Dorchester Terrace

NARRAWAY SAT BY THE fire in his study, the gaslight turned low, and thought about Serafina Montserrat. Pitt said he had asked the doctor to keep his own counsel regarding the conclusion that her death could not have been accidental. He said he had given the doctor his word that the death would not be investigated by the police, but by Special Branch, because of its possible connection with a current case.

The possible plot against Duke Alois needed to occupy all of Pitt’s attention; he could not afford to be distracted by anything else. But Narraway was not certain if his promise to investigate Serafina’s death was wise. Detection was not a skill he had refined to anything like Pitt’s degree. However, he still believed it possible that there was a direct link between Serafina’s fears and the proposed assassination of Duke Alois. If there was, it was imperative that he find it before it was too late.

If Serafina’s death was a political act by someone afraid she might reveal a long-dead scandal or personal indiscretion, surely it must have ceased to be embarrassing to anyone but the attacker himself?

He did not think, from what Vespasia had said of her, that Nerissa Freemarsh had the nature to contemplate killing her aunt as an act of compassion to free her from the mental suffering of knowing that her own mind was betraying her.

Tucker, the lady’s maid? That was more likely. She was devoted to Serafina. Vespasia had told him that, and he trusted her judgment without question. She had certainly had enough maids to know, and seen dozens of others.

But then Tucker would also lose her position at Serafina’s death. And she must know that she would be suspected before anyone else if an overdose was discovered. After the years of looking after Serafina, no one would believe her capable of doing such a thing accidentally.

That left only the far uglier thought that Nerissa Freemarsh had killed her aunt for personal reasons: possibly the inheritance of the house and whatever money Serafina possessed, before it was too late for her to enjoy it—or perhaps before the money had been spent on Serafina’s care.

He would have to interview the household staff. There was no one else who could answer the difficult, probing questions he needed to ask. He stared up at the firelight patterns on the ceiling and tried to think of facts, physical evidence, anything at all that could prove who had given Serafina the extra laudanum. Nothing came to mind. Whoever had done it would have cleaned up after themselves. The house would be dusted and polished every day, the dishes washed, everything put back into the cupboard or onto the shelf where it was normally stored. All household staff would have access to all parts of the house, though it was likely that only Tucker and Nerissa would spend time in Serafina’s bedroom, and perhaps one of the housemaids.

Had anyone else been there? Would they have been noticed? And what reason would they have to harm Serafina … unless they had been paid by someone? But no, that thought was absurd.

By midnight the fire had burned down. Narraway stood up, turned off the lights, and went upstairs to bed. He had not thought of any solution to his quandary, except to investigate personal motives. He had little more than a week before Duke Alois arrived in Dover.

In the morning he decided to ask Vespasia’s opinion. He dressed smartly, as was suitable for a visit to a lady for whom he had not only a deep affection, but also a certain awe.

“Victor! How pleasant to see you,” Vespasia said with some surprise when he was shown into the withdrawing room a little after ten o’clock. She wore a highly fashionable dress of a pale blue-green shade with white lace at the throat, large sleeves, and her customary pearls. She was smiling. She knew, of course, that he had come for a specific reason.

“Well?” she inquired, when she had sent the maid for tea.

He told her briefly the thoughts he had entertained the previous evening. She listened to him in silence until he had finished, merely moving her head fractionally every now and then in agreement.

“There is one thing you have apparently not considered,” she observed. “Nerissa is not a particularly charming young woman, and, judging from her present position as companion to her aunt, she has no great means of her own.”

“I know that,” he said. “Maybe she decided not to risk Serafina spending all of what would be her inheritance.”

Vespasia smiled. “My dear Victor, there is another consideration far more urgent in a woman’s mind than mere money.” She noted his expression with amusement. “Nerissa is not plain in appearance, but she is quite unaware of how to flatter or charm, to amuse, to make a man feel high-spirited or at ease. She is also rapidly coming toward the end of her childbearing years. At the moment her prospects are good; but if Serafina were to have lived even another five years, which she might have, then it would have been a different matter. Her present lover may not be willing to wait so long for Nerissa to come into her inheritance.”

Narraway froze. “Her present lover! Are you certain?”

“Yes. But I am not certain if it is an affair that has any realistic hope of ending in marriage. If it does not, then privacy may be all that she desired.”

“But surely Serafina Montserrat would be the last woman on earth to interfere in an affair, let alone disapprove of one?” he said reasonably.

“Perhaps. But Nerissa may not have realized that. I am not sure whether she is fully aware of Serafina’s earlier life. These are things it might be profitable for you to discover.”

“Yes,” he agreed, ceasing the conversation while the maid brought in the tea and Vespasia poured it.

Vespasia smiled at him. “Tucker will know,” she remarked, taking one of the tiny crisp cookies off the plate. “Treat her with respect, and you will learn all kinds of things.”

He thought for a moment. “If this lover of Nerissa’s is serious, might he have killed Serafina, to preserve the money Nerissa could inherit? With the house, it would make him very comfortable.”

“Possibly.” Vespasia’s face expressed her pity for such a thought, and her contempt. “Which is why it is important that you discover who he is.” Her eyes softened with a deeper kind of sadness. “It is also possible that his reason was nothing to do with money, or with Nerissa at all, except insofar as she gave him access to Serafina, and her disintegrating memory.”

“I know,” he agreed. “I will investigate that too.”

AFTER LEAVING VESPASIA’S HOME, Narraway rode in the hansom to visit Serafina’s doctor, consumed in thought. He was starting to realize how much more difficult detection was than he had originally appreciated. He was guilty of having taken Pitt’s skill very much for granted in the previous years. He did not even notice the brilliant blue sky darken over, or the people on footpaths hastening their steps. He did not see the first heavy spots of rain. He was unaware of the swift change in the weather until one man lost grip of his umbrella and it whisked into the street, startling horses and causing a near-accident.

Dr. Thurgood was unable to give any further assistance. There was nothing medical to add to the bare fact that Serafina had died of an overdose of laudanum so huge that it was impossible that she had given it to herself accidentally.

He caught a hansom to go to Dorchester Terrace. On the journey he turned over in his mind the practical facts, which severely limited the number of people able to administer such a dose.

The most obvious person was Nerissa Freemarsh; not that he seriously thought it was Nerissa, unless her lover had built up the nerve, or the desperation, to force her into it. What could have caused that? A sudden, urgent financial need? The longing to marry before it was too late for children?

Then why now? Why not sooner? Was it really coincidental that Serafina’s death had happened just before Duke Alois’s visit? It was not easy to believe.

He arrived at Dorchester Terrace, alighted, and paid the cabbie, then walked up the pathway to the door. He was admitted by the footman and gave him his card.

“Good morning,” he said quickly, before the man could protest that the house was in mourning and would receive no callers. “I need to speak with Miss Freemarsh. I hope she is still at home?” He was certain she would be. She was very traditional in her manner and dress, and, so newly bereaved, he was certain she would not leave the house for some time.

The man hesitated.

“Will you inform her that Lord Narraway is here, on business to do with the recent death of her aunt, Mrs. Montserrat.” He did not pitch his voice to make it a request. “I shall also need to speak with the housekeeper, the maids, the cook, yourself, and Miss Tucker.”

The man paled. “Yes … yes, sir. If you …” He gulped and cleared his throat. “If you would like to wait in the morning room, my lord?”

“Thank you, but I would prefer to use the housekeeper’s sitting room. It will make people more at ease.”

The man did not argue. Five minutes later Narraway was seated on a comfortable chair by the fire, facing the plump, pink-faced housekeeper, Mrs. Whiteside. She looked angry and bristling.

“I don’t know what you are thinking, I can tell you that much,” she began, refusing to sit, even though he had asked her to.

“You are in charge of the house, Mrs. Whiteside. You can tell me about each of the servants employed here.”

“You can’t imagine that any of them killed poor Mrs. Montserrat!” she accused him. “I’m not standing here while you say wicked things like that about innocent people, lordship or not, whoever you are.”

He smiled with amusement at her indignation, and with quite genuine pleasure at her loyalty. She looked like an angry hen ready to take on an intruder in the farmyard.

“Nothing would give me more pleasure than to prove that true, Mrs. Whiteside,” he said gently. “Perhaps with some detail, you can assist me in that. Then we widen the circle to include others who might have observed something of meaning, even if they did not realize it at the time. The one thing that seems impossible to deny is that someone did give Mrs. Montserrat a very large dose of laudanum. If you have any idea who that might be, or even why, then I would be obliged to you if you would tell me.”

It was the last sort of response she had expected. For several seconds she could not find words to answer him.

He indicated the chair opposite him again. “Please sit down, Mrs. Whiteside. Tell me about the members of your staff, so that I can imagine what they do when they are off duty, what they like and dislike, and so on.”

She was thoroughly confused, but she did her best. A quarter of an hour into her description, she began to speak naturally, even with affection. For the first time in his life, Narraway was offered a vivid picture of a group of people utterly unlike himself, all away from the homes and families in which they grew up, slowly forming a new kind of family, with friendships, jealousies, loyalty, and understanding that gave comfort to their lives, and a certain kind of framework that was of intense importance. Mrs. Whiteside was the matriarch, the cook almost as important. The footman was the only man, Serafina not requiring a butler, and therefore he had a place of unique privilege. But he was young, and not above bickering with the maids over trivia.

Tucker, as the lady’s maid, was not really either upstairs or downstairs. Her position was senior to the others, and as Narraway listened to Mrs. Whiteside’s descriptions, he came to the conclusion that Tucker’s position was an oddly lonely one.

“I don’t know what else you want,” she finished abruptly, looking confused again.

Narraway was quite certain that none of the staff had had anything to do with Serafina’s death. Their own lives had been sadly disrupted by it; now, even their home was no longer assured. Sooner or later Nerissa might choose to sell the house, or might have to, and they would be separated from one another and without employment. Then again, if she suspected them of disloyalty, or of speaking out of turn to Narraway, she might dismiss them without even a reference, and that would be worse. He became suddenly sensitive to the fact that he must phrase his questions with care.

“I would like to speak to them one at a time,” he responded. “And see if anyone has noticed anything out of the ordinary in the house. Something not in its usual place, moved, or accidentally destroyed perhaps.”

She understood immediately. “You think somebody broke in and killed poor Mrs. Montserrat?” Her face was horrified.

“The more you describe the people here, the less likely I think it is that one of them could have gone upstairs, found the laudanum, and given Mrs. Montserrat a fatal dose.”

“I must stay right in this room while you talk to the maids,” she warned him.

“Of course,” he agreed. “I wish you to, but please do not interrupt.”

His questioning proved fruitless, as he had expected, except to confirm in his own mind that Serafina’s staff was ordinary, an artless group of domestic servants, capable of occasional idleness, gossip, and petty squabbling, but not of sustained malice or evil. For one thing, they seemed far too unsophisticated for the degree of deception required to poison someone and hide all traces. For another, they confided in one another too freely to keep such a secret. Mrs. Whiteside’s estimate of them was reasonably accurate. He made a mental note that if he was ever involved in detective work again, he would pay more attention to the observations of housekeepers.

Tucker was a different matter. She had been with Serafina for decades. She looked pathetically frail now, and somewhat lost; she would be cared for now, but never needed in the way Serafina had needed her. She sat in the chair opposite Narraway and prepared to answer his questions.

He began gently, and was amused to find her observations of the other servants very similar to Mrs. Whiteside’s, if a trifle sharper. But then she did not have to work with them anymore. She no longer had a position to guard.

She was not without humor, and he regretted having to move his line of inquiry to more sensitive areas.

“Miss Tucker, I have heard from Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould that Mrs. Montserrat was losing her ability to remember exactly where she was, and to whom she was speaking. Did you know that she was afraid of letting secrets slip that might affect other people very adversely?”

She sighed and looked at him carefully. “Of course I was aware. If you had asked me five years ago, I’d never have believed such a thing could happen to a lady like Mrs. Montserrat.” She had difficulty controlling her grief, and her eyes blazed at him through tears.

“Someone killed her, Miss Tucker. I am thinking it less and less likely that it was someone already in this house.”

She blinked and said nothing.

“Who has visited Mrs. Montserrat in the last three or four months?”

She looked down. “Not many. People like to feel comfortable, to be entertained or amused. If you are of a certain age yourself, seeing a living example of what can happen, or what may yet happen to you, is unpleasant.”

Narraway winced internally. He had many years before he reached Serafina’s age, but it would come soon enough. Would he bear it with grace?

Then he realized with a chill like ice that perhaps he too would be terrified of what he might say, and might even be murdered to ensure his silence. Suddenly Serafina became of intense importance to him, almost an image of himself in a future to come.

“Miss Tucker, someone killed her,” he said with a catch in his voice. “I intend to find out who it was, and to see to it that they answer to the law. The fact that Mrs. Montserrat was old and had very little family is irrelevant. Whoever she was, she had the right to be cared for, to be treated with dignity, and to be allowed to live out the whole of her life.”

Miss Tucker now let the tears roll down her thin cheeks, which were almost colorless in the late winter light.

“No one here would hurt her, my lord,” she said in barely more than a whisper. “But there were others who came into the house, some to visit her, some to visit Miss Freemarsh.”

He nodded again. “Of course. Who were they?”

She pursed her lips slightly in concentration. “Well, there was Lady Burwood, who came twice, as I recall, but that was some time ago.”

“To visit whom?”

“Oh, Mrs. Montserrat, although of course she was very civil to Miss Freemarsh.”

Narraway could imagine it: Lady Burwood, whoever she was, being polite and indefinably condescending; and Nerissa hungering for recognition, and receiving none, except secondhand through her relationship to Serafina.

“Who is Lady Burwood?” he asked.

Miss Tucker smiled. “Middle-aged, married rather beneath her, but happily enough, I think. She has a sister with a title and more money, but fewer children. She found Mrs. Montserrat more interesting than most of her other friends did.”

Narraway nodded. “You are very observant as to the details that matter, Miss Tucker,” he said sincerely. “Why did she stop coming?” It was a cruel question, and he knew it, but the answer might be important.

Tucker’s face flushed with amusement. “Not what you assume, my lord. She fell and broke her leg.”

“I stand corrected,” he said wryly. “Who else?”

She mentioned two or three others, and a fourth and fifth who had come solely to visit Nerissa. None of them seemed to have the remotest connection with Austria, or past intrigues anywhere at all.

“No gentlemen?” he inquired.

She looked at him very steadily. She had kept decades of secrets, and many of them were probably of a romantic or purely lustful nature. A good lady’s maid was a mixture of servant, artist, and priest, and Tucker had been superb at her job. A maid to Serafina Montserrat would have had to be.

“Please?” he said gravely. “Someone murdered her, Miss Tucker. I shall repeat nothing that is not relevant to the case. I am good at keeping secrets; until a few months ago, I was head of Special Branch.” It was still painful to say that.

Perhaps she saw it in his face. “I see.” She nodded very slightly. “You are too young to retire.” She did not ask the question that lay between them.

“One of my own secrets came back and caught me,” he told her.

“Oh, dear.” There was sympathy and the very faintest possible humor in her eyes.

“Who visited the house, Miss Tucker?” he asked.

“Lord Tregarron came to see Mrs. Montserrat, twice I think. He did not stay very long,” she replied. “Mrs. Montserrat was not very well on either occasion. I did not hear their conversation, but I believe it was not … not amicable.”

“How do you know that, Miss Tucker? Did Mrs. Montserrat tell you?”

“Mrs. Montserrat knew the first Lord Tregarron, in Vienna, a long time ago.”

“Tregarron’s father?”

“Yes.”

“Do you know the circumstances of their acquaintance?”

“I surmise them, but I do not know for sure. Nor will I imagine them for you.”

“Did Tregarron speak with Miss Freemarsh?”

“Yes, at some length, but it was downstairs in the withdrawing room, and I have no idea what was said. I know it was some time only because Sissy the housemaid told me.”

“I see. Anyone else?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Blantyre both came, separately. Several times.”

“To see Mrs. Montserrat?”

“And Miss Freemarsh. I imagine to discuss Mrs. Montserrat’s health, and what might be done to make her happier and more comfortable. I think Mrs. Blantyre was very fond of her. She seemed to be.”

“Mr. Blantyre also?”

“He is very fond of his wife, and very concerned for her health. Apparently she is delicate, or at least he is of that opinion.”

“And you are not?” he asked quickly.

She smiled. “I think she is far stronger than he appreciates. He likes to think she is delicate. Some men are pleased to believe themselves protectors of the weak, caring for some beautiful woman like a tropical flower that needs to be defended from every chill draft.”

Narraway had never thought of such a thing, but it seemed obvious after hearing Tucker say it.

“So you believe Blantyre came in order to ensure that Adriana was not distressed by her visits to Mrs. Montserrat?”

“I think that is how he wished it to appear,” she said carefully.

He noted the difference. “I see. And Miss Freemarsh?” he asked. “Would she say the same?”

“Most certainly.” A tiny flicker of amusement touched her mouth.

“Miss Tucker, I think there is something of importance that you are deliberately not telling me.”

“Observations,” she said quickly. “Not facts, my lord. I think you do not know women very well.”

He was now realizing this for himself.

“I am learning,” he said ruefully. “A difficult question, Miss Tucker, and I ask you not from personal curiosity, but because I need to know. Does Miss Freemarsh have an admirer?”

Tucker’s face remained completely impassive. “You mean a lover, my lord?”

Narraway watched her intently, and still could not read the emotion behind the words.

“Yes, I suppose that’s what I mean.”

“Yes, she does. But I know that because I have been a lady’s maid all my life, and I know when a woman is in love: how she walks, how she smiles, the tiny alterations she will make to her appearance, even when she is forced to keep the matter secret.”

He nodded slowly. It made perfect sense. Tucker would know everything; those who had grown up with servants in the house came to look at them as furniture: familiar, useful, to be looked after with care, and treated as if they had neither eyes nor ears.

“Who is it, Miss Tucker?”

She hesitated.

“Miss Tucker, whoever it is may, knowingly or not, be behind the death of Mrs. Montserrat.”

Tucker winced.

“Please?”

“It is either Lord Tregarron or Mr. Blantyre,” she said, in little above a whisper.

Narraway was stunned. His disbelief must have shown on his face, because Tucker looked at him with a disappointment that verged on a kind of hurt. She started to speak again, then changed her mind.

“You surprise me,” he admitted. “I considered both men to be very happily married, and I gather Miss Freemarsh is … not …”

“Attractive to men,” Tucker finished for him.

“Quite,” he agreed.

Tucker smiled patiently. “I have known of perfectly respectable middle-aged men who have been uncontrollably attracted to the strangest women,” she answered. “Sometimes very rough women, laborers with their hands not even clean, and most certainly ignorant. I have no idea what it is that appeals, but it is true. With Mrs. Montserrat, men loved her courage, her passion, and her hunger for adventure. And she could make them laugh.”

Narraway believed it. Briefly, for a swift, perfect moment, he thought of Charlotte, and knew why he found her in his own thoughts far too often. She had courage and passion too, and she made him laugh, but he also loved her so much because of her fierce loyalty, and the fact that she would never betray Pitt, would never even wish to.

Then he thought of Vespasia and what made her so appealing. Curiously enough, it was not her beauty. Even in her youth it had not been her beauty, dazzling though she was. It was the fire in her, the intelligence and the spirit; and, more recently, a vulnerability he would never have perceived in her, even a year ago.

“Thank you, Miss Tucker. You have been extraordinarily helpful,” he said. “I promise you I will do everything I can to see that the truth of Mrs. Montserrat’s death is discovered, and that whoever is responsible is dealt with justly.” He did not say “according to the law.” In this case, he was not certain that the two were one and the same.

WHEN NARRAWAY FINALLY SAW Nerissa, he had already been at Dorchester Terrace for three hours. He had eaten a luncheon of cold game pie and pickles, with a dessert of suet pudding and hot treacle sauce, the same as had been eaten in the servants’ dining room.

Nerissa came in and closed the door behind her. She was wearing black, with a brooch of jet. Her face was bleached of even the faintest color, and she looked tired. The skin around her eyes was shadowed. Narraway felt a moment of pity for her. He tried to imagine what her daily life had been like, and the picture he conjured up was monotonous, without light or laughter, without thoughts to provoke the mind or a sense of purpose. Had she been desperate to escape that prison? Wouldn’t anyone, but especially a woman in love?

“Please sit down, Miss Freemarsh. I am sorry to have to disturb you, but there is no alternative.”

She obeyed, but remained stiff-backed in the chair, her hands folded in her lap.

“I assume you would not do so if you did not have to, my lord,” she said with a sigh. “I find it very difficult to believe that any of the staff here would have contributed to my aunt’s death, even negligently. And I … I cannot think of anyone else who might have done so. But since you seem convinced that it was neither an accident, nor suicide, then there must be some other explanation. It is … distressing.”

“I have to ask you about visitors, Miss Freemarsh,” he began. “Since the laudanum was given directly to your aunt and had an almost immediate effect, it must have been given by someone who came to the house that evening.” He looked down and saw that Nerissa’s hands were gripping each other so tightly that the knuckles were white. “Who could that have been, Miss Freemarsh?”

Nerissa opened her mouth, gulped air, and said nothing. He could see that her mind was frantically racing as she searched for the right words; if she denied that anyone came, then the only conclusion to be drawn was that it was someone already in the house: either herself, or one of the servants. He knew from the servants themselves that after dinner had been eaten and cleared away, they had taken their own meal and retired for the day. Unless at least two of them were in collusion with each other, their time was accounted for.

Nerissa had been alone. He imagined the long, solitary evenings, one after the other, every week, every month, stretching ahead into every year, waiting for a lover who could come only rarely. If he had called, then Nerissa herself would have let him in, possibly at a prearranged time. It might well have been their intent that the servants would be gone, so as not to know of it.

“Mrs. Blantyre came,” Nerissa said softly. “Aunt Serafina was fond of her, and she enjoyed her visits. But I can’t …” She left the rest unsaid.

“And she was alone with Mrs. Montserrat?”

“Yes. I had some domestic business to deal with … a slight problem with the menu for the following day. I’m … so sorry.”

Narraway could scarcely believe it. If Tucker was not mistaken, and either Blantyre or Tregarron was Nerissa’s lover, was it even conceivable that Adriana Blantyre knew this?

How could any man prefer Nerissa Freemarsh—plain, humorless, desperate Nerissa—over the beautiful, elegant Adriana? Perhaps Blantyre was weary of Adriana’s delicate health, which might deny him the marital privileges he wished, and felt that that was a good enough reason to stray. But why on earth with a plain, respectable woman like Nerissa? Perhaps because she loved him, and love was what he craved? And perhaps because no one would imagine it? What could be safer?

How had Adriana learned of it? Had it been through some careless word from Serafina? Could Adriana really be jealous to the degree that she would murder an old woman in her bed? Why? So Blantyre would have no more excuse to come to Dorchester Terrace? That was absurd.

But Adriana was Croatian; and Serafina had lived and worked in Vienna, northern Italy, and the Balkans, including Croatia. He must look more closely into their pasts before he leaped to any conclusions.

“Thank you, Miss Freemarsh,” he said quietly. “I am grateful for your candor. I don’t suppose you could offer any reason Mrs. Blantyre should wish your aunt any harm?”

Nerissa lowered her eyes. “I know very little, except what Aunt Serafina said, and she was rambling a lot of the time. I am really not sure what was real and what was just her confused imagination. She was very … muddled.”

“What did she say, Miss Freemarsh? If you can remember any of it, it may help explain what has happened, especially if she also mentioned it in someone else’s hearing.”

Nerissa’s eyes opened wide. “Mrs. Blantyre’s, you mean? Do you think so?”

“Well, we don’t know who else she may have spoken to.” He was trying to suggest a further person, someone Nerissa could blame more easily. He did not know what he was looking for, but he could not assume it was Adriana, whatever the reason, until he had exhausted all other possibilities, and learned who Serafina herself had feared.

Nerissa sat silent for so long that Narraway was beginning to think she was not going to speak. When she finally did, it was steadily and reluctantly.

“She mentioned many names, especially from thirty or forty years ago. Most of them were Austrian, I think, or Croatian. Some Italian. I’m afraid I don’t recall them all. It is difficult when they are not in your own language. She said Tregarron, but it made no sense, because Lord Tregarron could not have been more than a child at the time she seemed to believe it was. It was all very muddled.”

“I understand. Who else?” he prompted.

Again she considered for several moments, digging into memories that were clearly painful.

Narraway felt guilty, but he had to see if there were any connections, however oblique, to the proposed assassination of Alois. And even if Adriana had left Croatia as a young woman, family ties might still exist that could be relevant.

“Miss Freemarsh?”

She looked up at him. “She … she spoke of Mrs. Blantyre’s family, the name Dragovic. I don’t know what she said; it was difficult to catch it all. But Mrs. Blantyre was … distressed to hear it. Perhaps it awoke old tragedies for her. I can’t say. Naturally I did not speak of it to her. I asked Aunt Serafina later, but she appeared to have forgotten it. I’m sorry, but that’s all I can tell you about it.”

“I see. Thank you very much.” He rose to his feet and allowed her to lead the way back to the hall. He left her standing on the exquisite floor of the house that was now hers, looking dwarfed, crushed by the beauty of it.

“SEE WHAT YOU THINK of that, Radley,” Lord Tregarron said, handing Jack a sheaf of papers. They were in Tregarron’s office and had been working on a delicate matter concerning a British business initiative in Germany.

“Yes, sir.” Jack accepted the papers with a sense of acute satisfaction. He knew that Tregarron meant him to read them immediately. Such documents were never allowed to be taken from the building. He left the room and went to his own, smaller office. Sitting in the armchair in front of the fire, he began to read.

It was interesting. He was continually learning more about Europe in general, and the delicate balance between one nation and another, most particularly the old, ramshackle, and crumbling power of the Austrian Empire and the new, rising Germany with its extraordinary energy. Germany’s culture was as old as the land itself; it had produced some of the world’s great thinkers, and brilliant composers of music to enrich the human spirit. But as a political entity, it was in its infancy. All the strengths and weaknesses of youth were very evident in its behavior.

The same could be said in many ways of Italy, on Austria’s southern border. The country had been unified only in language and heritage, but politically it remained the patchwork of warring city-states that it had been since the fall of the Roman Empire.

The more he read of all of it, the more fascinated he became. He was more than halfway through the pages when he came to a passage he did not fully understand. He read the passage again, made a note, and then continued until he came to the end. He went back and reread the page that had troubled him. Then he picked up the whole and took it back to Tregarron’s office. He knocked on the door.

It was answered immediately and he went in.

“Ah, what do you think?” Tregarron asked. He was smiling, leaning back a little in his chair, his powerful face relaxed, eyes expectant. Then he saw Jack’s expression and he frowned. “A problem?” he asked without any anxiety, but rather with a look of very slight amusement.

“Yes, sir.” Jack felt foolish, but the matter troubled him too much not to raise it. “On page fourteen the phrasing of the second paragraph suggests that the Austrians are not aware of the Germans’ agreement with Hauser, and we know that they are. The Austrians would profit from this quite unfairly.”

Tregarron frowned and held out his hand.

Jack passed him the papers.

Tregarron read the entire page, then read it again. Finally he looked up at Jack, his heavy brows drawn together. “You are quite right. We need to rephrase that. In fact, I think it would be better if we omitted that paragraph altogether.”

“That would still mislead Berlin, sir,” Jack said unhappily. “I don’t know how Vienna knows about the agreement, but it’s quite clear from the dispatch we had yesterday that they do. Shouldn’t that be stated here?”

“Whatever Austrian intelligence has learned, it is not our concern to inform Berlin of it,” Tregarron replied. His eyes hardened. “But you are perfectly correct to bring that to my attention. The reference must be taken out. Good work, Radley.” He smiled, showing strong, white teeth. “You have saved us from what could have been a very considerable embarrassment. Thank you.”

LATER THAT EVENING, as Jack escorted Emily to a dinner party she very much wished to attend, he found his thoughts returning to Tregarron’s explanation of the discrepancy in the document. It seemed an uncharacteristic error to have made; Tregarron was not a careless man. Far from it: He was meticulous in detail. How had he not seen the anomaly himself?

Emily was across the table from him dressed in pink, an unusual color for her. She had always said it was too obvious, better suited to someone darker. But this gown, with its huge sleeves emphasizing her slender shoulders and neck, and the white lace inserts in the low bodice, was extraordinarily flattering. She was enjoying herself this evening, but he could tell by the carefully controlled pitch of her voice, and the slight stiffness in the way she held her head, that she was still troubled by her quarrel with Charlotte, though she was determined not to give in until she received a more specific form of apology. His attempts to persuade her to answer Charlotte’s letter had only made matters worse. She had called him an appeaser in a tone of total contempt. Her anger was with Charlotte, not him, but he knew very well not to interfere again, at least not yet.

The chatter swirled around him. He joined in politely. His charm had always been effortless, and he could give only half his attention and still seem as though he was thoroughly engaged.

Tregarron was not at this particular function, but someone mentioned his name. Jack saw the respect on Emily’s face, and she spoke warmly of Lady Tregarron. Jack’s mind returned again to the papers. How had Vienna known about Germany’s agreement? If it was through their own intelligence service, as Tregarron had said, that meant they must have an agent operating within the British Foreign Office. And if that was true, it should have caused far greater alarm than it had in Tregarron.

Surely that must mean there was some other explanation, then? He did not know what it was, though, so he put it to the back of his mind and turned to the woman next to him, devoting his attention to her.

They did not call their carriage to take them home until well after midnight.

Emily stifled a yawn with elegance. “I enjoyed that so much,” she said with a tired smile, leaning her head against his shoulder.

He put an arm around her. “I’m glad.”

She turned toward him, although in the dimness of the carriage, with the shadow and light from streetlamps moving across their faces through the windows, she could not see him clearly.

“What were you worrying about? And don’t tell me you weren’t worrying; I know when you are giving someone your whole mind and when you are not.”

He had never lied to her, but discretion was an entirely different thing.

“Political papers I saw today,” he said, perfectly truthfully.

“You can manage the problem, whatever it is,” she responded without hesitation. “Tomorrow it will be clear enough. I’ve long thought nothing much is ever well solved when you are tired.”

“You are quite right,” he agreed, and leaned his head back. But he did not forget it. He had already made up his mind that tomorrow he would call upon Vespasia.

“GOOD MORNING, JACK,” she said without concealing her surprise when he was standing in her morning room just after breakfast. “There must be some matter of concern, to bring you so early.” She studied him more closely. He had always been an unusually handsome man; now he looked restless, hiding unease with less than his usual skill.

“May I speak to you in complete confidence, Lady Vespasia?” he asked.

“Oh, dear.” She sat down and gestured for him to do the same. “This sounds very grave. Of course you may. What is it that concerns you?”

In as few words as possible, he told her about the agreement with Berlin, omitting the substance of it except for the one matter that concerned Vienna. Then he explained the sentence that troubled him, and watched for her reply, never taking his eyes from hers.

“I am afraid,” she said at length, “that if you are correct, then someone in the Foreign Office is giving sensitive information to Vienna that should be kept from it. I suppose you have read this particular document very carefully and you cannot be mistaken?”

“I asked Lord Tregarron if there had been an error,” he replied. “He said that he would attend to it, and thanked me for my diligence.”

“But that does not satisfy you, or you would not be here telling me,” she pointed out.

He looked profoundly unhappy. “No,” he said almost under his breath.

“Have you mentioned this to Emily?”

He looked startled. “No, of course not!”

“Or Thomas?”

“No … I …”

“Then please do not. If you speak to Thomas, he is now in a position where he will have no choice but to act. I shall deal with it.”

“How? I don’t expect you to do anything except advise me. I suppose I was hoping you would say that I am starting at shadows, and to forget the matter.”

She smiled. “My dear Jack, you know perfectly well that you are not starting at shadows. At the very least, there has been a mistake of the utmost carelessness.”

“And at worst?” he asked softly.

She sighed. “At worst, there is treason. Keep your own counsel. Behave as if you consider the matter closed.”

“And what will you do?”

“I shall speak to Victor Narraway.”

“Thank you.”

NARRAWAY LISTENED TO VESPASIA with increasing concern. When she had finished she had no doubt that he regarded the matter with even more gravity than she had.

“I see,” he said when she fell silent. “Please don’t speak of it to anyone at this point, especially Pitt. We must not take his attention from Duke Alois at the moment. We have only a little more than a week before he lands in Dover.”

“Is he really only a trivial person, Victor?” she asked.

“If he’s more, I haven’t been able to find out. At the moment it seems likely he is a victim of convenience. It is the crime that matters.”

“I see. And Serafina’s death?”

“Another matter that is not yet concluded.”

“Then I had better leave you to pursue whichever issue you consider most urgent. I apologize for bringing you further concerns.” There was the faintest gleam of humor in her eyes. He understood it perfectly, just as he knew she understood him.

“Not at all,” he murmured, rising to bid her farewell. In other circumstances he would have asked her to stay, but he was already turning over in his mind how he would pursue this new investigation: which favor he would call in, which debts he might collect, upon whom to apply a certain type of pressure.

At the door she hesitated.

“Yes,” he said to her unasked question. “I shall tell you.”

“Thank you, Victor. Good evening.”

NARRAWAY LAY AWAKE a great deal of the night, turning over and over in his mind what Vespasia had told him, and how it might fit in with Serafina’s death. He reviewed all the people he had known, in any context, who might be of help. Who could he even ask regarding such a subject as the betraying of confidential information regarding German interests? Was it a deliberate sabotaging of an Anglo-German agreement?

Why? Was it an intended deviousness, something the Foreign Office, specifically Tregarron, had not thought that Jack Radley should know? He was new to his position, perhaps a trifle idealistic, so perhaps not yet to be trusted with less-than-honest dealings?

If that was Tregarron’s judgment, then it was correct. Jack had been troubled, and he had not been able to turn a blind eye.

Narraway decided that the first thing he should do was find out more about Tregarron. The Foreign Office was certainly not above deceit, as long as it was certain it could claim innocence afterward, if it became known.

Where should he begin so that his inquiries would never be learned of by Tregarron himself? The answer came to him with extraordinary clarity. Tregarron had gone to Dorchester Terrace, probably to see Serafina, perhaps to see Nerissa Freemarsh. Had Serafina still been alive, and fully possessed of her wits and her memory, she would have been the ideal person to ask. But surely a great deal of anything she knew, the excellent and loyal Tucker might also know.

He debated whether to take her some gift as an appreciation of her time, and decided that doing so would be clumsy. Perhaps afterward he would. To begin with, simple respect would be the subtlest and most important compliment.

When he arrived at Dorchester Terrace at midmorning the following day, fortune played into his hands. Nerissa was out; Special Branch, thanks to Pitt, was paying for the funeral, but it had left it to Nerissa to deal with the actual arrangements, which had been somewhat delayed because of the necessity for an autopsy.

“I came to see Miss Tucker,” Narraway informed the footman. “It is extremely urgent, or I would not disturb you at such a time.”

The footman let him in and fifteen minutes later Narraway was again sitting before the fire in Mrs. Whiteside’s room. Tucker was perched on the chair opposite him, a tray of tea and thinly sliced bread and butter between them.

“I am sorry to intrude on you again, Miss Tucker, but the matter cannot wait,” he said gravely.

She had poured the tea but it was too hot to drink yet. It sat gently wafting a fragrant steam into the air.

“How can I help you, Lord Narraway? I have told you all I know.”

“This is a completely different matter. At least I believe it is. I would have asked Mrs. Montserrat, were she here to answer me. But as I was turning the matter over and over in my mind, I realized that a great deal of what she knew, you might also know.”

She looked startled, then very distinctly pleased.

He smiled, only faintly. He did not wish her to think him self-satisfied.

“What is it you think I might know?” she inquired, picking up her cup and testing to see if it was cool enough to sip. It was not, and she took instead a slice of bread and butter.

He took one also, then began. “This is of the utmost confidence. I must ask you to speak of it to no one at all, absolutely no one.”

“I shall not,” she promised.

“I shall ask you as I would have asked Mrs. Montserrat. What can you tell me of Lord Tregarron? It is imperative to Britain’s good name, to our honesty in dealing with other countries, most particularly Germany and Austria, that I know the truth.”

She sat very upright in her chair. A tired, proud old woman, at the end of a lifetime of service, was now being asked by a man—a lord—to help her country.

“The present Lord Tregarron, my lord, or his father?” she inquired.

Narraway stiffened, drew in his breath, and then let it out slowly. “Both, I think. But please begin with his father. You were acquainted with him?”

She smiled very slightly, as if at his innocence. “Mrs. Montserrat knew him intimately, my lord, at least for a while. He was married, you understand. Lady Tregarron was a nice woman, very respectable, at times a trifle …” She searched for the right word. “… Tedious.”

“Oh, dear.” Without realizing it, he had exactly mimicked Vespasia’s tone of voice. “I see.” He did see. A vision of endless polite, even affectionate, boredom sketched before him. “Was it love?”

She made a slight move with her lips. “Oh, no, just a romance, a straying to pick flowers that belonged to someone else. Vienna has a certain magic. One is away from home. People forget that it is just as real, just as good, or bad!”

“And did Mrs. Montserrat and Lord Tregarron part with ill feeling, or not?” he asked.

“Enmity, not at all. But ill feeling?” She sipped her tea. “I think Lord Tregarron was very afraid that Lady Tregarron might find out, and that would have troubled him greatly. He loved her. She was his safety, not just the mother of his children—they had one son and several daughters—but also she was socially very well connected. She was a good woman, just unimaginative, and—heaven help her—rather humorless.”

“Who else knew of the affair?”

“I don’t know. People are sometimes more observant than one would wish.”

“I see. And the present Lord Tregarron?”

“I know less of him. He thought well of his father, but even better of his mother. He is devoted to her.”

“But he wasn’t devoted to his father?” he asked.

“There was some estrangement between them,” she answered.

“Did Mrs. Montserrat know why?”

Tucker hesitated.

“Please, Miss Tucker. It may be of some importance,” he pleaded.

“I believe he learned of his father’s affair with Mrs. Montserrat, even though by that time it had been over for many years,” she said reluctantly.

“Thank you, I am very grateful to you.” He picked up his tea. It was at last cool enough to sip.

She frowned. “Is it of use?”

“I’m not sure. I’m not sure at all.” But an idea, vague and ill-defined as yet, was beginning to form in his mind.