A Poisoned Season

3

To say that my mother was gratified by the attentions bestowed on me by the Duke of Bainbridge would be a grotesque understatement. Although our families were close, her friendship with Lady Frideswide had precluded her considering him as a potential husband for me. Now, however, she was convinced that the duke had strayed from Lettice of his own accord, and if her daughter was now the object of his affections, who was she to protest? I insisted to her that Margaret, not I, was in his sights, but she refused to accept this. No one could make her believe that a duke would choose an American over the daughter of an English peer.

"I'll listen to none of this nonsense," she said, after she had accosted me on the banks of the Thames at the Henley Regatta. "Between the Duke and Colin Hargreaves, you're sure to make an excellent match before the end of the Season. Neither will be willing to let you wait knowing that the other is competing for your favor." She looked at me and frowned. "Where is your parasol?"

"I didn't feel like dragging it along with me."

"My child, I fear for you. You are mere days away from completely destroying your complexion." She tugged at my hat, trying to make it better shade my face. "I've had a lovely day. His Grace was kind enough to offer me a spot on Temple Island. How I wish you could have joined us!"

"I didn't realize Jeremy was a member of the Leander Club." The island, which was for Leander members, not only provided an excellent vantage point, but also was the most exclusive area from which to view the race. Of its two merits, I knew it was the latter that most impressed my mother.

"Don't play coy, Emily. You're perfectly aware of all of Bainbridge's attributes. I'm just glad to see that he's beginning to take notice of yours."

"Mother — "

"And this is as good a time as any to point out that your odd reading habits are beginning to disconcert people."

"My reading habits are not — "

"We all understand that it was terribly shocking for you to lose your husband. Mourning is a dreadful time. But now it is over and there is no need to persist in this morbid habit of reading tedious books. Lady Elliott told me that she saw you with a copy of the Odyssey in the park."

"Do you have a particular objection to Homer, or are you against all ancient texts?"

"There is no need to speak to me like that, Emily. I cannot imagine what possessed you to bring a book to the park."

"The weather was fine and I wanted to sit outside. A shocking concept, I agree."

"Well, open a window, or if you must be outdoors, stay on your own property. There's no need to flaunt your eccentricities in front of all of London." She removed a pair of spectacles from her reticule, put them on, and peered at my face. "I do believe you are getting freckles." She thrust her parasol over me.

"Thank you, Mother. As always, your support overwhelms me."

"Don't take a snide tone with me. You are the widow of a viscount and need to start acting like one."

"Acting like a viscount?" I bestowed on her my most charming smile. "Perhaps that's what I'm doing when I'm reading Homer."

"Your behavior is intolerable. You should take better care or you'll find yourself isolated from all the decent people in England." With that, she marched away.

I left the river not long afterwards and returned home, exhausted, my cheeks and nose a distressingly bright shade of pink. On this count, at least, my mother had been correct. My hat, though very elegant, had not provided enough protection from the sun. I longed for a cool bath, but as soon as I had asked Meg to draw one, Davis announced a visitor. I looked at the card he handed me and walked, puzzled, to my drawing room, where I faced a woman I had never before seen. She was dressed in the unrelenting black of a new widow and darted towards me the moment I entered the room.

"I shall not apologize for coming to you like this, Lady Ashton. You cannot be surprised to see me."

"I'm so sorry, I've not the slightest idea to what you refer." I glanced again at her calling card. "Mrs. Francis? Is your husband David Francis?"

"There's no need to play naïve with me, young lady. I know all about — " She stopped, her eyes brimming with tears.

"Please sit down." I ushered her to a chair and rang for tea, growing more confused with each passing moment. "Have we met before?"

This made her laugh, with a deep, nervous sound. "I am quite aware that you were my husband's mistress. Now that he is dead — "

"Dead? Mr. Francis is dead?" I pictured him sitting in my library not two weeks ago and, though I had not known him well, was consumed with the horrible, sinking sensation that is the faithful spouse of all dreadful news.

"He died two days ago."

"I am more sorry than I can say. Was he ill?"

"You know that he was not." Above their red rims, her eyes blazed with acrimony. The heat in my house was suffocating. I crossed the room and began flinging open windows. A parlormaid entered with a tea tray.

"No, take it away," I said. "Bring us something cold."

Mrs. Francis did not speak again until the girl had left the room. "His last words were about you."

"How can that be? I only met him once."

"I'll thank you not to pretend innocence. If it was only once — " She had started to cry again, and I could not bear seeing the pain etched on her face.

"Please, let me comfort you." I took her hand, and though she would not look at me, she did not pull it away. "I know not how such a misunderstanding has come to pass. I was never your husband's mistress, nor was I romantically linked with him in any way. He was one of a group of my friends at the theater a week or so ago, and we all came here afterwards. Nothing of significance transpired between us."

"Why, then, was it your name that he uttered with his last breath?"

"I've no idea. You must know his friend, Mr. Michael Barber? He was here with us, and I'm sure he could put your mind to rest."

"Michael was here?" Her shoulders relaxed slightly.

"What did your husband say about me?"

"He asked that I bring his snuffbox to you."

"His snuffbox?"

"It's a pretty silver thing that once belonged to Marie Antoinette. I assumed that he had promised it to you."

This gave me a better sense of why he had wanted me to have the box. "Did he know he was dying?"

"Yes." She raised her eyes to meet mine.

"I can well understand why you suspect what you do. But I think, Mrs. Francis, that your husband was simply trying to protect you." I recounted for her our conversation about the thefts and the pink diamond, leaving out the bits in which he had described his wife. Any lady capable of confronting her husband's suspected paramour so soon after his death had far too much spirit to be painfully shy.

"Now it is I who am confused. What is this pink diamond?"

"The one that was stolen from your home. Your husband saw no point in upsetting you with the news of the theft, although I suppose once it was in the papers he had to come clean. Men do so like to think they're protecting ladies, don't they?"

"We've never owned a pink diamond."

"You're certain?" I asked, not terribly surprised. I remembered that Mr. Francis said that it wasn't the sort of thing his wife would have liked.

"Without a doubt. I've always admired colored diamonds — the white ones seem to me altogether lacking in soul. David knows that better than anyone." She held out her hand to show me her wedding ring, a gold band with a large blue diamond set in it. "You say the newspapers reported this? We don't take them at the house, so I never see them. David prefers to read them at his club."

"The thefts have been the biggest news of the Season." I frowned, wondering why Mr. Francis would have hidden the diamond from his wife. "Could your husband have only recently bought the diamond, intending it as a gift for you?"

"He could not have afforded such a thing. Not anymore." The tears began again.

"I'm sorry. I've done nothing but upset you."

"No." She managed a smile. "I believe you when you say you were not David's mistress. Finding that he was unfaithful to me would be far more troubling than this pink diamond ever could be."

"May I ask how he died? You said he was not ill. Was there an accident?"

"No, Lady Ashton. My husband was murdered. His valet fell victim to the same poison yesterday morning." The air rushed out of my lungs and I could scarcely draw breath. Murdered. My heart felt torn in two for this woman, who, like me, had lost a spouse to violence.

"I must tell you a story," I said, and, taking her hands in mine, recounted for her the story of my own husband's demise, along with my role in uncovering his killer. Soon we were both weeping, and when at last the maid returned with cold lemonade, neither of us touched the glasses she set in front of us.

"You are good to share this with me after I barged into your home making dreadful accusations," Mrs. Francis said. "I'm so sorry."

"When I learned that Philip had been murdered, I accused innocent parties of far worse than adulterous affairs." I remembered well the implacable calm with which Colin had faced my erroneous charges. I may not have been bold enough at the time to denounce him directly, but he knew full well that I suspected him of killing his best friend. "You and I are bound together by a bitter kinship. Please do not feel that you ever need apologize to me for transgressions brought on by your grief."

We sat together some time longer, saying very little. Before she left, I promised to come to her in Richmond after the funeral was over. I knew she would need friends then, when the rest of society would abandon her, another lonely widow left for dead. I felt deeply unsettled when she was gone, all the memories of Philip stirring in me again. I had not thought about him — not really — in months, and realizing this brought back that most unwelcome of companions, guilt. My present happiness in life — my independence, my fortune, even Colin — all stemmed from my husband's death. Had he lived, I would not find myself so pleasantly situated.

My melancholy solitude was soon interrupted. Davis announced Colin and handed me a letter at the same time. Despite the heat, my friend managed to look more cool and crisp than was strictly fair, particularly given the marked contrast of my own appearance. "You've not changed your dress since the regatta," he said, and sat next to me on the silk-covered settee.

"No," I said, dropping the letter on the table next to my lemonade as I told him of my meeting with Mrs. Francis.

"A terrible tragedy," he said. "I read about it in the papers this morning. You're sweating." He caught a drip of water that was falling down my glass of still-untouched lemonade and traced his cool, wet finger around my face, then down my neck. And though my skin responded as it always did to Colin's touch, I was too distracted to really enjoy the sensation.

"What color were Philip's eyes? They were light, that much I remember, but were they blue or gray?"

He pulled back from me. "Blue. What brings this on?"

"Mrs. Francis, I suppose. Speaking with her made me realize that I owe all my current joy to him. It's an odd sort of feeling."

"One of which I'm all too aware. Had I not lost my best friend, I might never have found a woman who could captivate me the way you do. There will always be a touch of the bittersweet in our love, Emily." He stood up, walked across the room, and stared out the window.

I did not feel much like pursuing the subject and fidgeted uncomfortably for a moment before finally picking up my lemonade. "Would you like some?"

"No, thank you. Are you going to open your letter or are you bent on wallowing all afternoon?"

"Why the sudden interest in my mail?"

"Because it was I who found it sitting on your doorstep. Quite mysterious, I thought."

This piqued my curiosity, and I picked up the envelope, examining it carefully before opening it. "I really must spend more time on my Greek," I said once I had unfolded the note. "My skills at sight-reading are woefully lacking. Will you?" I handed it to him:

"I beseech thee, Love, charm asleep the wakeful longing in me." He frowned. "The Greek Anthology again."

"Would you read it in Greek?" He obliged me immediately, and the seductive lilt of the ancient language drove from me any lingering melancholy.

"That certainly brightened your eyes," he said. "Who is sending you these messages?"

"I've not the slightest idea."

"I wish you would find out. I should very much like to know my competition."

"I wouldn't know how to begin."

"Try," he said. "I'll wager that you can figure it out."

This made me laugh. "A bet? What will I win?"

"Identify your admirer before the end of the Season, and I shall travel with you through Greece this fall."

"Scandalous! I thought you weren't willing to see me that corrupt?"

"I'd prefer not to." He took my hand in both of his, and the feel of his skin on mine thrilled me more than I ought to admit. "But the temptation is hard to resist."

"And if I lose?"

"You agree to marry me." His gaze held steady on mine.

"Sounds like a risky proposition for me either way."

"It is."

"I'll take your wager, Colin. It shall bring an added interest to what might otherwise be a vapid Season. And who knows what gentlemen I might encounter during my search. An admirer who courts his lady in Greek is not to be lightly discarded. Perhaps you ought to be jealous."

"Not at all. I'm confident that no one you find can do for you what I would." Our eyes met and we leaned towards one another. My lips parted, and I waited for his kiss. It did not come. "No, I'd better not kiss you," he said, keeping his gaze steady and not pulling back from me. "I must accept the possibility that you could turn down my proposal. And, should you eventually marry someone else, I would not want your husband to hold against me the fact that I had taken such a liberty with his future wife."

"You've kissed me before."

"And it was most ungentlemanly of me to have done so. I shall be more careful in the future." With that, he kissed my hand, lingering over it deliciously, and left, turning to smile at me one more time before he closed the door.

Not two minutes later, my maid appeared, asking me if I still wanted a bath.

"Yes, Meg. Cold. I want it painfully cold."

Three days later I received a note from Mrs. Francis. Her house had been burgled again. This time, the only thing taken was her husband's silver snuffbox. The newspapers had been filled with stories about Mr. Francis's death from the moment they learned of it, and each of them had mentioned that he died clutching the object. They attributed his death to Marie Antoinette's curse and warned the citizens of London to take heed, suggesting that those whose property was stolen were lucky to have escaped with their lives.