The Virgin and the Unicorn

by Joan Smith

  “I shall speak to Cook when Pavel returns. You will not want to be left alone.”

  “I am not afraid! Slack is not dead after all but only sleeping. Go ahead, Rotham. We have not a minute to waste.”

  “There is no hurry. I need time to think,” he said, and gestured to an upholstered chair. She sat in it; he sat at his desk. “Did you notice if Louise and Laurent were in the ballroom when we were waltzing?”

  “Louise was there, dancing with Berthier, so he was there as well. You recall Madame Lafleur bumped into us.”

  “Yes, but I saw her leaving the room later.”

  “None of it proves anything. Any of them might have doctored the tea before the waltz. Slack was already asleep when Pavel arrived.”

  “Pavel’s arrival might very well have saved the B—black trunk,” he said, pulling himself short on the last words. “If whoever was in here heard his approach, he might have nipped across the hallway and hidden in a spare room until Pavel went inside.”

  Miranda did not notice the near slip. “I did not see Laurent,” she said. “He might have been in the library. He is always reading the journals to keep abreast of developments at the Congress. You do not suspect Laurent? He is dead set against Bonaparte. His hope is to see Louis back on the throne, so that he can recover his papa’s estate.”

  “But if Bonaparte should win . . .”

  “Do not say such things,” she said angrily.

  “One always has to consider the worst case. If Boney should win, then ...” He could not say more without telling her what was in the trunk, but the contents of that trunk might very well be repaid by the return of the Valdor estate to its rightful owner. In fact, what he had stolen was much more valuable if Bonaparte won. God, what sort of idiot was he to have taken it? He had to get it returned, at once.

  It was odd he had not heard from Castlereagh. Even the redoubtable Castlereagh was uncertain what to do about this situation. Rotham hoped it had not become a matter for Cabinet discussion at Whitehall, or the whole of London would know of his folly. No, Castlereagh was the very soul of discretion. He would tell no one, and if the truth leaked out, he would deny it categorically as an underhanded Whig rumor.

  Rotham’s gaze turned to Miranda, where he saw another victim of what Society called his high spirits. When had he become such a fool? Not content with creating a potential international incident, he had offended a guest in his house, a neighbor, and a family who had been friends of his family forever. Done it as petty revenge for her innocent prank.

  “I am sorry about—what happened in Papa’s study,” he said, suddenly grave. “That was unforgivable.”

  “Indeed it was,” she agreed at once, “but at least it was not serious.” Rotham breathed a small sigh of relief. Good, she was not a Bath Miss, to make a mountain of one stolen kiss. “Why do you not get the black trunk off to London, Rotham? It is obvious that someone knows it is here and is after it.”

  He thought a moment before replying. “I felt it was more vulnerable on the road than locked up in my room. Besides, it would only have to be returned eventually. I am waiting to hear from Castlereagh.”

  “What is the secret about it? The old linen itself cannot be of much value,” she said. “I could do better stitchery myself. Is there a message embroidered on it?”

  “Something like that. I believe I shall ask Cook to come up,” he added, to forestall further questions.

  He pulled the cord, which brought a kitchen servant, who goggled to see Miss Vale sitting as calm as a kitten in his lordship’s sitting room. She got only a glimpse of her over Rotham’s shoulder, for he met her at the door. He did not want to frighten her with a view of Slack’s comatose body. She agreed to send Cook up.

  Cook was a heavyset woman who did not take kindly to being asked to leave her kitchen in the middle of a party, to say nothing of that flight of stairs. Having known Rotham from the egg, she had no fear of him. He met her in his own room, with the sitting room door closed.

  “You wanted to see me, your lordship?” she demanded, with a glare that said, “This better be important.”

  “I am curious to know who asked you to send that supper up to Slack.”

  “He asked me hisself,” she replied, with a belligerent note in her voice.

  “He did not go down to the kitchen, I think?”

  “Nossir, he did not. He rang the bell. Mary answered and he said he wanted a bite. Well he might, poor soul, locked up in that room night and day like a mad dog. I sliced him up some cold mutton and cheese and a half loaf.”

  “And a pot of tea. Who prepared it?”

  “I did myself. Mary brought it up. He had asked her to just knock five times when she came and leave it outside the door, which she did.”

  “Thank you, Cook. That will be all. Send Mary up, if you please.”

  Cook waddled off, grumbling into her collar. Mary went hopping upstairs again, feeling extremely guilty. She would not tell his lordship about the little flirtation with the gentleman. No harm in it—he had only stolen a kiss.

  “Did you see anyone in the corridor when you left the tray outside the door?” Rotham asked.

  “Nossir.” She knew something untoward was going on and feared the whole would end up in her dish. Best to lay a trail pointing away from her. “That is—I heard a door open and close, but I did not see anyone.”

  “Which door?” he asked, his heart pumping.

  “That one,” she said, pointing behind her, to the door across the hall from Rotham’s. “I thought it funny, like, for it’s a spare room. There’s no one in it, unless you have Mr. Berthier put up there.”

  “No, Mr. Berthier is around the corner.”

  “Then it was her,” Mary said, her eyes open as wide as barn doors.

  The question came out in a bark. “Who?”

  “The Blue Lady,” Mary said. His hopes went crashing to the ground. “She’s walking tonight. Didn’t Lord Pavel say something about Miss Vale being frightened by her earlier on? I’m sure he did, when he came running into the kitchen, after we heard her holler—Miss Vale, I mean, for the Blue Lady is silent as the tomb. ‘I will see to Miss Vale,’ he said. ‘It is only the Blue Lady.’ And he told us to carry on. It gave me quite a turn, having to bring Slack’s tray up, with her on the loose.”

  Rotham asked a few more questions, but was soon satisfied that Mary had no more to tell. He dismissed her, then went to the door and told Miranda he was leaving for a moment. He would be right across the hall, but he locked the door behind him, just to be safe.

  He went to the Green Room across the hall. He should have made sure it was locked earlier. The door was closed. When he opened it, a long triangle of light from the hallway showed him the flower pattern of the pale green carpet. “Is there anyone there?” he called, and waited.

  No answer came from the darkness beyond. Some sixth sense caused a tingle along his scalp. It was the foolish talk of the Blue Lady. He could go back for a lamp, but he knew there were a lamp and tinderbox by the bedside table not three steps in front of him. He stepped into the darkness, and the room suddenly exploded into a myriad of shooting sparks. As he fell he reached out his hand and felt the smooth, cold softness of a silk skirt. The susurration of silk moving was the last thing he heard until he opened his eyes two minutes later.

  Pavel was standing over him with a lighted lamp in his hand. “Rotham! Good God, don’t tell me they have poisoned you as well!”

  Rotham sat up, rubbing his bruised forehead. He had been hit from in front, the blow catching him between the eyes. He looked around wildly. “Did you see her?” he asked.

  “Who?”

  “The lady—”

  “The Blue Lady? Dash it, Rotham, you know that is a bag of moonshine.”

  Rotham sat with his hands holding his aching head. “There was a lady waiting in the darkness. She hit me with something.” He looked around.

  “This would be the weapon, I fancy,” Pavel said, lifting somethin
g from the floor. He held up a malacca cane, dark brown, mottled with a lighter brown. Its gold cap was embossed around the edge with a gadroon.

  Rotham had seen it before. It was Berthier’s cane. But it was not Berthier who had struck him, unless he was wearing a lady’s skirt. He struggled to his feet, shaking away the residual stars that still danced before him.

  “Let us have a look around to see if anything else was left behind,” he said.

  He and Pavel toured the room, but the intruder had left no more clues.

  “I say, Rotham, where is Miranda?”

  “She is with Slack.”

  “Then we had best join her. It is not pleasant work for a lady, guarding him. It made my flesh crawl, I can tell you. He looked like a corpse.”

  Miranda had not been disturbed during their absence. She noticed at once that Rotham was pale and demanded to be told what had happened.

  “Someone coshed him on the head,” Pavel announced, pleased to have such important news to impart.

  Miranda was equally excited to hear it. “Really!” When she saw Rotham’s dark look, she added, “I hope it did not hurt much. You can have Dr. Makepiece look at it when he comes. Did you see who struck you?”

  “No, but it was a lady.”

  Pavel held out the cane. “We fancy this was the weapon.”

  “That suggests a gentleman, yet a gentleman does not use a cane inside the house,” she said. “There would be plenty of weapons as good in the Green Room—the poker, for instance. Odd that the cane was used. Do you recognize it, Rotham?”

  “It is Berthier’s cane,” he said, “but as you pointed out, it is odd it was brought up to that room, unless the intention was to leave it behind as a clue.”

  “That don’t make sense,” Pavel frowned. “Why would Berthier want you to suspect him?” Then he gave a sheepish grin. “Heh, heh—what they call a red herring, you mean. Someone else left it behind to incriminate Berthier. Dashed scoundrel.”

  “Was anyone missing from downstairs?” Rotham asked him.

  “The deuce of it is, the dancing had just finished, and everyone was milling about, some to the refreshment parlor, some of the ladies was coming upstairs to tend to their toilettes, and some of them was coming down.”

  “Which ladies were coming down?” Rotham asked.

  “That is hard to say. Of the ones you asked about in particular, Louise was stopped on the stairs chatting to Mrs. Dumont. I could not very well ask her whether she was going up or down, and I did not like to wait to see, for I knew you was anxious about Madame Lafleur and the others.”

  “Was Madame Lafleur at the card table? I thought she was headed that way.”

  “No, but neither was anyone else, except Papa and Sir Alfred Sykes, and they was only discussing the Corn Laws. Mama had taken a group of the ladies to the Tapestry Room to show them Ashmead, the piece she is working on, you know. By the time I ran them to ground, Madame Lafleur was just going into the room, a little behind the others.”

  “All of this is not much use,” Miranda said, looking to Rotham to see if he could make sense of it. She noticed a bump was forming in the middle of his forehead, just between his eyes. It looked so very odd, as if he were growing a horn. A smile tugged at her lips.

  Pavel noticed what she was looking at and laughed. “Dash it, Rotham, you have a bump the size of an onion blossoming from that hit. You look like a unicorn. Take care or some virgin will get her clutches on you.”

  Rotham touched the bump and winced. “What the devil are you talking about?”

  “The old myth about the virgin and the unicorn. You know, the one on the tapestry. Oh, never mind. Where were we? We have not eliminated any of our suspects, including Berthier and Laurent,” Pavel said. “If it was Laurent, and he took Berthier’s cane to direct suspicion on him, then it is four pence to a grout he was sly enough to bring along a shawl as well, to let on it was a skirt. The only one it eliminates is Berthier. He would not be fool enough to bring his own cane.”

  “I disagree,” Miranda said at once. “He would not plan to leave it behind. He probably dropped it in the excitement. I do not exclude Berthier by any means, although the silken skirt certainly suggests a lady. Did it feel like a skirt, Rotham, or might it have been a shawl?”

  “It felt like a skirt. It was a lady. The flesh beneath the silk was softer than a man’s body. Of course, there might have been a lady and a man together.”

  “So, what is to do?” Pavel asked.

  “I shall stay with Slack until the doctor comes,” Rotham said. “You two go belowstairs and see if you can learn anything. You might ask Boxer if he saw anyone take the malacca cane from the Chinese jar in the front hall where they are left, Pavel.”

  “And I shall hint around to Louise and Madame Lafleur to see if I can learn anything,” Miranda added.

  “No, we do not want them to know they are suspected,” Rotham said. “If they are guilty, they will lie regarding their whereabouts. Act as if nothing had happened, but keep your ears and eyes open. You might overhear something.”

  This job was better than nothing, and it had the added advantage of allowing them to enjoy a late-night supper. They left Rotham to await the doctor’s arrival and went belowstairs. Boxer had not seen anyone remove a cane from the Chinese jar. It seemed highly suspicious that the four suspects sat at the same table. As all the seats at that table were filled, Miranda and Pavel were forced to sit at the other side of the room, consoling themselves that the guilty parties were not likely to discuss their plans in such a public venue.

  It was not until the supper was over that anything out of the ordinary happened. Berthier walked up to them and said, “I did not see Rotham at supper. I hope he is not ill?”

  Miranda studied him for signs of guilt. Neither his silver temples nor his brown eyes gave a thing away. He looked disgustingly innocent, even concerned.

  “He has a touch of headache,” Pavel said. “Walked into a door, actually,” he added, to account for the lump on his forehead.

  Berthier gave a sharp look. “Has he retired? I wanted a word with him.”

  “I believe he has, yes,” Pavel replied.

  “I daresay it can wait until morning. It was a nice party. We did not manage a dance, Miss Miranda.”

  “No.”

  “Another time. How are your mama and papa?”

  “Fine, thank you.”

  “And the baroness?”

  “Trudie is fine, too.”

  “Good. Well, I shall say good night to Lady Hersham. I am ready for the feather tick.”

  As soon as he left, Miranda said, “What does he want with Rotham? Did you notice the sneaky look he gave when you mentioned your brother had walked into a door?”

  “Had to say something to account for that lump. I shall nip up and warn him what I told Berthier.”

  Miranda loitered about the saloon as the guests took their leave. Louise and Laurent were saying their farewells to Madame Lafleur. Miranda wandered close to them to listen.

  “We shall call tomorrow to discuss plans for Brighton,” Louise was saying to madame. “Or if I cannot go, I shall send a note with Laurent.”

  “He will not want to come without you,” madame said, smiling at Laurent in a very knowing, French way.

  Louise was always pleased to have her desirability flaunted. She was so sure of her attractions that she could even deny them. “It is all a hum, Laurent’s devotion to me,” she said. “When we are alone he speaks nothing but politics.”

  “You don’t fool me,” madame said dutifully. “I smell the April and May.”

  Louise mentally added this bit of broken English to her repertoire. Madame was an excellent source of such gems.

  Miranda lingered until madame was seen off, but learned nothing of the least interest. As it was late, she said good night to her hostess and went upstairs. At the top of the steps, Pavel was waiting for her.

  “He went to Rotham’s room—Berthier I mean—after I tol
d him Rotham had gone to bed.”

  “Did Rotham let him in?”

  “He welcomed him with open arms. I dropped by a moment later and tapped five times on the door, gave the password, just to make sure Berthier was not murdering my brother. Rotham told me everything was fine, and I should go to bed. It seems he trusts Berthier.”

  “Or is pumping him for information,” Miranda added.

  “I believe I shall just wait a bit in the Green Room across the hall. Better safe than sorry, eh?”

  “A good idea.”

  Miranda wanted to stay in the Green Room, too, for she disliked to miss a moment of the excitement, but fatigue overcame her, and she went to her bedroom. She smiled at the unicorn, thinking of Rotham and the lump on his forehead. He did not even know the myth about the unicorn and the virgin.

  Chapter Nine

  A late night did not keep Miranda from being at the table bright and early the next morning. To her dismay, Pavel was not there to tell her what had come of Berthier’s visit to Rotham’s chamber the night before. Only Laurent was there. After filling her plate, she gamely set about quizzing him to see what she could learn. She still found him dangerously attractive. There was something about his French accent and dark, brooding eyes that reminded her of the heroes of gothic novels—a sense of passion lurking beneath the civil veneer.

  “Did you enjoy the rout last night, Laurent?” she asked.

  “Un peu,” he said. He occasionally slipped into French when he was distracted, as he appeared to be on this occasion. “Though one feels guilty dancing while all of Europe is on the edge of chaos.”

  Oh, dear, he was going to preach politics to her. “I expect we shall hear of Wellington’s victory any day now,” she said, hoping to derail him.

  “I trust it may be so. There are some, even among us, who will not be happy if it happens,” he added gloomily.

  “Surely you are mistaken,” she replied.

  “I was surprised to see Monsieur Berthier had been invited to visit at Ashmead. He is not a close friend of the family. I hear from friends in Rye that Berthier takes frequent trips. He does not say where, but perhaps it is back to his home in France, non? I fear this new closeness between him and Rotham. Rotham, alas, has never been known for his judgment.”