A Poisoned Season

1

There are several things one can depend upon during the London Season: an overwhelming barrage of invitations, friends whose loyalties turn suspect, and at least one overzealous suitor. This year was to prove no exception.

Having recently come out of mourning for my late husband, Philip, the Viscount Ashton, I was determined to adopt a hedonistic approach to society, something that I imagined would involve refusing all but the most enticing invitations and being forced to cull disloyal acquaintances. This would allow me to enjoy the summer months instead of trudging from party to party, feeling like one of the exhausted dead, finding myself the subject of the gossip that fuels young barbarians at play.

However, it became clear almost immediately that my theory was flawed. Declining to attend parties proved not to have the desired effect. Instead of dropping me from their guest lists, people assumed I was in such demand that I was choosing to attend events even more exclusive than their own, and there are few better ways to increase one's volume of invitations than by the appearance of popularity. So for a short while — a very short while — my peers held me in high esteem.

It was during this time that I found myself at the home of Lady Elinor Routledge, one of the finest hostesses in England and a longstanding friend of my mother's. By definition, therefore, she was more concerned with a person's societal standing than with anything else. Despite this, I had decided to attend her garden party for two reasons. First, I wanted to see her roses, whose equal, according to rumor, could not be found in all of England. Second, I hoped to meet Mr. Charles Berry, a young man whose presence in town had caused a stir amongst all the aristocracy. The roses surpassed all of my expectations; unfortunately, the gentleman did not.

When stepping into the garden at Meadowdown, one was transported from the gritty heat of London's streets to a sumptuous oasis. For the party, lovely peaked tents were scattered between hedgerows, trees, and beds of flowers, ensuring that guests would never be more than a few paces from refreshment, and the sounds of a small orchestra wafted through the grounds. Young ladies flitted about, their brightly colored dresses competing with the flowers for attention and rarely losing the battle. The gentlemen, turned out in dark frock coats, were elegant, too, keeping their companions well supplied with ices, strawberries, or whatever delicacies might catch their fancy. Et in Arcadia ego. It would take little effort for one to imagine in this scene an eligible prince, all courtesy and ease, graciously bestowing his favor on those around him. But there was no such gentleman at Lady Elinor's that day. The only prince present — if he could be called that — was a grave disappointment.

The romantic ideals swirling around the heir to a throne are seldom capable of surviving close scrutiny. In the case of Charles Berry, these ideals hardly stood observation from afar. His appearance was not unpleasant, but his manners were dreadful, and to say that he was prone to drink more than he ought would be a very diplomatic statement indeed. The young ladies who followed his every move with admiration happily ignored all of this; they were captivated by the notion of marrying into a royal family. The situation was rendered all the more ridiculous when one considered the fact that the throne to which Mr. Berry aspired no longer existed.

"I hoped he would be more handsome." Cécile du Lac formed opinions of people quickly and rarely changed them. We had known each other for less than a year, but she had become one of my closest confidantes almost from the moment I'd met her, despite the fact that she was nearer in age to my mother than to me. She watched him as she continued. "And he lacks completely the generous spirit one likes to find in a monarch. If he could not claim a direct relation to Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, society would hold him in much less regard."

Almost from the moment Louis XVI's son and heir had died in a French prison during the revolution, rumors that the boy had escaped began to circulate. Now, nearly a century later, gentlemen were still coming forward, insisting that they were descended from Louis Charles. Charles Berry was the most recent to make the claim, and his story was filled with enough details to convince the surviving members of the Bourbon family to accept him as the dauphin's great-grandson.

"Don't judge him too harshly," Lady Elinor said, moving her hands gracefully in a gesture designed not to emphasize her words, but to show off the spectacular ruby ring on her right hand. "He's led a difficult life."

"Do you know him well?" I asked her.

"He was at Oxford with my son, George, although they didn't move in the same crowd. George has always been very serious. He takes after his father." Lady Elinor's husband, Mr. John Routledge, had been a steady if somewhat humorless man, who served in the government as chancellor of the exchequer until his death some years ago. George, who was much older than his sister, had taken a position in the diplomatic corps and had been stationed in India for so long that I could hardly recall what he looked like. "Let me introduce you. I think you'll find Mr. Berry most charming."

The gentleman in question stood not far from us, surrounded by several very eligible heiresses whose mothers watched, hawklike, from a safe distance, eagerly trying to gauge which girl garnered the most attention from the purported heir to the House of Bourbon. I wondered if any of them gave even momentary consideration to what it might be like to actually be the wife of such a man. None of the mothers tried to hide her irritation when Lady Elinor pulled him away.

"How do you find London?" I asked after the introductions had been made.

"A wonderful city. But I must admit that I long for Paris. I have great hopes, you know, that my throne will be restored."

"Really, Monsieur Berry?" Cécile asked, incredulous. "I had no idea the Third Republic was in danger of being replaced by a monarchy."

"France would be lucky to have you," Lady Elinor said.

"It is not impossible. I, of course, would never presume to seek such a thing, but if it proves to be the will of the people..." He let his voice trail off and looked at me as if appraising my value. "You, Lady Ashton, would be an ornament in any court."

"You flatter me." I saw a look of dissatisfaction pass quickly across Lady Elinor's face and realized that she, too, had fallen victim to wanting a royal husband for her daughter. Isabelle was a sweet girl, out for her second season. She was not pretty, not in the classical way, but possessed bright eyes and an eager smile that more than made up for any imperfections in her features. I confess to being surprised by how much she had matured in the past year; gone completely was the child I remembered following me around after my own debut, begging for stories of balls and parties. If she still harbored any of the romantic ideas she'd had as a girl, she was headed for disappointment unless she could convince her mother that Mr. Berry was not a desirable suitor. I decided to direct the subject away from the gentleman altogether and turned to my hostess. "Have you seen Mr. Bingham this afternoon?"

"He arrived not half an hour ago," Lady Elinor replied. "Though I must warn you that he's not one for genteel conversation."

"I know it all too well. He owns a silver libation bowl — the sort the ancient Greeks used to hold offerings to the gods. The decoration on it is exquisite — Athena, Hermes, Dionysus, and Ares riding in chariots driven by winged Nikes."

"What is a Nike?" Lady Elinor asked.

"Victory. Perhaps you've seen the Nike Samothrace in the Louvre?"

"Ah, yes. How...interesting that you know about such things."

"I've been trying to convince Mr. Bingham to sell me the piece for the past three months and have barely had a civil word from him."

"Are you a collector?" Mr. Berry asked.

"My late husband was, but he also made many donations to the British Museum. I've continued this practice, though I admit it's not always easy for me to part with what I've acquired. But in this case, I want the phiale for the museum. It's too significant to be left languishing in a private home. I had hoped I could persuade Mr. Bingham to donate it himself, but he will not be convinced."

"Aren't you clever!" Lady Elinor said, then turned to Mr. Berry. "Lady Ashton is quite a scholar."

"Surely you've put aside all thoughts of studying during the Season?" he asked.

"Studying Greek, Mr. Berry, is what will get me through the Season." He made a dissatisfied-sounding grunt, and Lady Elinor smiled, confident that branding me a scholar would be enough to keep the gentleman from growing too interested in me. I hoped she was correct.

"You speak almost like an Englishman, Monsieur Berry," Cécile said. "I expected to find you more French."

"I spent much of my youth in the United States. We did not speak French, even at home. My father sent me to Oxford for university, and I've lived in England ever since. He was a very private man, never wanted the public to know his true identity. I respected this position while he was alive, but now that he is dead, I believe it is time to reclaim my heritage." He stepped close to Cécile and continued in a low voice. "I am moved more than you can imagine by the sight of your earrings. I understand that they belonged to my twice arrière-grand-mère."

"They did, monsieur, and I thought it appropriate to wear them when I met the pretender to the Bourbon throne. Marie Antoinette had them on when she was arrested during the revolution."

"How I wish I could touch them." He moved even closer to her, and for a moment I thought he would reach out for them.

Isabelle, who had been summoned to her mother's side, frowned. "She was arrested wearing them?" she asked. "Aren't you afraid they'll bring you bad luck?"

"Not at all," Cécile replied.

"They're just the sort of thing that would carry a curse, the tragic fate of a previous owner haunting everyone else who possesses them," Isabelle said with a dramatic flair.

"I assure you, mademoiselle, that I am not concerned in the least," Cécile said, shrugging.

"Where did you get them, Cécile?" I asked.

"My brother purchased them for his fiancée. Unfortunately, she died before they were married, and he gave them to me."

"Died before they were married?" I asked. "Clearly the poor woman was cursed."

"Not in the least. Claudette had a sickly constitution long before Paul gave her the earrings."

Although I counted Cécile among my dearest friends, this story of her brother, along with vague rumors that her ancestors had been sympathetic to the monarchy during the revolution, was nearly all the information I'd heard about her family. Like me, she was a widow, though her husband had died almost thirty years ago. It was this that first drew us together — not simply that we had lost husbands, but that we had lost husbands we did not mourn.

"I would hesitate to wear them," Isabelle said. "You're very brave."

"It would take more than a curse to stop Madame du Lac," Colin Hargreaves said, striding confidently towards us, a broad smile on his face. "Do my eyes deceive me? Or is it true that the delights of the Season are enough to entice Lady Ashton to abandon the pleasures of Greece?"

"Colin!" I cried, feeling an unmistakable rush of pleasure as he brushed his lips over my gloved hand, the color rising in my cheeks as our eyes met. "Your letter said you would be in Berlin until next week."

"My business finished more quickly than expected. I called on you at Berkeley Square not an hour ago, and your butler told me I could find you here. Lady Elinor was kind enough to allow me in without an invitation." His face was already tanned from riding in the summer sun.

"You are always welcome in my home, Mr. Hargreaves," our hostess said, clearly relieved to find a gentleman other than Mr. Berry paying attention to me. "Have you met Mr. Berry?"

"Yes, we spent some time together on the Continent this spring." This surprised me. In all the letters he'd sent to me in the past months, Colin had never once mentioned Mr. Berry, and Mr. Berry did not strike me as the sort of man with whom Colin would have much interest in spending time.

"Lady Elinor, would you show me where to find your claret cup?" Cécile asked, a sly smile forming on her lips.

"May I get some for you, Madame du Lac?" Colin asked.

"Non, merci, Monsieur Hargreaves. That would defeat my purpose entirely." She tapped his arm with her fan as she spoke before turning to Mr. Berry. "And you, sir, come with us. I'd like to hear more about your plans for France." Isabelle hung back for a moment, but a sharp glance from her mother spurred her to follow the group.

"I shall never be able to adequately thank Cécile for her continuing interest in leaving me alone with you," Colin said, kissing my hand again as soon as they had left us, "although I'd prefer a more private setting altogether. I should like nothing better than to take you in my arms."

"You wouldn't dare," I replied, half wishing that he would, my hand still warm where his lips had lingered. "But I suppose it's best not to cause a scandal this early in the Season. Are you free for dinner this evening?"

"Unfortunately not. I've a prior engagement."

"A prior engagement?"

"I am a very eligible bachelor, Emily. You must expect that my calendar will be very full in the coming months."

"Well, before you begin proposing to any of the debutantes who are sure to throw themselves at your feet, I do hope you'll consider my feelings. I'd be quite lost if you refused to help me with my Greek."

"How kind of you to find some use for me." He squeezed my hand. "It's work, actually, that will keep me from you tonight."

"Anything that might interest me?" I asked. Colin was frequently called upon by Buckingham Palace to assist in matters that, as he explained it, required more than a modicum of discretion.

"Definitely not." Without another word, he led me, rather forcefully, to a quiet corner of the garden, where, though we did not have the privacy my library would have afforded, we were able to greet each other in a much more satisfactory manner.

That night, though I wished I could have seen Colin, I applied myself to translating passages from Homer's Odyssey. I brought my work to bed, where I continued to read until I drifted off to sleep, only to be awakened long before morning, disturbed by the hard cover of the book, which had wedged itself against my back. Sitting up, I gathered my now wrinkled papers and placed them on the bedside table. As I laid the volume of Homer on top of them, something moved near the wall across from me. I hesitated for only a moment before quietly slipping out of bed to investigate, but I was too late. There was nothing there. I might have dismissed it as a dream had I not noticed the curtains begin to sway. Flinging them aside, I half expected to find someone standing before me. Instead, all I saw was the window, which had been closed when I went to bed, now wide open, rain blowing into my chamber.

I quickly lit every lamp in the room, and the flitting shadows that followed me startled me whenever they caught my eye. It was summer, but I felt a chill that I could not shake. My silk curtains were soaked and ruined, but other than that, everything looked as it had when I'd fallen asleep. Nonetheless, I rang for my butler and crossed the hallway to the room where Cécile slept. It appeared that I had overreacted until she inspected her jewelry cases. The locks on each of them had been picked, but of all the exquisite pieces that they contained, only one was missing: Marie Antoinette's teardrop-shaped diamond earrings, the ones Cécile had worn that afternoon.

Davis, my butler, sent for the police at once, and their thorough search of my house proved what I had suspected after seeing Cécile's cases: Nothing was missing except the earrings. The priceless antiquities displayed in my library, the old masters' paintings that could be found throughout the house, and my own jewelry were untouched. Not even the two-hundred-carat emerald-and-diamond necklace that sat next to the earrings was disturbed. Our thief had known what he wanted.

"It is difficult to be angry with a man who shows such refined taste," Cécile said the next morning as we sat at the breakfast table. "Clearly he is not motivated by greed."

"It's a pity your dogs did not bark to warn us of the intruder." Cécile refused to leave her home in Paris without her pets and would not come to visit me unless I agreed to let her bring them. Caesar and Brutus were tiny things, more likely to cower at the sight of a cat than to bark at a burglar. "If I had woken up earlier, I might have seen him," I said, frowning. The police had found footprints in the garden beneath my room, and although the rain had washed away any identifying features, they were able to determine that the intruder had entered the house through my window. This revelation had deeply disturbed Davis, who reprimanded the entire staff and assured me that he would personally check the locks in the house every evening. I did not hold anyone responsible. Had it not been raining, I would have directed my maid to leave the window open, and I said as much to Colin when he arrived to find Cécile and me still at breakfast.

"Best to keep the windows closed and locked in the future. I am most relieved to see both of you unharmed after your ordeal. I wouldn't have called at such a beastly hour if I weren't concerned about you."

Cécile smiled. "I've always wanted to breakfast with you, Monsieur Hargreaves. Let me assure you we are quite fine, though I suspect that had you been here last night, my earrings would not have vanished. How unfortunate that you had other plans."

"Even if I had called last night, I would not have been here so late."

Cécile looked at me pointedly. "That, of course, is not for me to say," she said.

"How did you learn of the theft?" I asked.

"A friend in Scotland Yard alerted me."

"And will you investigate?"

"No, Emily. I'm not a detective."

"Such is our misfortune, Monsieur Hargreaves," Cécile said.

"It is a strange case, though," Colin said. "Lord Grantham's house was broken into three weeks ago, and the only object taken was a Limoges box. The following week, a gilt inkwell disappeared from the home of Mrs. Blanche Wilmot. Both items belonged to Marie Antoinette."

"I have great hopes for our thief, Monsieur Hargreaves," Cécile said. "It is rare to find a man with such focus."

"There is no reason to think that he will come here again, unless one of you is hiding another of the ill-fated queen's possessions."

"We aren't, so I suppose we're safe," I said, rubbing my temples and suddenly feeling very tired. "I admit that it's unnerving to have been so violated."

"I shall have Inspector Manning, who has been assigned to the case, step up patrols near your house. You needn't worry."

"I don't know the inspector, but you, Monsieur Hargreaves, inspire absolute confidence," Cécile said. "I will quite depend upon you." She patted his arm as she walked past him. "Do not keep Kallista too long." Cécile had not abandoned her habit of calling me by the name my late husband had used for me.

"Excitement seems to follow you," Colin said, accepting the cup of tea I poured for him.

"It's following Cécile. I've never owned anything of Marie Antoinette's."

"I'm glad of it." His dark eyes flashed. "I cannot stand thinking of that criminal in your room. I should have come to you last night."

"Cécile's remark was not meant as a rebuke. She merely wanted me to ponder the idea of having you here so late at night. She's quite a corrupting influence."

"Then I am forever indebted to her."

"As you should be."

"And did you ponder the idea of having me here so late at night?"

"I did. It was most pleasant." Our eyes met. At once my fatigue dissipated as the feeling of violation was replaced with a lovely warmth. "Perhaps after the Season you should come to Greece with me." I had spent much of the spring exploring Greece, using as my base the villa that had become mine after Philip's death.

"Hardly appropriate for us to travel together."

"I thought you approved of my corruption?"

"I wholeheartedly do, but I don't want to see you that corrupt." He stood up, walked around the table to me, and took my hands. I closed my eyes, anticipating his kiss when Davis entered the room, carrying the morning mail on a small silver tray. Colin contented himself with quickly kissing my hand and went back to his seat. Doing my best to show no disappointment, I turned my attention to the envelopes before me. With invitations to two or three balls every evening, and as many dinner parties, not to mention teas, garden parties, and luncheons, one could easily be overwhelmed during the Season. And that was before considering the Derby, Ascot, the Royal Academy's Summer Exhibition, or any of the numerous other events not to be missed. I sifted through the pile before me, checking for personal correspondence.

"Anything interesting?" Colin asked.

"That's unlikely, unless you've sent me something." I tossed aside a note from my mother, knowing full well that it contained an admonishment for my turning down an invitation to her friend Lady Elliott's reception for Charles Berry. Although my mother had been content to see me married to a viscount — particularly as Philip's family had connections to royalty going back to the reign of Elizabeth — she had taken a renewed interest in my status since I'd come out of mourning and had returned to her hope that I might yet marry royalty.

Another envelope caught my attention. It bore no stamp so must have been hand-delivered. Inside was a short passage, written in ancient Greek:

"Is this from you?" I asked, passing it to Colin.

"Unfortunately not, though I wish it were. I agree heartily with the sentiment."

"Could you translate for me? I'm afraid I couldn't do it without my lexicon."

"Nothing is sweeter than love, and all delicious things are second to it." It's from The Greek Anthology. Perhaps your tutor has succumbed to your charms."

"Mr. Moore?" I laughed. "Not likely. If anything, he's infuriated by my insistence on reading only Homer. Though perhaps I should reconsider that position now that I know how...inspiring...The Greek Anthology is."

"You could focus on its religious epigrams."

"Mr. Moore would like that very much."

"Have you any idea who it might be from?"

"Not the slightest."

"Should I be jealous?"

"Of course not. If I'm not certain that even you could convince me to marry again, then this anonymous admirer, whoever he may be, has not the remotest chance."

"Oh, I'll convince you, Emily. Never doubt it. By this time next year, we'll be breakfasting together daily, and it won't be downstairs."