A Poisoned Season

by Tasha Alexander

  “Colin, you know that Jeremy is nothing more than a friend to me.”

  “Of course.” The tension did not dissipate. I took his hand in mine, wanting to reassure him. He continued to speak in a most businesslike manner. “I am most sorry that my work has taken me away from you so much lately.”

  “I understand.”

  “To make matters worse, I must go now. I’m to meet our friend Berry on Rotten Row.”

  “Are you free this evening?”

  “I had planned to go to the Ellesmeres’ ball. Will you be there?”

  “No. I wasn’t invited. I’m afraid that the combination of my intellectual pursuits and these ridiculous rumors about Jeremy is having a rather detrimental effect on my social life. Not that I particularly mind. It makes the mail much easier to manage.”

  “You should, perhaps, ask Miss Seward to use someone else as the front person for her false engagement. It’s one thing for Bainbridge to embroil himself in scandal. He’ll recover from it unscathed. It might not be so easy for you.”

  “What do I care about that? The fewer invitations I receive, the fewer excuses I have to make for not accepting them.”

  “You say that now, but I don’t think you would enjoy being cut from society.”

  “I hardly think there’s any danger of that happening,” I said, adjusting my hat and preparing to leave. “Am I really to have no kiss good-bye?”

  “Are you really accepting my proposal?”

  “I might if it weren’t such fun to tease you about not accepting it.”

  “Then I see we are at an impasse,” he said with a most charming smile. He raised my hand to his lips but did not even brush my glove with them, then saw me out of the house.

  I had not gone half a block down Park Lane when an open carriage pulled to the side of the road and stopped next to me.

  “Emily, my dear, dear girl! How lovely to see you,” my mother said, so forgetting herself that she reached out of the open carriage as if she would embrace me. What could I have done to gain such uncharacteristic approval? “You must be on your way to see me—I knew you would come today. I do wish your father were home, but he’s at his club. He’s been utterly silent on the subject, you know. Just like him, isn’t it?”

  I was thoroughly confused. “What subject?”

  “Oh, child, don’t bother to trifle with me now. I’ve heard everything.”

  “You have?” I asked, climbing in next to her. The driver urged the horses on, turning towards Grosvenor Square.

  “You should be more careful about receiving gentlemen visitors late at night, my dear. It can lead to all sorts of gossip.”

  “What exactly have you heard?”

  “All of London has heard tales of you and the Duke of Bainbridge. I will admit to having been most distressed by your conduct until I heard about last night.”

  “Last night?” I was mystified.

  “Have you and Jeremy settled all the details between you? I imagine he spoke to your father at his club.”

  “Mother—”

  “I think you ought to be married from our house, Emily. Berkeley Square is too much the domain of your late husband, and a duchess should have a completely fresh start. I am so pleased that Jeremy does not object to your having been married before. Some men, you know—”

  “Mother!”

  “Do not interrupt me, Emily. Have you told Mr. Hargreaves? He is a dear man, and I hate to see him disappointed, but don’t concern yourself with that too much. He’ll recover nicely. He’s so much in the company of the Marlborough Set that I can’t help but think he knew his suit was hopeless. Oh, Emily, a duke! I’m so happy!”

  “Jeremy and I are not engaged.”

  “What can you possibly mean by saying such a thing?” She gave me a sharp look.

  “I don’t know that I could speak more plainly.”

  “Of course you are engaged. Were you not chasing him through Berkeley Square, calling out for him? Odd behavior in any case, but I suppose young persons in love must be forgiven for such transgressions.”

  “How on earth do you know I did that?” I had not seen anyone in the square. Surely the undercover policeman sent by Inspector Manning would not have started such gossip.

  “Everyone is talking about it.”

  “Hardly evidence of a betrothal, Mother.”

  “Well, if you are not engaged to him, you’d better remedy the situation quickly. Whatever were you thinking to send Mrs. du Lac and Miss Seward away in the middle of the night?”

  “It was not the middle of the night, and I did not send anyone away. Jeremy dined with us. Cécile and Margaret went to a ball. I stayed home.”

  “No wonder Mr. Hargreaves has thrown you over. Who would want a wife with so little a sense of propriety?”

  “Mr. Hargreaves has not thrown me over, and I can’t believe that you are angry at me over this. Shouldn’t your anger instead be directed to whoever is spreading this gossip?”

  “There was nothing malicious in the story, Emily. People assume that the daughter of an earl would always act honorably, and, given your behavior, which is completely lacking in discretion, that would necessitate marrying the Duke of Bainbridge.” There was a little too much satisfaction in her voice.

  “Colin’s called on me innumerable times in similar circumstances, and no one’s ever raised an eyebrow over that. I’m a widow, and not subject to chaperones like an unmarried girl.” She did not reply. “Have you orchestrated this, Mother?”

  “How could you accuse me of such a thing?”

  “It’s not difficult in the least. You’ve made no secret of your desire to see me married again.”

  “I will not allow my own daughter to speak to me like this.”

  “Then I’ve nothing further to say on the subject.” I rapped on the side of the carriage to signal for the driver to stop and climbed out, slamming the door behind me. “I do not appreciate being so brazenly manipulated and can assure you, Mother, that such tactics will never succeed.”

  “If you are not engaged to the Duke of Bainbridge, you’d better find a way to become so as soon as possible. I’ll not have my daughter providing fodder for gossip.” Much to my chagrin, tears filled my eyes, and I turned away before she could see them. Suddenly, the day felt oppressively hot.

  10

  LADY ASHTON! MY DEAR CHILD! ARE YOU UNWELL?”

  I recognized the voice at once, and cringed at the thought of any of my acquaintances seeing me in my current condition. Unfortunately, I did not have the luxury of ignoring Lady Elinor’s question; given my rank and the friendship between our families, deliberately slighting her would be a gross insult. I stopped walking and tipped my head back, trying to will the tears away. My eyes would not cooperate.

  Lady Elinor caught up with me and took my arm. “Do forgive me for accosting you like this, but I could not help overhearing your argument with your mother. Will you walk with me?” Having at the ready no acceptable excuse to refuse, I consented, and we headed along Upper Grosvenor Street and crossed Park Lane. All this time, Lady Elinor said nothing. It was not until we had entered Hyde Park through the Grosvenor Gate that she broke her silence. “It is difficult to be at odds with one’s own mother.”

  “I’m afraid that my mother and I have quite different ideas of what makes for a satisfactory life. She looks no further than a high-ranking husband.”

  “And you prefer intellectual pursuits?”

  “Yes.”

  “The two need not be incompatible.”

  “No, of course not. But, invariably, no matter how enlightened one’s spouse is, a woman loses much of her freedom when she agrees to marry.”

  “Theoretically, yes, but a good husband can broaden one’s view of the world. I’d never left England before my marriage. In fact, my mother only rarely brought me to London. So far as I knew, the world hardly extended beyond Sevenoaks and Kent.”

  “It sounds as if you made an excellent choice for a husband. But
for me, at this moment, I’ve so much that I want to do on my own. There is merit in discovering things independently.” We were rapidly approaching the southern edge of the park and sat on a bench near a fountain decorated with stone portraits of Shakespeare, Chaucer, and Milton.

  “A sentiment with which your mother cannot agree.” She shook her head. “So unfortunate. I hate to see the spirit driven out of a young lady.”

  “There’s no danger of that happening,” I replied, closing my parasol and tipping back my head, savoring the feeling of the sun on my face as I contemplated Lady Elinor’s comment. Had she not driven the spirit out of her own daughter by forcing her into an engagement with Mr. Berry?

  My companion must have guessed my thoughts. “Isabelle’s situation is entirely different. I abhor gossip so shan’t recount the details, but suffice it to say that she is far better off away from Lord Pembroke. I hate to see her heartbroken, but she’s already beginning to recover. Mr. Berry does, after all, have his charms. But I’m sure I need not tell you that. He’s always held you in high regard.” Her voice held the slightest note of question in it.

  “No more so than any other lady he happens to encounter. There has never been any understanding between us.” My words had the desired effect. The tiny wrinkles around Lady Elinor’s mouth smoothed as she relaxed.

  “Isabelle and I have been closer than the closest of friends ever since she was a tiny girl. If I had any doubt that marriage to Mr. Berry would bring her much happiness, I should never have agreed to the match. Now, in your situation, marrying the Duke of Bainbridge—”

  “Would bring little lasting joy.” I snapped my parasol back open.

  “You have already made one brilliant marriage. You have both rank and fortune. It is only natural, though, that your mother would grow concerned when she finds your actions being scrutinized by gossips. I’m afraid it’s due to your age, Lady Ashton. Were you an older widow, your romantic liaisons would be of far less interest.”

  “Society has such vacuous standards. Sometimes I think I ought to live in Greece year-round.”

  “Mr. Routledge took me there several times. Have you been to Delphi?”

  “More magnificent views are not to be found on the earth. The crags are spectacular, and the way the fields of olive trees stretch all the way to the Itea Bay is mesmerizing.”

  “Their leaves seem to shimmer in the sun. Will you go back to Greece soon?”

  “I drank from the Castalia Spring to ensure it.”

  “Ah, yes. Many poets have been inspired by those same waters.”

  “I had no idea you were so well informed about Greece,” I said.

  “I’m not, really. All I know is what anyone could pick up from Baedeker’s.”

  “Where else have you visited?”

  “All of the standard places in Europe, of course, as well as Egypt and India.”

  “And what is your favorite?”

  “St. Petersburg in the summer, when the sun never sets.” She rose from the bench. “I see, Lady Ashton, that I have succeeded in cheering you up.”

  “You have. I’m most grateful.”

  “And I owe you thanks, too. I must confess to having wondered if there was…something…between you and Mr. Berry.”

  “Let me assure you, Lady Elinor, that you will never have cause to worry on that front.”

  “Please do not think less of me for having mentioned it.”

  “Of course I don’t.”

  “And know that you have a staunch supporter in me. I’m aware that you are suffering at the hands of gossips, and shall do all I can to counter their vicious stories. You won’t be left off any guest list of mine.”

  Although Lady Elinor had succeeded in improving my mood, I had to admit that this latest quarrel with my mother left me deeply unsettled. To distract myself, instead of returning home, I headed towards the library at the British Museum, hoping to begin researching the letters of Marie Antoinette’s confidant, Léonard. When I asked for assistance at the desk, I could not help remembering my first visit to the museum after my husband’s death. On that occasion, the staff had responded to me immediately because of the generous donations Philip had made to the Greco-Roman collection. Now, however, I had a reputation of my own, not only because of my donations to the museum, but also because of my efforts to encourage others to return important pieces to scholarly institutions.

  “We are delighted to see you, Lady Ashton,” a short, ruddy-faced clerk said, snapping to attention the moment he saw me. “Is there anyone in particular with whom you would like to speak?” I briefly described for him the letters in which I was interested. His red cheeks took on an even darker color. “Then I am most pleased to offer my services. I specialize in eighteenth-century manuscripts.”

  “Do you know anything about Léonard’s letters?”

  “Only that they exist. If I recall…” He came out from behind the desk and motioned for me to follow him. “I read a story recently about someone looking for them.” He led me through a maze of desks, each one piled with research material. A variety of gentlemen huddled over them, almost none glancing up as we passed. My guide stopped at a desk at the far end of the Reading Room and began to rummage through a stack of books heaped in a haphazard fashion.

  “Is this your desk, Mr.—”

  “Right. Most sorry. Adam Wainwright. This is my desk. I’m afraid I’m a tad disorganized. Ha! Here it is.” He opened a thick notebook, hardly having to page through it before finding the passage he sought. “Yes…yes…”

  I did my best to try to read over his shoulder, but the angle was such that all I accomplished was to strain my neck. “What does it say?” I asked.

  “Léonard’s letters were never located. I do wish I could be of more help.”

  “These are your own notes?” I asked, indicating the notebook.

  “Yes. I’m working on a book about the fall of the House of Bourbon.”

  “And do you find that Marie Antoinette deserves her reputation?”

  “She was naïve, undoubtedly, and perhaps not of more than average intelligence, but she was not cruel. She adored her children, and was, in the end, an extremely pious woman.”

  “I imagine a looming guillotine would make most of us keenly religious.”

  Mr. Wainwright grinned. “Quite right, madam. It was the queen’s confessor, Father Garrard, who preserved the letters she received from Léonard. Had he not, her jailors almost certainly would have destroyed them after her execution.” He dabbed a rather too gray handkerchief across his brow. “I am certain Léonard kept those she sent to him but have never been able to determine what became of them after his death.”

  I would have liked to tell him that the letters were at this moment in my own library but worried that admitting I had them might somehow bring danger to my household. I would, however, make a point of letting him read them once I’d solved all the puzzles before me. “Have you tried to find Léonard’s letters?” I asked.

  “Not really,” he said. “When things like that disappear into private collections, they are often lost entirely to scholars. If one knows who possesses them, there’s at least hope that the owner will allow them to be studied. But, often, it’s impossible to figure out who owns what.”

  “This is precisely why I have been trying to convince collectors to donate significant pieces to the museum.”

  “Yes, I have heard about your efforts.” He pulled a face. “It’s unfortunate that it is so difficult to persuade your peers to part with their treasures.”

  “I know it all too well. I wonder if it would be feasible to at least catalog what people have tucked away in their homes.”

  “A daunting prospect, Lady Ashton. Have you any idea how long it would take to do that at just one aristocratic estate?” I thought about my husband’s collection at Ashton Hall, the magnificent Derbyshire estate of the Viscounts Ashton. He had, in fact, kept his pieces cataloged, but I knew that was not common practice. “And aside fro
m things that are displayed in houses, there are untold treasures, historical documents in particular, packed away in attics. To catalog those would be nearly impossible.”

  “You’re undoubtedly correct.”

  “If you’d like, you may borrow my copy of Léonard’s memoir. I don’t know that it will be of much help.” He handed a book to me. I thanked him and left the library, my thoughts scattering in more directions than I cared to count. I had an idea of how to begin my search for the letters but wondered if they really would provide any insight into the murders in Richmond. I thought of Jane in prison. I thought of Mrs. Francis, and I felt more than slightly guilty that a good portion of my brain was occupied with thoughts of how I might begin to catalog the treasures of England’s country houses.

  For the moment, the catalog would have to wait. I remembered the list I had found in Mr. Berry’s room. He had known where to find Marie Antoinette’s letters, something that, according to Mr. Wainwright, was not common knowledge. And our intrepid thief certainly had no difficulty figuring out who owned objects that had belonged to the French queen. If both of them could acquire this knowledge, certainly it was not beyond my reach.

  Not feeling much like having another encounter with Mr. Berry, I decided to focus on the thief. That his identity remained a mystery did not deter me in the least. I would do what any lady would when trying to contact an unknown gentleman; I marched directly to the offices of the Times and placed an ad in the classifieds section. Tomorrow, buried in with pleas that the lady in the pink dress near the Achilles statue and that the gentleman who so kindly bestowed upon me a rose at so-and-so’s ball would come forward and identify themselves, my own request would appear:

  To the gentleman who delivered the two pinks: You may find me in front of the Rosett a Stone at two o’clock Thursday.

  Pleased with myself, I returned to Berkeley Square. I hardly realized how exhausted I was until I’d dropped into the most comfortable chair in my library, where Cécile woke me three quarters of an hour later.