"How so?" I asked.
"Isabelle is very anxious about her wedding, and I think you could ease her mind on the subject. Forgive me, but I worried about letting her spend too much time with you when..." She closed her eyes and sighed. "I never believed the rumors, but you know how awful people can be about such things, and Isabelle's reputation must remain spotless."
"Don't apologize. You were one of the few people who didn't cut me. And though I may be back on guest lists, don't think that in private people aren't still talking about me."
"It's so dreadful, but people's memories are short. In another month they'll have moved on to something else altogether."
"I've been hearing lots of talk about Mr. Berry," I said. "From what I gather, it sounds as if there is a chance that the monarchy will be restored in France."
"Oh, Emily, if only that were true, but I'm afraid that it's too much to hope for."
"When is the wedding to be?"
"Everything will be ready before the end of the month."
"So soon?"
She tilted her head to me and spoke softly. "If these political events to which you refer do take place, I should very much like the marriage finalized before then. Isabelle is not from a royal family, after all."
Lady Elinor was wise in this regard. I had no doubt that Mr. Berry, if he were to become king before the wedding, would throw Isabelle over for a royal bride with a more impressive fortune. To my mind, however, this would be good news for Isabelle. I liked the girl, and hated the thought of her married to such an undesirable man.
"What does Isabelle think of marrying so quickly?"
"She's a good girl, although it's clear that she's terrified. I know this is best for her, but I hate to see her unsettled. Would you be willing to talk to her? I've tried, of course, but sometimes such things are easier to believe coming from a friend than from one's own mother. I'd be so grateful. I don't want to see her consumed with worry."
"Isabelle is fortunate. Most mothers are not so concerned." I remembered the conversation I'd had with my own mother prior to my wedding; it was hardly encouraging. The primary thrust of it had to do with learning to bear the inconveniences required by marriage. Inconveniences. "Have her come see me tomorrow. I'll do what I can to allay her fears."
All of a sudden, a gentleman bumped into me, nearly knocking me off my feet. He grabbed my hand to steady me, mumbled a quick apology, and disappeared before I could say a word to him.
"How rude!" Lady Elinor exclaimed. "The park is simply too crowded these days, and so many gentlemen do not have the manners they ought to. I think — "
"Lady Elinor, will you excuse me? I must go home." The man had pressed into my hand a folded piece of paper that opened to reveal a passage written in Greek followed by a single sentence in English: Am I to get no thanks for my gift?
At last my admirer had shown his face! If only I'd had the presence of mind to get a good look at him. I had a vague idea that his eyes were blue, but was not certain even of that.
"Are you unwell?"
"Just a bit off balance. Forgive me. Send Isabelle to me tomorrow." I rushed off in the direction the man had taken, not giving her a chance to reply.
The paths in Hyde Park were crammed with the best of society, and it was difficult in the extreme to maneuver along them with any sort of speed. My friend had a decent head start and the advantage of anonymity; I had little chance of finding him. I did try, though, not giving up until I reached the Achilles statue. Ready to admit defeat, I looked around for an empty bench, but there was none in sight. I stood for a moment, wondering if he was watching me, hidden somewhere in the vicinity. How could I know?
Then something caught my eye. Not my admirer but a familiar face: Robert Brandon, walking arm in arm with a lady I recognized from Lady Elinor's ball. They leaned close together as they spoke, laughing at something, their heads nearly touching. I was stunned. Surely Robert would not be so indiscreet as to appear with a mistress in Hyde Park. I managed to make my feet move and started after them. I would not remain a silent party to this.
"Good afternoon, Robert," I called as I approached them.
"Oh, Emily. Delighted to see you." His expression did not match his words.
I smiled at his companion. "How lovely to see you, Mrs. Reynold-Plympton."
"Likewise, Lady Ashton," she replied, scrutinizing every detail of my dress as she spoke.
"Where is Ivy this afternoon, Robert?"
"With the Duchess of Petherwick, I believe."
"Of course." I managed another smile but suspected that he could see me seething behind it. "Are you a friend of Mrs. Brandon's?" I asked his companion.
"I'm not much acquainted with her," the lady replied. This came as no surprise.
"How unfortunate. So nice to see you both. I'll leave you to your walk." I did my best not to spit out the words but cannot vouch for my success. As they walked away from me, I looked at the paper that was still in my hand:
Although the message was short, the Greek was beyond my sight-reading abilities, so I went home, where, with the aid of my lexicon, I was able to translate the passage: Eyes, how long are you draining the nectar of the Loves, rash drinkers of the strong unmixed wine of beauty?
23
I was not sure what to do next. The matter of deciphering the letters was certainly urgent. Finding my admirer was something that might provide answers beyond those that I sought for personal reasons. And then there was the question of what Robert was doing with Mrs. Reynold-Plympton. All this was in addition to the problem of solving the murders in Richmond.
Saving Jane Stilleman from a guilty verdict deserved primary importance, and it could be argued that the letters and my admirer tied in to this. But can I be faulted for wanting to help Ivy first? I penned a note to the one person in London who would be able to provide the most possible information about Robert's friend; I only hoped it would not take long for her to reply.
Next, I wrote a notice for the Times:
What an exhilarating encounter. I'd prefer that next time you stay long enough for a chat. Many, many thanks for the letters.
I debated asking to set up a meeting but rejected the idea. I'd do better trying to catch him following me. If only there were some simple way to draw him to me. I would think on this later. For the moment, I needed to apply myself to unlocking the secrets of Marie Antoinette's correspondence with Léonard, but no sooner had I set out the letters than I was interrupted.
"Hard at work?" Colin asked once Davis had closed the door after announcing my visitor.
"Always," I replied as he kissed my hand.
"I've checked up on Berry and am convinced that he had nothing to do with the wayward coach."
"Why is that?"
"Because he went straight from Lady Elinor's to a...er...club of sorts with Bertie."
"You believe him?"
"I believe the Prince of Wales."
"Mr. Berry needn't have been inside the coach himself, you know. He might have hired someone to drive it."
"A valid point, but I don't see how he could have alerted the driver to our departure from the party. The prince collected him at the Routledge house, and they left together more than an hour after we did."
"And was Mr. Berry never out of sight during that hour?"
"Lady Elinor's watching Isabelle like a hawk — didn't let her out of sight the entire evening. She's a chaperone nearly as ferocious as your own mother."
"You've never had to tolerate my mother as a chaperone."
"Ashton told me all about it."
"Oh." A feeling of vague discomfort swept over me, but I forced myself to ignore it. "He could have arranged it ahead of time."
"He might have, but I'm certain that the coach was not following us."
"It could have been on a street out of sight, waiting to see us leave Lady Elinor's. As soon as we'd passed, it rushed to Berkeley Square ahead of us and was there, ready, when we arrived."
"I sh
an't discount the possibility," he said. I handed him one of the letters I'd been working on. "Will you help me? I'm close to cracking it."
"I think you're headed in the right direction," he said after I'd told him my theory about the number words being the key. I kept track of each system I'd tried, and the list was growing hideously long.
"Paragraphs — that's what I've ignored," I said, my head bent over the letter before me. "Of course. It's not simply the third letter of each word. The code doesn't begin until the third paragraph." I quickly copied the letters; more nonsense. I threw down my pencil and picked up another note.
"It's incredibly frustrating, isn't it? I've a colleague who refuses to spend more than thirty minutes on any single code. Insists that if he can't break it in that time, he'll never be able to."
"Thirty minutes?"
"Well, he's quite good. There's not much he can't crack that quickly."
"Where is he now?"
"Vienna."
"How unfortunate."
"Have you tried applying the numbers to the next note in the series?"
"Yes, no luck."
"What about the dates?" he asked. "They're the only other place that numbers appear."
"Combine them with the others, you mean?" I asked.
"Yes," he said. I stared at the document in front of me.
"Yes, I think that's it. Look, the number in this one is vingt, and the date is the vingt-trois juillet. Subtract twenty from that and you're left with three." I scribbled down the pertinent letters. The result appeared to be another random string, so I decided to skip to the third sentence, and when that failed, to try every third letter of every third word. This last attempt didn't result in enough letters, but I was convinced that I needed to look at every third word. Maybe every other letter of every third word?
And this, at last, provided something other than nonsense, which I read aloud to Colin, translating from the French:
Safe house found. B will travel with LC.
"Louis Charles. The dauphin. My dear girl!" He pulled me out of my seat, put his hands around my waist, picked me up, and spun me in a circle.
Truly, it was exhilarating. But we could not afford to bask in the moment and immediately applied the system to the next letter:
S sympathetic. May help with escape. Travel unlikely before fall at earliest. LC in good health, asking after MT.
"You've no need of my help," Colin said, his eyes shining. "Brilliant work, Emily."
"MT" was undoubtedly Marie-Thérèse, the dauphin's sister, but I had no clue who "B" or "S" might be. Perhaps Mr. Wainwright at the British Library would have an idea. Both of the letters I had decoded were from Léonard. Now I turned my attention to one written by the queen.
Longing for mon chou d'amour. I trust B but worry about this S. Promise they will send him where we discuss ed.
I could hardly wait to read the rest. But I would have to learn patience, for no sooner was I poised to delve into the next note than my mother arrived.
"Mr. Hargreaves! What a pleasant surprise."
"Delighted to see you, Lady Bromley," he said, leaping to his feet and kissing her hand. "You look well. Are you one of those ladies immune to aging?"
This was too much, but I resisted the urge to glare at him. "You are too kind, sir," she said, an expression of smug satisfaction on her face, and sat down. "I must say, I had no idea how much Her Majesty depends upon you. When Emily and I were having tea at Windsor..."
Clearly, this was a dialogue that could go on without me, so I kept at my work, paying only the slightest attention to what they were saying. Colin played my mother flawlessly, in turn flattering her and asking for advice about mundane household matters. He needn't have wasted his time; there was no question but that she would support a marriage between us. Nonetheless, it was amusing to watch him play the part of aspiring son-in-law.
"What are you working on over there, Emily?" she asked, ready to draw me into the conversation.
"Oh, nothing of significance," I said. "Just my Greek, as usual."
"She's a very smart girl, you know." Her voice was a melodramatic whisper.
"Only one of her many charms," Colin replied, and I decided I'd had enough of this nonsense. I walked over to them and sat next to my mother on the settee.
"Did you receive my note?"
"I did and thought discussing it with you in person would be preferable to writing an answer. I don't entirely trust your servants. Discretion is my utmost concern." This last sentence was directed to Colin.
"Quite as it should be, Lady Bromley. Shall I leave you alone with your daughter?"
"It might be best, sir."
"Very good," he said. "May I call on you again tomorrow, Lady Ashton?" His eyes danced with laughter.
"Of course," I replied.
"He is all politeness!" My mother exclaimed as soon as he had left the room. "You'd be hard-pressed to find a man who could better him, although I do wish he were a peer."
"He's rich enough to make up for that," I said. She could not have missed my wry tone but did nothing to acknowledge it.
"His family has been prominent in England since the time of William the Conqueror, and rumor has it that no fewer than two of his ancestors refused offers to become peers. A bit strange, but wealthy men are often eccentric. And as fond as the queen is of him, I shouldn't be surprised at all if she bestowed a title on him."
"I wonder if he would accept it."
"Of course he would! How could you think otherwise?"
"He might follow the lead of his ancestors."
"Hmpf. And tell me, have you seen much of Bainbridge?"
"He's been a bit scarce lately."
"Make sure you encourage him, Emily. There's no need to cast him aside unless you've a settled arrangement with someone else."
I decided to change the subject. "Have you information about Mrs. Reynold-Plympton for me?"
"Your note was most interesting, Emily. Are you at last taking an interest in society?"
"Just Mrs. Reynold-Plympton."
"Her husband is a retired ambassador. They spent years in the farthest reaches of the empire, and she's always been rather...untamed."
"She's much younger than her husband, isn't she?"
"He's at least thirty years her senior. They've eight children; the oldest stands to inherit a most significant fortune. If she is a friend of Mr. Hargreaves, I shouldn't let it trouble you much. She's perfectly discreet. Still, I should insist that he break it off before the wedding."
"Why would you think she's his mistress?"
"Mrs. Reynold-Plympton has been linked with more than one bachelor since her return to England seven years ago. Her husband's health has been in decline for some time. He must be seventy-five years old if he's a day, and it is Mrs. Hamilton — do you know her? — who takes particular care of him. They were attached to each other in their youth, but his parents wouldn't let him marry her. No money in her family."
"So now he forsakes his wife for her?"
"Don't play naïve, Emily. It's most unbecoming. People find a way to cope with arranged marriages. It's a necessity of life."
"Sounds more like sanctioned hypocrisy to me."
"It's very bad of Mr. Hargreaves to have let you find out about this. Perhaps you should take Bainbridge instead. He is discretion itself."
"Colin is not involved with Mrs. Reynold-Plympton. I'm only interested in her because I saw her in the park with another gentleman."
"Really? Who was it?"
"I'd rather not say."
"Don't be tedious."
"I'm not about to start spreading unfounded gossip."
"Fine. I've no interest in playing silly little games with you." She stood. "I do hope you're prepared to make a quick decision about your wedding. The queen will expect to hear news about it before the end of the Season."
"Perhaps I shall have to flee to Greece before then."
"Don't even consider it." She departed without
another word. I returned to my desk after watching her carriage pull away and had just picked up my pencil when the window at the front of the room shattered as something flew through it, the missile landing on the side table next to Colin's favorite chair. Tied onto the brick was a note with a simple message:
A little knowledge can be a dangerous thing. Stop now.
24
Even before I could ring for Davis, the police watching my house mobilized and set off after the person who had thrown the brick. Although none of them had actually seen the act, an instant before he heard the crash of breaking glass, one alert officer had noticed a man run off at top speed, and his cries immediately caught the attention of the plainclothes policeman in the square.
Davis and three footmen appeared in the library almost at once, clearly relieved to find me unhurt. It was lucky that I had not been sitting on the window seat, as was often my habit. The abrasion on my cheek from when the coach tried to run me down had healed, but the anxiety caused by knowing that I'd been targeted for harm had not faded with my wound. This latest incident only increased my feeling of unease.
Unfortunately, the miscreant eluded his pursuers, and the police were baffled as to his identity. There was very little more they could do. Inspector Manning was called to the scene, and he, along with Colin, whom Davis had sent for, examined the note. Not unexpectedly, it bore no identifying features. The only thing we were able to determine was that the handwriting was significantly different from that on the missives I had received from my admirer. Hardly surprising. I wouldn't have expected him to start flinging objects through my windows. It wasn't his style.
"We're taking every precaution we can to ensure your safety, Lady Ashton," Inspector Manning said. "But I would suggest that you perhaps consider heeding the message. There's no point in exposing yourself to further danger."
"The only way for the danger to be averted is to solve the crime, Inspector," Colin said. "And I've come to see that Lady Ashton's contributions in such matters are inestimable. I suspect the culprit knows it, too, or he wouldn't feel so threatened by her."
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