Teresa Grant

by Imperial Scandal

  Violet was bent over her nephew, a boy of about eighteen months, helping pull a wooden horse along the gravel. An unusual image for the stylish Violet Chase. She went still when she looked up to see Suzanne and Cordelia approaching. Then Violet murmured something to her nephew and the nurse who was pushing a baby carriage. “Cordelia. Mrs. Rannoch.” Violet walked forward. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon.”

  “It’s good to get the children out-of-doors,” Suzanne said.

  Violet glanced at her nephew and the baby. “Tony has been trying to convince Jane to go to Antwerp. Jane’s been refusing in unusually sharp tones. All the while I think they’re really arguing about something else entirely. I decided to take the children and escape the house.”

  “Sensible,” Cordelia said.

  Violet pushed a ringlet, damp from perspiration in the heat, beneath the brim of her leghorn bonnet. “Tony seems to think we’re really in for fighting this time, but I saw Georgy Lennox a quarter hour ago, and she says Lord Hill assured them the talk of imminent battle is unfounded. I suppose it’s a good thing I had my maid lay out my dress for her mother’s ball tonight.”

  “If Mrs. Chase goes to Antwerp will you go with her?” Suzanne asked.

  “Of course not.” Violet straightened her shoulders. “If there is a battle, both my brothers will be in it.”

  “Not to mention Johnny,” Cordelia said.

  Violet lifted her chin. “I’m still fond of him.”

  Cordelia returned her gaze. “I’ve been so focused on what Julia was doing the night of Stuart’s ball, I’ve quite forgot about other people and what they might have seen. Sarah Lennox told Mrs. Rannoch she found you in some distress that night.”

  Fear shot into Violet’s eyes. She opened her mouth as though to deny Lady Sarah’s report, then spun away and stared at the refreshment pavilion, toward which the nurse was being pulled by young Master Chase. “I should have known Sarah couldn’t keep her mouth shut.”

  Cordelia touched her friend’s shoulder. “Violet—”

  Violet jerked away from Cordelia’s touch. “I told Sarah what happened. Eddy Featherstonaugh made himself disagreeable in the garden. I’m not as used to those things as you are.”

  “Point taken,” Cordelia said.

  “But you don’t believe me.”

  “Sarah didn’t.”

  “Sarah Lennox is a—Oh, what’s the use.” Violet flung up her hands. “You want to know what I was doing. We none of us seem to be able to have secrets anymore.”

  “Anything anyone may have seen that night could be important,” Suzanne said.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Violet returned. “I slipped out of the ballroom, stole a horse from Stuart’s stables, rode to the Château de Vere, and shot Julia.”

  “Very funny,” Cordelia said.

  “So you don’t think I’m capable of it?”

  “I don’t think you’d have ridden all that way in a ball dress.”

  “I might if I’d been determined enough. But I—” Violet’s brows drew together.

  “Vi—” Cordelia touched her arm again.

  Violet scowled at the crowd round the refreshment pavilion, but this time she didn’t pull away. “If you must know, I saw Julia slip out of the ballroom. Not knowing she was engaged in more than one illicit liaison, I was sure she was going to meet Tony. I was going to confront them. I thought perhaps that would shame her into ending the affair.”

  Cordelia shot a quick glance at Suzanne. They’d been prepared for Violet not to tell them about her tryst with John Ashton, but they hadn’t expected more revelations about Julia. “And—?” Cordelia asked.

  Violet folded her arms across her chest. “I followed her into the garden. She did meet Tony. By the yew hedge.”

  Suzanne exchanged a quick look with Cordelia. “Did you confront them?”

  Violet stirred a fallen leaf with the toe of her Roman sandal. “I was going to. But once I got close enough to hear what they were saying, it seemed more awkward than I expected. And they weren’t in each other’s arms. They were quarreling.”

  “What about?” Suzanne asked, keeping her voice steady and gentle. If this was a story, it was a surprisingly detailed one.

  Violet frowned as though still puzzled by the memory. “I think Julia was trying to break off the affair. At one point Tony seized her arms, and I heard him say, ‘It can’t end so easily. Surely you realize that.’ Julia pulled away and said, ‘You can’t ask such a thing of me.’ I thought perhaps she’d actually taken our conversation to heart. If she was ending things, the last thing I wanted was to interrupt. Then they moved farther away, and I couldn’t hear what they were saying. Finally Tony flung away from her and stalked back into the ballroom.”

  “And Julia?” Cordelia asked.

  “She ran across the garden toward the wall. I suddenly didn’t want her to see me. If she’d been angry at me, she might have taken Tony back out of spite. As it was, I suppose she went off to her rendezvous with the Prince of Orange.”

  “She went off to her death,” Cordelia said.

  Violet bit her lip, but her eyes were defiant. “I know what you’re thinking. About Tony being angry at her. That’s why I didn’t tell you this yesterday. But I followed him back into the ballroom, and he was in the ballroom the rest of the night.” She looked between Suzanne and Cordelia. “I swear I overheard them.”

  “I’m not questioning that,” Suzanne said. “It’s just that we heard a different story about your being in the garden from another source. Who saw you with Captain Ashton.”

  Violet’s face drained of color, as though she had stumbled into a nightmare. “Oh, poison. I should have known.”

  25

  “Oh, dear God.” John Ashton looked from Malcolm to Davenport, eyes dark, mouth white. “I should have known.”

  “That you’d be caught?” Davenport asked.

  “Yes. No. It wasn’t like that. You can’t think Violet—I would never—”

  “Do you deny you were in the garden with her at the ball?” Davenport said.

  “No.” Guilt settled over Ashton’s features. He stared straight at them, as though forcing himself to confront his sins. “Violet and I—we were once practically betrothed. Davenport will remember. I didn’t serve her a very good turn when I married Julia. There was some unpleasantness.”

  “Tony Chase planted you a facer at Boodle’s,” Malcolm said.

  “Yes. In retrospect I deserved it.” Memories shot through Ashton’s gaze. He swallowed. “But at the ball I found myself standing beside Violet. I asked her to dance. To my surprise she agreed. We talked about inconsequential things. Safe topics. But for a moment it was as though it was three years ago and life was infinitely simpler.” Ashton took a quick turn about the room. “After the dance we walked out onto the terrace and into the garden. I think we were still both caught in the spell of the past. I know I was.” For a moment that spell showed in his eyes. “I didn’t intend—Things hadn’t been as easy as they might between Julia and me of late. With my duties and the constant round of entertainments we often only seemed to see each other in passing and when we did—” He shook his head. “We’d had a stupid quarrel two days before when I suggested she take our son and return to England. That was the most emotion there’d been between us in weeks.”

  “And so that evening with Miss Chase you found yourself wondering if you’d married the wrong girl,” Davenport said.

  “No. That is—Truth to tell, I didn’t think at all.” Ashton met Davenport’s hard stare, his own gaze wracked with torment. “You mustn’t think any dishonor attaches to Miss Chase. I should have known better—And then, only a short time later, to learn that Julia was dead—”

  “And you were a free man,” Davenport murmured.

  Ashton lurched toward him. “Damn it, Davenport—”

  Malcolm moved to intervene. But Ashton drew a rough breath, as though forcing the lid down on his anger. “You’re doing what you nee
d to do. What you have to do to learn who killed Julia and why. And by God I want you to discover that.”

  “Oh, poison.” Violet looked from Suzanne to Cordelia. “I should have known.”

  “Interesting,” Cordelia said. “I thought you’d deny it.”

  Violet flung up her lavender-kid-gloved hands. “What’s the good of denying anything? Mrs. Rannoch and her husband seem to have an uncanny knack for uncovering uncomfortable secrets.” She drew a breath. “I really did overhear Julia and Tony. Telling you that seemed the lesser of two evils. That was after Johnny and I—After we went into the garden.”

  “I know Johnny still means a great deal to you,” Cordelia said. “It’s not surprising that you—”

  Violet gave a dry laugh. “You think Johnny and I were having an affair? Sorry to disappoint you, Cordy, it’s not nearly so scandalous. But you’re right that I never got over him. And suddenly there’s no guarantee who’ll be alive in a few weeks. Or even days.” The fear that they all lived with welled up in her eyes. “Which is why I blatantly put myself in Johnny’s way at the ball. So he more or less had to ask me to dance. And then after the dance, I said I was overcome by the heat and could we go out into the garden. Most gentlemen would see that as the invitation it was, but Johnny’s far too honorable. I don’t think anyone could have been more surprised than he was when I practically flung myself into his arms.”

  “Apparently he didn’t push you away,” Cordelia said, her voice surprisingly gentle.

  “No.” Violet glanced to the side, as though the memory was too private to share. “I think for a moment we were both caught up in the past. And perhaps Johnny wasn’t as happy with Julia as everyone liked to believe.” Her gaze moved back to Cordelia. “But he’d never have betrayed her.”

  Malcolm and Davenport found Lieutenant-Colonel the Hon. Sir Alexander Gordon lounging in a straight-back chair in the outer office at Headquarters, playing backgammon with Colonel Canning. Wellington’s aides-de-camp had a tendency to lounge about when they weren’t galloping hell for leather to deliver messages in seemingly impossible amounts of times.

  “Back already?” Gordon asked as Malcolm and Davenport entered the room. “I thought you lot were supposed to be figuring out what the devil the French are up to so the rest of us can figure out when we’re supposed to go charging into the cannon’s mouth.”

  Malcolm grinned. He’d been one year behind Gordon at Harrow and had worked with his elder brother, Lord Aberdeen, in the diplomatic corps. “We’re doing our best. Could we have a word, Gordon?”

  “Good Lord.” Gordon pushed back his chair. “I seem to be important all of a sudden.”

  Fitzroy, as usual working away at dispatches, lifted his head. “Don’t give Gordon any ideas. He’ll be insufferable.”

  “He’s insufferable already,” Canning said. “Don’t forget you owed me twenty pounds when we left off, Gordon.”

  “You wound me,” Gordon said, hand on his heart. “I never forget a debt.”

  “Hmph,” Canning said.

  Gordon accompanied Malcolm and Davenport into the same antechamber in which they’d spoken with John Ashton. “What’s so serious?” he asked. “Aside from the fact that we’re about to go off to the worst battle of our lives.”

  Malcolm closed the door and leaned against it. “March mentioned last night that you were gone from Stuart’s ball for over an hour.”

  Gordon gave a visible start. He was a clever man, but he didn’t have an agent’s skills at dissembling. He flung himself into a chair with a grin that was a shade too deliberate. “Good God. Surely you don’t think I had something to do with Julia Ashton’s death? She was a lovely lady, but—Oh, sorry, Davenport. I forget she was your sister-in-law. My condolences.”

  “Thank you,” Davenport said. “We’re interested in anything unusual that happened at the ball and anything anyone might have seen.”

  “Wish I could help, but I didn’t see anything.”

  “Where did you go?” Davenport asked.

  Gordon shifted in his chair. “Look, I know these are extraordinary circumstances, but as it happens I went to see a lady. Who happens to have a jealous husband. And her husband’s Belgian, so the duke wouldn’t like it. Stirring up trouble with the locals. Went straight there and came straight back. Didn’t see Lady Julia or anyone else. So I’m afraid I can’t help you, much as I’d like to be at the heart of the drama. If—”

  “Damn it, Gordon,” Malcolm said.

  “What?”

  “From the time we were at Harrow, it’s meant one thing when you shift in your chair like that.”

  “What?”

  “That you’re lying.”

  Gordon pushed himself to his feet. “That’s a damned nasty accusation.”

  “And whenever anyone calls you on it, you get all huffy.”

  Gordon grimaced. “You’re a good fellow, Malcolm, but you’ve always been too clever for your own good. Not everyone is as devious as your spy friends.”

  Malcolm crossed to Gordon’s side. “Where did you really go the night of the ball?”

  “I told you.” Gordon straightened his shoulders, as though waiting to confront an enemy charge. “Take me before the duke. I’ll say the same.”

  Malcolm looked into the gaze of his school friend. “Then you’d be lying to him as well.”

  “Malcolm thought Captain Chase was lying about something,” Suzanne said, as she and Cordelia settled themselves back at the wrought-iron table in the garden in the Rue Ducale. “This could explain it.”

  “But was he lying because he couldn’t bear to admit Julia had broken with him?” Cordelia asked. “Or because he feared her breaking with him would cast suspicion on him? Or—?” She glanced at Colin and Livia, now giving the lead soldiers a ride round the garden in Colin’s wooden wagon. “I never did believe Julia could really be planning to run off with Tony, whatever Tony claimed. Whatever George told me last night.” She threw her gloves on the table. “And then there’s Johnny and Violet.”

  “Do you believe Miss Chase’s account?”

  “I’m inclined to. But perhaps it’s only because for some reason I cling to the idea that Johnny wouldn’t have betrayed Julia. I suppose I need to believe someone I know is incapable of betrayal. Besides you and Mr. Rannoch.”

  Suzanne’s fingernail caught on the threadnet of her own glove. “There are as many types of betrayal as there are people to commit it. If—”

  The click of the French window interrupted her. Suzanne looked round, expecting Blanca, who had gone inside for more lemonade. Instead her husband and Cordelia’s stepped into the garden.

  “I’m glad you’re here, Lady Cordelia,” Malcolm said, walking forward quickly. “We—”

  He broke off. Beside him, Harry Davenport had gone absolutely still. His gaze was fixed not on his wife but on young Livia, tugging at the wagon that had got stuck on a flagstone.

  As though aware of his regard, Livia glanced up and studied him with wide blue eyes.

  “Colonel ’Port.” Colin ran over to fling his arms round Davenport’s boots.

  “How do you do, old chap.” Davenport bent down to ruffle Colin’s hair. His face was nearly as pale as the points of his shirt.

  Livia stood studying the new arrival.

  Cordelia took a step toward her daughter, then checked herself. She and Davenport both went still, frozen in an agony of uncertainty.

  Confronting an inevitable moment that plainly neither of them was ready for.

  26

  Suzanne felt the tension between Harry and Cordelia Davenport like a physical force in the air. Her own heartbeat seemed to have stilled. Malcolm was standing as though holding every muscle in check.

  “You must be Livia.” Davenport crouched down to her level, keeping one hand on Colin’s shoulder. “My name is Harry. I haven’t been in England for a long time.” He paused, as though desperately seeking the right words. Or perhaps any words. “Not since before you were born,
which is a great pity. I’m”—he hesitated for a few seconds that stretched like an eternity—“I’m your papa.”

  Cordelia’s shoulders tensed, but she stayed where she was.

  Livia continued to regard Davenport. Her gaze moved over him, as though he were a creature from a storybook suddenly come to life. “You’re a soldier.”

  “So I am.” Davenport kept his voice level, but Suzanne suspected if she were close enough she’d be able to see the pulse beating beneath his skin. “That’s why I’ve been away from England.”

  Livia shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Mummy told me. She says you’re very brave.”

  Davenport was still pale as bleached linen, but his mouth twisted in a half smile. “Your mother can exaggerate.”

  “What’s ’xaggerate?” Colin asked.

  “Telling stories that go a bit beyond the truth. And in this case make me seem a good deal better than I am.”

  Cordelia opened her mouth, then bit back the words.

  “I’ve seen a picture of you,” Livia said. “In our house. In London. When you were a little boy. You look different now.”

  “It’s been a very long time since I was a little boy.”

  Livia nodded. “I turned three in January.”

  “And I didn’t send you a present. I have a great deal to make up for.”

  Livia dragged the toe of her black kid slipper over the flagstones. “Mummy says you’re very busy.”

  Davenport’s mouth relaxed into a smile, this one less bitter. “I don’t think that’s much of an excuse for not sending presents, do you?”

  Livia considered this and shook her head vigorously. Then her face went solemn. “We came to Brussels to see Aunt Julia. Did you know her?”

  The smile fled from Davenport’s eyes. “Yes. She was a very lovely lady.”

  Livia’s eyes fixed round and serious on his face. “She’s dead.”

  “I know. I’m very sorry for it.”

  “Uncle Johnny was crying when we saw him yesterday, though he tried not to let us see. I don’t think Robbie understands.”