Dangerous to Know

by Tasha Alexander

  A bright red ribbon dangled from the limbs of a tall, narrow tree. Slowing my horse and then stopping her beneath it, I tugged to remove the envelope attached to its end. Sebastian was not, it seemed, ready to stop playing games.

  You’re lovely when you ride, but your beauty has distracted me from my stated purpose, which was to follow your too-lucky husband. He’ll never find me, you know. I’ll appear when I’m ready.

  With a sigh, I refolded the paper and tucked it into the pocket of my neatly tailored jacket. That he was trying to follow me came as no surprise. But I was not about to wait for him to appear. Colin had taught me surveillance techniques; he’d also taught me antisurveillance techniques. Given that we were on a limited property in the middle of the countryside, I knew it couldn’t be too difficult to locate Sebastian. The trick would be keeping him from escaping. It wasn’t as if I could sneak up from behind, leap on him, and bind him to the nearest obliging tree. Instead, I would have to rely on my wits—and his vulnerabilities.

  To begin, I slid off the horse and stood perfectly still, listening for any sign of movement. He couldn’t be on horseback—the animal would have been too obvious, and the groundskeepers would have spotted him. On foot, he’d be much slower than I, mounted, and I suspected he wasn’t actively following me. He must be waiting, lurking nearby in order to watch me read his note.

  Next, considering my options, I debated pretending to be hurt—Sebastian, hearing me cry out and finding me somehow immobilized, would scoop me up and deliver me to the house, where the servants could help me restrain him.

  That, of course, would never work. He’d gingerly put me down within earshot of the house and disappear. My mind churning, I snapped the red ribbon out of the tree, regretting for a moment that knocking Sebastian over the head with a rock wasn’t a viable option. I leaned against the tree, fingering the smooth satin ribbon, frustration consuming me. And as the feeling grew, it was compounded by everything else bothering me: the image of Edith Prier frozen in my brain, the coldness of Colin’s mother, a confused muck of emotion surrounding the baby I’d lost. Just as I verged on being utterly overwhelmed, I saw the solution. If Sebastian admired me as much as he claimed, he would come to my assistance if I were upset. This required no manipulation, no game—only letting him see the honest truth of what I was suffering.

  Or at least some of it.

  For the first time in months, I stopped censoring my emotions, stopped trying to appear genteel and polite and strong. I sank down to the damp ground, my back against the tree, and I put my head in my hands.

  I grieved my lost child.

  I despised Colin’s mother for her lack of support.

  I remembered the hideous gash across Edith Prier’s throat.

  And I started to cry, heaving sobs that soaked my handkerchief and shook my body to its core. I don’t know when Sebastian appeared. I never heard his footsteps nor felt his hand on my shoulder when he knelt beside me. At some point, however, I became aware I was holding a dry handkerchief and realized he’d handed it to me. His eyes were the bright sapphire blue I remembered them to be, and they were looking at me not with concern, but mischief.

  “You’re as bad as I am, Mrs. Hargreaves. Although I gather I’m not to call you that. It’s Lady Emily now, isn’t it? Correct address is so important.”

  “Don’t torment me,” I said.

  “I’m merely applauding your performance. It was worthy of the Divine Sarah.”

  “You don’t consider her a skilled actress?” I asked, wiping the rest of my tears.

  “The finest. I saw her play Cleopatra not two years ago.”

  “Then you should not compare her to me,” I said. “What you see before you is not acting.”

  “Come, now, you can’t expect me—”

  “Sometimes, Mr. Capet, all a lady has left is the truth.” He was still resting his hand on my shoulder. I removed it and rose to my feet. “I feel a certain responsibility to you—I know not why, particularly as it seems you’ve abandoned your charge.”

  Sebastian had promised to look after Edward White, a young boy whom we had both encountered during Sebastian’s quest for objects owned by Marie Antoinette. Only a handful of people knew the child’s true identity—that he was the direct descendent of the last dauphin of France. The Capet family had protected Marie Antoinette’s son, Louis Joseph, after his secret escape from the clutches of cruel guards during the revolution, and it was Sebastian’s legacy to continue the tradition by looking after Edward. It was a role against which he’d rebelled, but eventually, after learning the boy had nearly been killed by a person with a vested interest in protecting the claims of a pretender to the French throne, he agreed to do his duty.

  “I’ve done nothing of the sort!” he said. “He and his mother are on holiday at the seaside. They’re perfectly safe.”

  “I’m not in a humor to argue with you.”

  “What’s troubling you, my darling Kallista?”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “You have no idea how you wound me.” He sidled closer to me.

  “You have to stop this, Mr. Capet.”

  “Darling, I know you call me Sebastian to everyone else. Why cling to formality when we’re alone?”

  “We shouldn’t be alone. It’s inappropriate. I want you to come back to the house with me.”

  “Absolutely not!” He brushed dust from his yellow waistcoat.

  “Why must you make everything difficult?” I asked, tears pooling in my eyes. “I cannot take much more.”

  “Darling, please.” He held out a hand; I pushed it away. “Gossip told me of your injuries, but I see that you’re well recovered if you’re able to ride. Although emotionally perhaps not quite so well as physically. What is troubling you?”

  “More things than I care to recount. And if you’ve any of the qualities of a gentleman you won’t press me.”

  “I shan’t press you.” His voice, low and gentle, had a rhythmic quality to it, almost musical. “Though it wounds me to think you believe I’ve any of the qualities of a gentleman.”

  “My husband feels strongly that you need to present yourself to the police and give an alibi for Edith Prier’s murder.”

  “You don’t think I killed her?”

  “What is your alibi?”

  He heaved a sigh. “When was she murdered?” he asked. “Surely you don’t expect me to keep a catalog of morbid events in my head?”

  “Sebastian!”

  “First name. That’s much better.”

  “Alibi.”

  “Right. Yes. Let’s see…Thursday…Calais. I took a room at a remarkably dim tavern across from the hotel the Whites were in after a more than usually tedious channel crossing. Terrible weather.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “If I must. The owner would remember me. We had an infuriating discussion about continental politics.”

  “Do you have your ticket from the ferry?” I asked.

  “I suppose I do somewhere.”

  “Will you please speak to Inspector Gaudet?”

  “That fop?”

  “You know him?”

  “Only from watching you talk to him.” He gave an overdramatic sigh. “If it will release you from even a small measure of stress, I can hardly refuse.”

  “It will also keep you from the guillotine,” I said.

  “A not unwelcome perk.”

  “There’s one more thing I need from you.” I untied my horse and started to walk. “Come with me.”

  “Very well. I may as well accept the inevitable. Is the dashing Mr. Hargreaves at home? I’ve been meaning to call on him for some time.”

  8 July 1892

  An intruder in my house! I know not what alarms me more—his very presence or the fact that I slept so soundly and undisturbed during his visit. So far as any of us can tell, he’s taken nothing beyond our sense of security, but I am most displeased. I dislike the violation, even more now that I’m aware he
’s no stranger to my incorrigible daughter-in-law. It is as if she has brought an unending supply of disturbance with her.

  I can’t believe I lent a book to a person of such dubious acquaintance.

  I’ve had a letter from Lady Carlisle this morning, pleading with me to return to London. It seems the Women’s Liberal Federation, a group in which I’ve been intimately involved (albeit from a distance) since its inception, is in the midst of heated controversy. They’ve decided to press forward with an agenda that includes actively pursuing the right of women to vote. All members of the fair sex throughout Britain ought to rejoice at such news. But instead, at least ten thousand of our members have renounced the organization in protest. Rumor has it they’re starting a group of their own, one that will not support suffrage, and I’m afraid the Liberal Party leadership may prefer their priorities. What good is fighting for women’s rights if those rights don’t include being able to vote?

  More ruckus beginning outside. I shall investigate and see what new inconvenience is to be heaped upon my household.

  7

  The walk back to the house was a short one, and after releasing the horse to a stable boy, I let Sebastian take my arm (only to keep him from trying to dash away) and led him into the drawing room, where Mrs. Hargreaves greeted us with raised eyebrows and an appropriate look of horror. I did detect in her eyes a slight glimmer of hope—perhaps she thought Madame Bovary had started to wear off on me. But it was Cécile’s reaction that I most cherished.

  “Mon dieu!” she cried, leaping to her feet and kissing Sebastian on both cheeks. “Those eyes…the color of sapphires. Stunning.”

  “Madame du Lac.” He bowed low and kissed her hand with an affected reverence. “It is a delight to no longer be relegated to admiring you from afar.”

  “I am glad to see you,” she said, looking him up and down. “I’ve always believed that it is a rare and magical thing to find a gentleman of such refined taste. Particularly one who will go to such unspeakably magnificent lengths to satisfy his every artistic whim.”

  “It is never whim, madame, I assure you. I am driven only by the most carefully orchestrated motivations.”

  “What a pity Monsieur Leblanc has already taken his leave from us,” Cécile said. “I’m quite certain he would have been delighted to make your acquaintance. You might inspire his fiction.”

  “Fiction?” Sebastian asked. “Is this gentleman a writer?”

  “Enough!” Mrs. Hargreaves found her tongue. “Who is this man?”

  “Allow me to present Mr. Sebastian Capet,” I said. “Mr. Capet, Madame Hargreaves, ma belle-mère.”

  “Enchanté,” Sebastian said, turning his attentions to her. “I’ve much enjoyed your hospitality. Thanks are long overdue.”

  “What on earth can this mean? Emily, is this man not a thief? The man who has only just violated the privacy of my home?”

  “Such harsh words, good lady.” His smile revealed straight, fine teeth. “I assure you I’ve never taken anything of yours.”

  “I’ve asked the butler to send for Inspector Gaudet,” I said. “Mr. Capet is here to give his alibi to the police.”

  “How are you acquainted with this man?” she asked, touching Cécile’s arm.

  “Primarily by reputation, and I can assure you he is a man to be much admired,” Cécile said.

  “He broke into my house.”

  “Now, Mrs. Hargreaves, you don’t know that,” Sebastian said. “The mere fact that notes from me were delivered to your son and his lovely bride does not prove I was actually here. You give me too much credit. It’s entirely possible I paid a servant to do my bidding. Can you really think I would disrupt any part of your extremely comfortable abode?”

  I didn’t believe him for an instant, but Mrs. Hargreaves’s features softened. It was hard not to be charmed by Sebastian’s easy smile and affable manners, particularly when one first met him.

  “But you just thanked me for my hospitality,” she said.

  “Which I obviously would have no need of doing had I invaded the seat of your domestic bliss.”

  “So I’m to forgive your other transgressions because you claim to have stolen nothing from me?”

  “Transgressions?” He laughed. “My dear lady, someday I will regale you with tales of my adventures. If, after that, you still find me guilty I will repent and change my ways forever. But now I see our valiant inspector and your illustrious son coming up the path. Will you excuse me? I always like to get boring business out of the way without delay.”

  He raced outside, greeting Gaudet with an eager handshake. My husband, whose scowl was unmistakable, stood, arms crossed, two paces from Sebastian. I watched through the open window as they spoke, the inspector pulling out a notebook and writing in it furiously as Sebastian talked. I could hear nothing they were saying—the only thing audible to me was Cécile’s efforts to convince Mrs. Hargreaves that our intrepid thief was something less than a complete reprobate—but in a short while Gaudet nodded. The pair shook hands again and the policeman walked away without so much as a glance towards the house.

  Sebastian, grinning like a wicked child, returned to us, Colin following close behind, as if on guard.

  “You’re lucky to have had a ready alibi,” my husband said to him as they entered the room.

  “Did the inspector accept it?” I asked, crossing to Colin, whose lips barely grazed my hand as he kissed it.

  “Kallista, darling, could you doubt he would? Your lack of faith slays me.” Truly, Sebastian was infuriating! I could see Colin was about to reprimand him, but wanted to make the interjection myself. Otherwise, it would appear not only that my husband was being domineering, but, more importantly, that I myself did not object to the liberties being taken.

  “Do not, Mr. Capet, take on tones of familiarity with me. And don’t even consider making yourself comfortable,” I said, my voice severe. “What did the inspector say about the stolen Monet?”

  Sebastian laughed. “It was a trifle, really. No person of the venerable Inspector Gaudet’s taste could really believe I’d take such a gauche painting. Besides, he can’t prove a thing. My work here is finished.”

  “Not quite,” I said. “We’ve one more errand ahead of us. I don’t share the inspector’s gullibility. You’re going to apologize to the Markhams and return the painting to Monet.”

  Mrs. Hargreaves looked askance at me and drew Sebastian over to her. They stayed close, apparently deep in conversation for some time, and as we prepared to set off for the Markhams’ château I wondered if she would express an interest in joining us, but she did not.

  “I do hope, Lady Emily, that my household can return to a more normal state now that this business is finished,” she said. “Added excitement is not what you need right now.”

  Sitting in the coach, I considered whether her comment suggested a warming towards me. Could she actually be concerned for my well-being? Or was I looking too hard to find signs of something simply not there?

  The driver slowed as we clattered over the bridge leading to the château, the road cooled by the dark shade of tall willow trees. By the time we reached the house, Madeline had popped her head out a first-floor window and waved.

  “George is in the garden!” she cried. “It’s so good of you to visit!”

  Colin turned to me. “Could you find him? I don’t want to let Capet out of my sight for an instant.”

  “Of course.” I started down the gravel path. All but a few wispy clouds had vanished from the sky as the sun fought to eviscerate the last remnants of damp chill in the air. I turned away from the house, passed through a thick row of hedges, and emerged next to the circular dovecote, built in the same style, and undoubtedly the same time, as the tower. I felt a shiver of cold and rubbed my arms. But there was something else—something that filled me with an uneasy discomfort. My pace slowed, and I looked around. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary, but once again I could not shake the sensation of being watched
.

  I was afraid to look, filled with an inexplicable dread of what I felt certain I’d see. I stopped walking, breathed slow and deep. But I couldn’t resist. Raising my eyes to the dovecote, I saw the small girl with blonde hair, a blue ribbon tied in it, one tiny, pale hand pressed against the window, the other clutching a worn-looking doll.

  Rationality rushed from me. For an instant I froze, seized with fear. Another glance at the eerie figure, and I ran through the garden until, panting and sweaty, I found George on a bench by the maze.

  “My dear girl, what on earth has happened to you?” he asked, standing to greet me. “Sit down and catch your breath. You look a fright.”

  “No, thank you, I’d rather stand,” I said, trembling. “It’s ridiculous, really. Mad.” I wanted to blurt out what I’d seen, even though I knew there couldn’t have been an actual girl in the dovecote. Last time I’d searched and found nothing. The shivers still running through me, I felt as if I’d seen a ghost.

  “Ridiculous how?” He looked past me in the direction of the dovecote. “You’re not seeing things, are you? Madeline does sometimes.”

  “No, no. Of course not.” That Madeline saw things did not surprise me, but Madeline was not entirely sane. My mind was racing, spinning, trying to process what I’d seen. I’d lost a baby. My heart and my head were grieving and brought me an image of what? The child I might have had? A girl in search of a mother?

  “She tries to convince me the château is haunted. You don’t agree with her, do you?” I saw concern—real concern—in George’s light eyes and forced a smile onto my face.

  “Aren’t all châteaux haunted?” I asked, slowing my breath and keeping my tone light. “I thought it was a requirement.”

  “I certainly hope not,” he said. “I’ve enough to concern myself with trying to keep the roof from falling on my head, not to mention marauding art thieves milling about. The last thing I need is to worry about supernatural disturbances as well.”