He picked up the pen and began twirling it again, faster this time. “I… I can’t say that I’m accustomed to ladies discussing these sorts of things with me.”
“You seem to me enlightened enough to welcome lively discussion.” It was appalling, but I actually fluttered my eyelashes.
“I—I certainly hope so.”
“So what did Lord Fortescue hold over you?” I asked.
“It has to do with my mother. I will say nothing further.”
“Then I will not press you on the subject,” I said. This revelation made me even more disgusted with Lord Fortescue. I ran over the facts of the duel in my head again, grasping for anything that might help Robert’s case, although it seemed an increasingly unlikely prospect. “One more question. It strikes me as odd that Josef Schröder chose an Englishman as his second. Were he and Albert Sanburne close friends?”
“I wouldn’t say that.” Now he leaned forward. “Sanburne had only been in Vienna a week or so before the duel. He’d left London on the heels of a scandal. All very hush-hush, of course.”
“What sort of scandal?”
“Oh, dear. Well, I never heard the details, and it was only a rumor at any rate.” He stopped and tugged at his collar. “It’s not the sort of thing to which a lady should be exposed.”
“Come now, Mr. Hamilton, you can tell me.” He did not respond immediately, so I tilted my head and gave him a look of earnest, sweet interest that I’d not pulled from my arsenal since the first season I was out in society.
“Well.” He coughed. “You’ve perhaps heard some mention of the Cleveland Street scandal? More than two years ago, I think.”
“I can’t say that I’m familiar with it.” It must have occurred when I was in deep mourning for Philip, before I’d begun reading the newspaper on a regular basis.
“If I may be candid, Lady Ashton, I’m relieved to hear that.”
I could find out the details of the scandal on my own. “So what was Mr. Sanburne’s connection to Josef Schröder?”
“Suffice it to say that Schröder was sympathetic to Sanburne’s involvement in the scandal. Please don’t ask me to say more.”
I did not think it possible that my opinion of Lord Fortescue could be lower than it was, but knowing that he had held over Mr. Hamilton his mother’s relationship with a man she’d loved since childhood sickened me. I had no interest in tormenting the poor man, so I thanked him effusively and excused myself, amused by the way he tripped over himself to escort me from the building. From the Treasury, I went directly to the offices of the London Daily Post and asked to see Sir Julian Knowles.
The burly newspaperman greeted me with effusive affection and paraded me through the building as if I were a trophy he’d won in a sporting contest. “Lady Emily Ashton, boys. Aspire to earn a formal introduction to a person of her stature.” He ushered me into his office, a cozy room full of walnut paneling and leaded glass windows, the unmistakable odor of pipe tobacco oozing from every corner. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”
I perched on the edge of a leather chair. “It’s a bit embarrassing, really. I was hoping you could give me some information about the Cleveland Street scandal.”
His eyebrows shot up, and he burst into a fit of coughing. “Not a topic fit for a lady.” But then he leaned forward. “Why do you want to know? Have you learned that someone connected to you was involved in it?”
“No, not that. But…” I hesitated, wondering if I should continue. “I have some information that’s related to it that may be significant to Robert Brandon’s defense.”
“How so?”
“First you must tell me the nature of the scandal.”
“Well.” More coughing. “It was…you see…the Metropolitan Police shut down a…er…house of ill repute that counted several high-ranking aristocrats among its clients.”
“Oh. Is that all? Doesn’t that happen with alarming frequency?”
“Not quite in this manner, Lady Ashton. And how would you know about such things?”
“I read your paper, Sir Julian.”
“Yes, well…” He coughed again.
“What made Cleveland Street different?” I asked.
“The…er…establishment was staffed by…telegraph boys.”
“I don’t…” I paused, not entirely understanding.
“A brothel. Staffed by telegraph boys.” He covered his mouth with a handkerchief and turned an astonishing shade of red.
“Oh,” I said. “I’d assumed it was something much worse.”
“Worse?”
“Sir Julian, I’ve read all the Greeks. I’m not so easily shocked.”
“I do like you, Lady Ashton, very much.” He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and began to warm to his subject. “Lots of rumors about the Duke of Clarence connected with Cleveland Street.”
“Prince Eddy?”
“The one and only. He managed to wriggle out of it, though. Lord Arthur Somerset and the Earl of Euston weren’t so lucky. What has any of this to do with Brandon?” he asked.
“A gentleman called Albert Sanburne was involved in a similar scandal.”
“How do you know about that?”
“Surely you can’t expect I’d reveal a source?”
“Touché, Lady Ashton. I do remember Sanburne, though. And I think I see why you believe there’s a connection with Brandon.”
“Do tell.”
“Sanburne was arrested in a similar raid. The papers all kept quiet about it. Lord Fortescue made it worth our while. But I’m afraid that’s nothing to do with his murder.”
“He bribed you?”
Sir Julian shrugged. “It’s not a question of money, Lady Ashton. The story wasn’t particularly interesting anyway, so it didn’t hurt us to focus on other things. The participants weren’t nearly so high-profile as those at Cleveland Street.”
“Was Fortescue involved?”
“No, no, he’d never be so careless as to let himself get caught in any sort of compromising position. Sanburne worked in his office. Main reason I can recall the story at all is because although Fortescue kept it out of the papers, Sanburne was ruined anyway.”
“So the scandal did become public?”
“‘Public’ isn’t perhaps the proper word. But someone leaked it, and Sanburne’s engagement was called off. The girl’s father humiliated him. Chased him all the way to Vienna, if I recall.”
“Who was Mr. Sanburne’s fiancée?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t remember. It must have been ten years ago. And these scandals, they come and go so quickly, who could keep track of any of them?” He poured tobacco into a battered pipe.
“I imagine those whose lives were ruined don’t forget so quickly.”
“Now don’t go spoiling my fun, Lady Ashton. If you aristocrats are going to behave badly, you’ve got to expect consequences.”
I hardly slept that night, tossing fitfully in a state of semiconsciousness. I was no closer to finding out who had killed Lord Fortescue, nor had I even a sliver of evidence that might exonerate Robert. But while all this troubled me deeply, it was not what kept me awake. I’d heard nothing from Colin since leaving Vienna, and I could not shake from my head a series of horribly imagined images of what Mr. Harrison might do to him.
At one o’clock, I rose from my bed and paced. At two forty-five, I lit a lamp and tried (and failed) to finish reading The Picture of Dorian Gray. At three thirty, I gave up and scrawled a note to Colin. If he was back in Vienna, he’d have found the letter I’d left detailing Schröder’s plans. The message I wrote now was a simple declaration of love. Before five o’clock, I’d lost the sense of human decency that had kept me from waking my butler. I marched through hallways and upstairs to the servants’ quarters, where I rapped on Davis’s door.
“Madam?”
“You’re already dressed,” I said, surprised.
“It’s nearly five o’clock.”
“Heavens. I’d no idea y
ou get up so early.”
“The household, madam, does not run itself.”
“Well, I shall have to send you to bed earlier. I can’t have you running yourself into the ground.” I passed him the paper I’d brought with me. “Would you please have this wired at once to Mr. Hargreaves in Vienna?”
“It will be my pleasure.” He bowed neatly.
“And, Davis?”
“Madam?”
“You may take the afternoon off. I’m sure that Odette would appreciate seeing some of London before she and Madame du Lac return to Paris.”
“Madam, let me assure you that I am not—”
I raised a hand. “That’s a direct order, Davis. Don’t disappoint me.”
I returned to my bedroom, but there was little point in trying to sleep now. I rang for Meg, soaked in a hot bath for an obscene length of time, and dressed for the morning. None of my friends was yet awake, and I didn’t want to disturb them, so I breakfasted alone, kept company only by the worry I felt for Colin.
Alone, that is, until my mother stormed through the door.
“Lady Bromley, madam,” Davis called over her shoulder, not bothering to come into the room.
“Mother, I thought you were in Kent,” I said, suddenly feeling even more exhausted than I had before.
“I came the moment I heard you were back in England. You did go to Newgate. I’ve had it confirmed by an unimpeachable source, so don’t bother trying to deny it. Whatever could you have been thinking?”
“Robert asked to see me.” I was too tired to come up with an excuse that might be more palatable to her.
“How dare he try to compromise you with such a request? Where is Ivy? I want to speak to her.”
“She’s still asleep, Mother, and I’ll not have you bothering her. She’s upset enough.”
“Well, she ought to be. Made a very poor choice of a husband, if you ask me—”
“I didn’t.”
“Emily!” She rapped her umbrella on the floor. “I will not have you speak to me in such a manner. It’s unconscionable that you—”
“Ivy has trouble enough to contend with. She doesn’t need you to add more.”
“Her situation is—”
“More dreadful than you think.” I measured my words carefully, looked at my mother and raised an eyebrow.
“Really?” She spoke slowly; I nodded. “Poor, dear girl! What will become of the child? This is too awful!”
“Robert is not guilty, Mother. He will be exonerated.”
“I wouldn’t say that with such confidence if I were you,” she said. I could see her mind working, going through the ranks of unmarried men. “There must be a respectable widower out there who would be willing to take her on. An older gentleman, perhaps. By the time she’s out of mourning she will be somewhat less tainted by the scandal, but—”
“Mother! Robert is not dead.”
She sighed. “Of course not. But it never hurts to plan ahead.”
“Now that you’ve mentioned scandals, though, I’ve a question for you.” This piqued her interest, but she waited until a maid had poured coffee for her and left the room before asking me to elaborate. “Do you remember Albert Sanburne?” I asked.
“Sanburne…” She looked towards the ceiling for approximately fifteen seconds before bringing her attention back to me. “Oh, yes. Sanburne. Such a tragedy that he died so young. And his poor sister! How we all despaired for her. She was left without even enough money for a dowry. None of her relatives wanted to take care of the girl—as I recall, she moved from house to house every six months or so. To lose a brother so soon after the deaths of both her dear parents. Too awful for words.”
“To put it mildly,” I said.
“I must say, Emily, that I did fear for your health while you were in Vienna. The influenza is worse there than anywhere. I’m convinced Sanburne would never have died had he contracted the disease somewhere else.”
“Why had he gone to Vienna?” I asked. “I understand there was some to-do over his engagement.”
“Oh, yes. I believe the girl’s father went all the way to Vienna to break the betrothal.”
“That’s strange, isn’t it?”
“Fathers are protective of daughters. It was said that his objections to Mr. Sanburne were very strong indeed.”
“What were they?”
“I don’t know. It was never discussed.”
“Who was the girl?”
“Helen Macinnis. She was heartbroken at the time, but wound up marrying a captain in the Horse Guards. It was an excellent match.” She poured a second cup of coffee. “To return to the reason for my visit, I cannot allow—”
“Did you know, Mother, that Mr. Sanburne did not actually die of influenza?”
“What can you possibly mean by that? Of course he did. It was in all the newspapers.”
“He committed suicide in Vienna. It was in all the papers there.”
“Is that so?”
“I’m absolutely certain. Have even confirmed it with Sir Julian Knowles.” As I spoke, I saw in her eyes an admiration that had never before been directed to me. But then I’d never before given her such stunning gossip.
“Did I tell you that your father and I have been invited to Sandringham for Prince Eddy’s birthday dinner next week?” she asked. “Perhaps I could ask the queen if the invitation might be extended to include you.”
“I wouldn’t want to impose. Particularly when she’s been so gracious about the wedding.”
“Oh, I suppose you’re right. Now, have your servants prepare a room for me. I may as well spend a few days with you before I return to the country.”
2 January 1892
Vienna
Dear Kallista,
How sorry I was to call at the Imperial today and find you had left Austria without so much as a good-bye! So I must write to commend you and Cécile on your brilliance. Word about my drawing of the empress leaked out almost the moment she left the Hotel Imperial. It was reported yesterday in the newspaper that she was so pleased with the image that she gave it to the emperor, just as she’d told us she planned to do.
Since then, I have been flooded with portrait commissions—funnily enough, no one wants me to paint them—only to do a charcoal as I did for the empress. Sketches are now all the rage in Vienna.
Best of all, however, is that the dreaded Frau Eckoldt is thawing towards me. She wants a drawing of her own, and I have agreed to do hers before anyone else’s. She told me that if she likes my work, she will invite me to tea at her house. I am certain that it is only a matter of time before my darling Anna and I are engaged. I owe you multitudinous thanks, especially because the assistance you provided would have had no effect if the empress did not truly appreciate my skills. So I emerge from this with pride intact.
On a sadder note, I should tell you that we’ve lost a mutual friend. Gustav Schröder committed suicide on New Year’s Eve. I know you will be as sorry as I was to hear this news.
I hope this letter finds you well and am wishing you much happiness in the New Year. Please tell your friend Bainbridge that I’ve sent the sketch of you he requested to his London address.
One last thing. I’ve just come from Klimt’s and saw his finished portrait of Cécile. It’s stunning, but surprising, too. He gave her your eyes.
Friedrich Henkler
P.S. I am enclosing a set of poems that Viktor asked me to forward to you. They are from Hugo von Hofmannsthal, who I’m told regrets very much that he was not able to meet you before your hasty departure from the city.
Chapter 24
I tried to persuade my mother that she would be much happier back in Kent with my father, opening her own house in Grosvenor Square, visiting my late husband’s family, being anywhere but Berkeley Square—but she would not be swayed, and in fact left me in mid-sentence to ensconce herself in one of my bedrooms.
I could not leave my friends to wake up unsuspecting and find her with us, so I knock
ed on Cécile’s door to warn her of the addition to our party. I was greeted by enthusiastic barks from Caesar and Brutus, who were vying with each other for prime position to attack my skirt from the moment I stepped into the room. I scooped them both up and dropped them on Cécile’s bed.
“Your pets are the most ill-mannered I’ve ever known.”
“They are terrible little things, aren’t they?” She scratched Caesar’s head and patted Brutus.
“I’d wager Friedrich and Anna will be married before next Christmas,” I said, handing her the letter from our friend.
“Magnifique! But what is this about Jeremy wanting a sketch of you?”
“I’m afraid to ask.”
“I feel for the poor man.”
“Don’t. I can assure you that I am attractive to him only because there’s no chance I’ll try to force him to marry me.” Brutus sniffed at my hand, and I scratched his ears. “Here are your letters. One looks to be from Klimt.”
“How odd. I shouldn’t have thought he would write. But then, we weren’t able to have a formal farewell.”
“Will you see him again?”
“Perhaps. Does it matter?”
“I would hope so.”
“I must admit it does.” She smiled, but said nothing further.
“On a wholly unrelated topic, I’ve come to warn you. My mother is here, and I’m abandoning you to her.”
“Ah! She is always entertaining.”
“You’ll find yourself exhausted within twenty minutes of sitting down with her.”
“So why are you leaving me alone with her?” she asked.
I told her about Albert Sanburne and Helen Macinnis. “I’ve got to speak to her father.”
“You know where to find him?”
“Davis sent a footman to his house this morning. The family is not in residence, but Mr. Macinnis is in town, staying at his club.” I sat on the edge of her bed. “And while I’m on the subject of Davis, you’d best give Odette the afternoon off.”
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