. I will always be grateful to you—and them.” She stepped back, as if to walk away. But he held her elbow.
“Wait. I’ll leave you alone as you wish, if you will simply hear me out.”
She didn’t pull away. He lowered his voice to a whisper.
“Tenney’s presence in London was a mere coincidence. He’s returned to France on the last packet. I doubt he will return to England; he already exhibits the hectic red of one dying of consumption. Your paintings are safe at the duke’s house.”
She blinked away tears but did not cry. He continued speaking, lest she stop him before he could finish. It was his one chance to change her mind. “As for Madame Remberg, I asked for her in Soho. The few émigrés who remember her name say she died of grief shortly after her husband’s execution. So there is no obstacle, Lena: we could marry—if you will have me.”
She looked stunned, then sad. “It’s too late.” She shook her head slowly. “I’m sorry, Clive.”
“For what?”
“I didn’t believe I would see you again, and certainly not here tonight.”
“How could I miss this? It means everything to you, more even than I do.” He put his hand on her arm, feeling the warmth of her, wanting to pull her into the circle of his embrace. In the press of the crowd, no one could see.
“No, not more than you. Nothing means more to me than you. But I’ve made plans, plans that can’t include you.” From under the platform came the sound of a bugle, and she pulled her hand out of his.
Turning her face to the sound, she looked past him at the painting. Some of the scaffolding had been draped in green cloth to give the illusion of rolling hills.
“I want to be with you,” he pleaded. “I’ll fit in to whatever plans you have. I’ll leave the surgery. I’ll go wherever you need.”
Her eyes filled with tears, but she blinked them away. “It’s simply too late.” She shook her head slowly, as if dismayed by his confidences.
“What do you mean?”
The bugle sounded a second time.
“I must go.” She touched his hand. “Forgive me.” She slipped away into the crowd.
“Is that Miss Frost?” Clive looked over his shoulder to find Lord Montmorency, an odd sort of man Clive had never trusted. Everyone insisted he was a good sort, having returned home from his Grand Tour to find his brother dead, and his father ailing. But Clive had never liked him. Something about his eyes spoke of avarice, not generosity, even when he was donating significant sums of money to various causes.
“My associate and I are acquainted with Mr. Calder, the proprietor. But we haven’t yet had the pleasure to meet his assistant. When I bought my tickets, Calder said she was the talent behind his throne, so to speak. Isn’t that true, Captain Speedwell?”
The larger man spoke little, but nodded in time to Lord Montmorency’s words. Speedwell held his hand close to his side, his arm hidden by Montmorency’s body. Clive instinctively took a step back, too close to the two men to feel comfortable. Something about them didn’t ring true. But his retreat was stopped by the press of the crowd. There was nowhere to go, and he wouldn’t leave, not before he could talk to Lena again.
The doors opened, and the sound of the marshaling of arms drifted down the darkened corridor. The roll of the drums and the call of the clarion came closer, when a voice cried out, “Look up there!”
A lone French soldier—Lena—stood at the edge of the scaffolding. Behind her a British soldier approached. The dance was to be a pantomime between the two soldiers. But Clive knew something was wrong. Lena’s face was pale, her expression forced. Then the whole audience heard the sound of wood breaking under her weight—and her stifled cry as she fell two stories to the ground.
He tried to rush forward, but the crowd held him back. He could hear Aidan’s voice from the area below the platform, calling for their physician, Lucy. A few minutes later, Aidan, from a ladder at the front of the platform, announced regretfully that Lena Frost, the co-proprietor of the Rotunda and the actor playing the soldier, was dead.
Exclamations of shock and horror rippled through the room. Clive stood, unable to move, unable even to think, or feel. Lena—vibrant, witty, infuriating Lena—was dead. He could still feel the warmth of her breath against his cheek, hear the timbre of her voice. But she was gone.
Lord Montmorency and Captain Speedwell were talking to him, but he couldn’t quite make out their words. Slowly, they came back into focus.
“Terrible shame. Talented girl. Will you be well, if we leave you?”
Clive nodded, and the two men left him standing in the press of the crowd, alone. The crowd moved about him, more subdued at first, then regaining its animation when the band began to play again. Eventually, he’d begun to attract attention for the tears streaming down his face, but soon after Stillman found him, and his friends took him home.
* * *
Lena’s death garnered almost no attention in the press. “Died. The female assistant to Horatio Calder, proprietor of the Rotunda panorama, by falling from a large scaffolding the night of the grand soiree. As she was dressed as a French soldier, many present at first believed the accident was part of the grand pageant, a marshaling of arms complete with old soldiers.”
The story didn’t give her name. It provided no sense at all that the panorama had been her project, not Horatio’s. In death, she was reduced to Horatio’s assistant. A nameless woman dressed up in a costume. For the first time, perhaps, he understood the cruelty of history, how it ignored or reassigned the accomplish
ments of remarkable women. She had been remarkable. And nothing he had done had made any difference.
He still loved her. It didn’t matter any longer if she’d had one name or fifty. All that mattered was that she was lost . . . and so was he.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Clive kept the covers over his head. For a fortnight, he hadn’t left his room at his club. Each day, a maid came and drew the curtains, and he would draw them again. Why be reminded that the world still turned when she wasn’t in it?
He ignored the tray of food left him each day, ignored the servants, ignored his family come to check on him, even ignored his brother, the duke, who (uncharacteristically) begged him to come home. He hadn’t needed to ignore Boatswain, Lucy’s dog, when someone let him into the room—the dog, sensing his sorrow, had merely curled up at his feet, until someone called him away hours later. He’d drunk himself senseless each day, until his brother had given instructions to the majordomo not to bring him any more whiskey, and no one refused the order of a duke. The servants came and went, stoking the fire, leaving or removing his food, refilling his basin and pitcher, and he never said a word. He hadn’t spoken to a soul in so long that he wondered if he could still speak. But why would he want to? The only person he wanted to speak to was Lena.
Lena. The thought of her gone bowed him to the earth.
He had no interest in going to the laboratory, no interest in his cases, no interest in the promotion Joe had offered him that would take him somewhere new, somewhere that wouldn’t remind him of her. He had no interest in his friends who came and sat by his side. They had been unable to keep her safe, and they felt the failure, though he didn’t blame them. He should have known that whoever killed the resurrection men wasn’t acting out of altruism for the community. He would find the killers, ensure they were punished, but not now. No, he would do it someday, when the giant gaping hole in his chest didn’t make it hard to breathe.
He’d begged to see her body, but his family had refused, and he hadn’t the energy to fight them. Aidan arranged the burial, placing notices of her death in the newspapers, making arrangements for Lena to rest in her tomb in Denby. He’d insisted on a guard to ensure that no one disturbed her body; the grave robbers’ remaining crew had stolen her life, but he wouldn’t allow them her body.
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