Dorchester Terrace

PITT WOKE UP IN the morning with a jolt, taking a moment to adjust to his strange surroundings and remember where he was. It should not have been difficult. He had spent enough of the night lying awake staring at the unfamiliar streetlamp patterns on the ceiling of his hotel room in Dover.

This was the day Alois Habsburg was to land and take the London train. From the moment he set foot on English soil he was Pitt’s responsibility.

He had gone over the plans in his mind, trying to think of anything more he could do to foresee the attack, exactly where it would come, and how, if it would even come at all. But doubt nagged him: Had they been carefully misdirected here, to Dover and Duke Alois, when in reality the crime waiting to be committed was something entirely different? In the small hours of the night he thought of the Bank of England, the Tower of London, and the crown jewels, even the Houses of Parliament.

Pitt had fallen asleep without any answers.

Now he rose quickly, washed, shaved, and dressed. There was time for a quick breakfast, and it would be stupid not to eat. The best decisions were seldom made on an empty stomach.

He found Stoker in the dining room but they sat separately, to draw less attention to themselves. They left a few moments apart too. It was probably completely unnecessary, but better than being careless.

They were close to the docks anyway. It took them only ten minutes to be at the pier, where the cross-Channel ferry was already approaching. Pitt stood with his hands in his pockets watching the outlines of the boat as it came closer across the choppy gray water. He hunched his shoulders and turned his collar up against the chill of the wind. He liked the smell of salt, even the tar and oil and fish odors, but somehow sea wind was colder. It crept through every crevice in clothing, no matter how carefully one dressed.

He knew where Stoker was, and the other three men he had brought, but never once did he look at them. He had not asked assistance from the Dover police. They were there as a courtesy, knowing from the Austrian Embassy of Duke Alois’s visit, but he had weighed the issues and decided it was better not to let them think there was any particular danger.

He was standing in the wind, part of the crowd, when he felt a nudge next to him and half-turned. Jack was standing beside him, pale-faced, cold, his coat collar turned up.

“You were right,” Jack said before Pitt could speak. “It’s Tregarron. I’m sorry. Serafina seduced his father into an affair, then because of it, he was blackmailed into committing treason. It was all a long time ago, and obviously he’s dead now, but the present Lord Tregarron was desperate to conceal it, for his own protection, and his mother’s too, I imagine. It … it explains a few other things he was doing. I should have seen it earlier. I didn’t want to.”

Pitt looked at him with surprise and a sudden warmth of affection. “You came down here to tell me?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.”

“Be careful …” Jack warned urgently.

Pitt smiled. “I will. You should get back home, before you’re missed.”

“Can’t I help?”

“You just did. We may need you back home yet, if Tregarron’s at the party this evening.”

Jack smiled and moved off into the crowd.

The ferry was nosing in gently; in a few minutes the gangway would be lowered. The Port Authority had told Pitt that Duke Alois would be disembarking first. It would have been better had he come amid the other passengers, less conspicuous, but it would have been contrary to protocol, and thereby would have signaled that Special Branch felt unable to protect him under normal circumstances. It was a debate Pitt had had with himself, and he was still not sure if he had come to the right answer.

He watched as the docking procedure took place. It seemed infinitely slow, and yet when the slender, elegant figure appeared at the top of the gangway, dark hair blowing in the wind, Pitt felt a leap of alarm. His mind raced to think of anything he might have missed, failed to do, or not thought of, and what Reibnitz, if he was really here, would have prepared for.

Alois came down the steps, slowly, giving a slight salute and smiling at the dignitaries waiting at the bottom to welcome him. He was followed by four casually dressed, very fashionable men around his own age. None of them was in uniform. Pitt was seized with a sudden conviction that they didn’t have the faintest idea that there would be any danger. They were on a foreign vacation to a country where they had no enemies, no rivals, and no one who could be anything but delighted to see them.

The mayor of Dover stepped forward and the welcome began. It was a long, highly formal affair.

Pitt watched the small crowd of people gathered to observe the event, or who were simply here to meet their own friends and family. He tried to appear as if he was looking for some family member himself. He saw Stoker and his other men come a little closer as Duke Alois moved away with the mayor and his officials.

“Looks as if he has no idea of danger,” Stoker said quietly as they walked side by side from the dock along the street toward the railway station. “I suppose somebody did tell him?”

Pitt did not reply; Salisbury had said he had informed the duke—so perhaps the duke’s nonchalance was an act? He wasn’t sure.

Stoker grunted, and increased his pace.

Pitt was tense as Duke Alois and his men stepped up into a carriage and the horses moved off at a walk. The general traffic had been held back to allow them passage. Pitt looked down and across the street, but he saw no dust carts, no sweepers. Where was Staum?

He and Stoker followed after the carriage on foot, watching every movement, occasionally glancing up at higher windows above shops and offices. The wind was gusty, with a light spatter of rain, and as far as he could see, none of the stores were open. Still, he was nervous.

He glanced at Stoker, and saw the same anxiety in his face, in the stiff, tight-muscled way he walked.

If there was no attack in Dover, did that mean it was going to be on the train after all? A diversion? A crash?

The station was in sight. Two hundred yards to go.

A dust cart trundled by, wheels bouncing on uneven stones. Pitt and Stoker stared at the man wheeling it, but he was very old and wizened, and was steering the cart in the opposite direction.

Fifty yards, and then they were there. Duke Alois and his men alighted. The mayor of Dover conducted them inside. Pitt and Stoker gave a last look around, saw nothing suspicious, and followed them in.

The railway station was large and busy. A porter pushed a trolley weighed down with trunks and cases, its wheels rumbling over the platform. A few yards away a family was arguing excitedly, children jumping up and down. A small boy wailed with frustration. A man waved his arms and shouted a greeting. Half a dozen carriage doors slammed in the nearest train, and ahead of them the engine blew out great clouds of steam and smut. Pitt brushed it off his face, unintentionally smearing the dirt across his cheek, to Stoker’s amusement. For an instant the tension was broken.

Pitt wiped away the smut and they pushed their way past other passengers. They reached the train, where the mayor was bidding Duke Alois good-bye. His escort seemed far more attentive now, standing on the platform looking first one direction, then the other, eyes searching.

As Pitt drew closer, he saw that one of them had a hand out of sight under his coat. Pitt knew it rested on the grip of his revolver. Pitt stopped and looked straight at the man’s face.

“Commander Pitt, Special Branch,” he introduced himself. “If you will allow me, I shall show you my identification.”

Before the man could reply, Alois turned from the mayor and stepped toward Pitt, smiling. He had a pleasant face: ascetic and filled with a kind of lopsided amusement.

He held out a hand. “How good of you to come,” he said cheerfully. “Quite unnecessary, I’m sure, but a damned decent gesture.” He spoke English with no trace of an accent.

Pitt offered a hand and met a firm, surprisingly strong grasp.

“How do you do, sir?” he replied. “It probably is unnecessary, but it might still be a good idea to get into the carriage anyway, if you don’t mind.”

“Certainly. Cold out here. Always damned cold, railway platforms, don’t you think?” With alacrity, Duke Alois gave the mayor a small salute, and disappeared into the very handsomely decorated first-class carriage, Pitt a step behind him.

Duke Alois looked around approvingly. “Oh, very comfortable,” he said with satisfaction. “Plenty of room.” He looked at his own escort, standing to attention, waiting for his orders. “You chaps can busy yourselves doing whatever you do, looking out of carriage windows, or watching doors, or whatever. The commander here will have a cup of tea.” He looked at Pitt. “Won’t you?” It was a question, but the look in his light blue eyes was level and unflinching. In its own discreet way it was an order.

“I’d prefer to make sure of the rest of the carriage, sir, if you don’t mind,” Pitt answered.

Duke Alois laughed. “For heaven’s sake, man, have your fellow here do it.” He gestured toward Stoker. “I’m sure he’s excellent. If you brought only him, you can’t really imagine that there’s anything to worry about.”

“There are others,” Pitt told him.

“Very good. Then we shall have a cup of tea, and leave them to it. Come.” He opened the compartment door, and Pitt was obliged to accept.

The duke closed the door, sat down in one of the very comfortable seats, and crossed his legs, indicating the seat opposite for Pitt. Pitt sat down awkwardly; Narraway might have been versed in the art of conversation to entertain an Austrian duke, but Pitt was very definitely not. They could not have had less in common.

Pitt had no interest whatsoever in philosophy, or the more abstract sciences he had been told Duke Alois devoted his time to.

“Very good,” Duke Alois repeated with a smile, stretching out his long legs. “Now we can talk.”

Pitt swallowed. This was the one nightmare he had not foreseen, and he had no idea how to deal with it. What possible excuse could he make to escape?

“I was hoping you would come,” Alois continued. “Rather overplayed the bit about Staum,” he went on. “Nasty little swine, but actually he’s one of ours. Reibnitz too. Have to use them, now and then. I expect you have such men yourself.”

“I beg your p-pardon, sir?” Pitt stammered.

Duke Alois looked amused. His face radiated a pleasure that made him look more relaxed, less studious, and far more like a man on vacation. Was it possible he was even in some way enjoying this? Had he no conception of danger?

Pitt drew in his breath and tried to speak levelly, courteously. For all Duke Alois’s divorce from reality—and, heaven knew, the Habsburgs had bred more than their fair share of imbeciles—he was still a royal duke.

“Sir, we cannot afford to take any threats lightly,” he began.

“I don’t,” Alois assured him. “I am quite aware that it is serious, which is why we should have our conversation immediately, just in case we should be disturbed.”

“Sir—” Pitt began.

Duke Alois held up a hand. “Please don’t interrupt,” he requested. “It is the whole purpose of my journey.” He saw Pitt’s bewilderment. A brief, wry smile lit his face for a moment, then disappeared. “You find that absurd? Good. That means, at least so far, I am succeeding.”

Pitt gritted his teeth.

The duke leaned forward. Now his face was totally earnest. “You have a traitor in your government, Commander Pitt. In your Foreign Office, to be precise. I am happy to give you all the details I have, which are considerable.”

Pitt swallowed. He was out of his depth, but he did not wish Alois to know it.

“And why would you do this, sir?” he asked with what he hoped was an expression of polite interest.

“Because I wish to establish a good working relationship with British Special Branch,” Alois replied. “I believe we may turn this particular gentleman into a double agent, to both our advantages.”

A wild idea occurred to Pitt. He looked at Alois’s face, at his level, intense stare. It was suddenly very apparent that the man had a depth of political intelligence he chose to mask. Pitt took a deep breath and plunged in. “You are speaking of Lord Tregarron, I presume?” His heart pounded so hard it almost choked him.

Slowly Alois smiled, ruefully, like a child whose game has been spoiled. He let out a sigh. “Damn! I thought I had something worth trading. Have I tipped my hand for nothing?”

More wild ideas chased across Pitt’s imagination. “Not necessarily,” he replied. “I have only just realized Tregarron’s treason. I assume it has to do with his father, and Serafina Montserrat, at least to begin with?”

“Indeed. Rather before my time. Even before my predecessor’s,” Alois replied.

“Your predecessor?” Pitt questioned.

“As Victor Narraway was yours,” Alois answered. “The difference between your position and mine is only that I prefer to allow everyone to presume that my only interests are science and philosophy, intellectual hobbies that are of no practical use. It allows me a much greater freedom. Everyone of importance to your position knows exactly who you are. That also must have its advantages, but then, our systems are different. We, alas, are an empire very much in decline. And our emperor is less checked by any parliament than your queen is—or perhaps I should say empress, since she is empress of India, I believe.”

“For what purpose might Tregarron be turned to both our advantages?” Pitt managed to ask, stunned by this revelation.

Alois gave a slight shrug. “I am head of my country’s ‘Special Branch,’ as you are of yours. I do what I think is in our best interest. It is not always exactly what my government would do. But then, I have knowledge that it does not, and perhaps I can see a little further ahead than it can. I am sure you will find yourself in the same position occasionally. It would be to my advantage if Tregarron’s information came directly to me.”

“Doesn’t it anyway?” Pitt asked drily.

“Unfortunately not. It is dictated by Mr. Blantyre, the only one who is aware of Tregarron’s late father’s treason, and his adultery with Mrs. Montserrat. The present Lord Tregarron is particularly concerned that his mother, who is still very much alive, should not learn of it.”

“I think she was probably perfectly aware of it at the time,” Pitt observed.

“Of the affair, probably,” Alois conceded. “The treason is an entirely different matter. How did you know of it, by the way?”

“I deduced it,” Pitt replied, wanting to keep Jack’s name out of the matter.

Duke Alois waited, his clear blue eyes steady, searching Pitt’s face.

“It was the only answer that fit with certain other information I had,” Pitt told him. Then he smiled to indicate that that was all he was going to say on the subject.

“I see. A pity that I had no opportunity to tell you sooner. It is not something I would like known any more widely. It would destroy its possible usefulness.” Alois made a slight gesture of regret, but he did not evade Pitt’s gaze, leaving the question open.

Pitt wanted to weigh every possibility and discuss them with Narraway, but knew that was impossible. He tried to think of any comparable arrangement in the past, and could remember none. If it had ever happened, it was not recorded. But then if he accepted Duke Alois’s offer now, he would make no written record of it, at least not for general Special Branch availability. He must decide within the next few minutes. Was he giving Alois a weapon to use against him? Making an agreement perhaps useful to both of them? Earning a favor that might be reclaimed at some future time? Were such favors repaid?

Duke Alois was waiting.

“Fine,” he said. “Tregarron is a man in an extremely awkward position, but he is not a fool.”

Duke Alois smiled with wry regret, and perhaps a touch of pity. “I know what you mean, and of course you are right. Excellent. We shall both prosper from it, if we are careful.”

Pitt was far less certain, but he did not want Alois to know that; it would make him appear indecisive. He tried to keep the doubt from his face. “And how will you know if the information I give to Tregarron is true or false in the first place?” he asked.

“A gentleman’s agreement,” Duke Alois said dryly, meeting Pitt’s eyes.

“You are a gentleman,” Pitt responded. “I’m not.”

“You are a gamekeeper’s son,” Alois said. “Which means you have a good servant’s sense of honor. I am a prince, which means I have very little sense of honor at all, only such as I choose.”

Pitt was startled that Alois knew so much about him, then realized that he should have expected it. He also appreciated that Alois’s comments were at least half ironic.

“I imagine that after the affair at Buckingham Palace, you are little inclined to trust princes,” Alois went on. “Whereas I am much inclined to trust a man raised by a good gamekeeper. Gamekeepers are men who nurture the earth and the creatures on it. Nature forgives no mistakes.”

“Nor does Special Branch, yours or mine,” Pitt told him.

“Precisely. One might say the same of the tides of history.” Alois was very serious now. There was no amusement in his eyes, only intense emotion. Pitt could not look away from him. “Social change is coming in all of Europe, whether the House of Habsburg wants it or not,” Alois went on. “If we release our grip voluntarily, it may come without bloodshed. If we try to prevent change using oppression, then the end will be bloody, and the hate will remain.”

“Emperor Franz Josef does not agree with you,” Pitt said grimly.

“I know.” A flash of bitter humor crossed Alois’s face. “There is little I can do about that. But what I can do, I will, which is why I would find it very useful to be more aware of Tregarron’s information, and perhaps have a few more …” He hesitated. “… more managed details going in both directions.”

Pitt understood very well, even if he was not as certain of Alois’s motives as he would like to be.

“Yes,” he said, relaxing just slightly. “We might think of a few ideas that would be profitable to one or the other of us. Perhaps even to both.”

Duke Alois held out his hand. Without hesitation Pitt leaned forward and took it. Then he excused himself and went to check with Stoker.

Fifteen minutes later, he was in the hall outside the compartment, standing at the window watching the wooded countryside slip by. Suddenly the train slowed abruptly, as if the driver had jammed on the brakes.

Pitt stiffened, then turned and sprinted back the dozen yards to Duke Alois’s compartment. “Stoker!” he shouted above the screech of the wheels on the iron track.

The connecting door to the next carriage flew open and Stoker was there, immediately followed by one of the duke’s men.

The compartment door opened and Alois looked out. “What is it?” he asked, his voice steady but his face tight and pale.

“Farm cart on the rails,” Stoker answered. “Looks like its load of hay fell off and it got stuck.” He looked from Pitt to Duke Alois. “Sir. It’s probably nothing, but—”

“Get back in and keep your head down!” Pitt finished for him. He made it sharp, an order.

“Are you sure it was a farm cart?” Duke Alois questioned.

Stoker took a step toward him. “Maybe just an accident, sir, but maybe not.” He stopped close to Alois, as if to push him back inside the compartment.

The duke glanced at Pitt.

The train jerked to a halt.

One of Duke Alois’s men, tall, thin, and dark-haired, like the duke himself, came down the corridor.

“What the devil is—” he began.

A shot smashed the glass of the window. The man staggered backward and fell against the compartment wall, then slumped to the floor, a slow red stain spreading across his chest.

Stoker lunged toward Alois and forced him down onto the floor. One of the other men kneeled beside the fallen man, but Pitt knew without bothering to look again that he was beyond help. He turned and ran along the corridor toward the end of the carriage. Throwing open the door on the opposite side, he leaped down onto the track, his hand already on his gun. If he had gone onto the same side as the marksman, he would have been a perfect target, even an expected one. This gave him the cover of the train, but it also meant that he had the length of at least one carriage to run before he could get anywhere near the man.

Would the assassin want to take another shot? Or was he certain he had hit Duke Alois, and so would make his escape immediately? Who was it? Tregarron? Or one of the Austrian factions he had believed it was from the beginning? Tregarron would be alone. But if it was a political assassination attempt simply to draw attention, or any of the minor nations rebelling against Habsburg rule by shooting a member of the ruling family, then there could be half a dozen men. Was Stoker staying to guard Duke Alois? He hoped so. He was still a target.

He reached the end connection, and dropped to his hands and knees. He peered beneath and saw nothing but a narrow strip of woods on the other side. Was the marksman waiting just out of sight, ready to pick off anyone who appeared?

There had been no second shot. He probably knew he had hit someone, but he could not be certain it was Duke Alois. He would surely know that someone, either British, Austrian, or both, would come after him. Would the marksman retreat a little to a point from which he would see the train, but not be easily seen himself? Whoever he was, he had chosen a farm cart to stop the train, and a wooded area from which to attack. Perhaps he was a countryman; he was an excellent shot, possibly a hunter.

Pitt had grown up in the country as well. He had followed Sir Arthur Desmond on pheasant shoots, even deer hunts once or twice. He knew how to stalk, to keep low, to stay downwind, to move silently. He had only a handgun to the other man’s rifle, which perhaps even had a telescopic sight on it, judging from the shot that had killed Duke Alois’s man. Pitt must take very great care.

He went the length of the next carriage as well, then dropped to his hands and knees again and peered under. No one in sight. He scrambled through the gaps quickly and stayed low, rolling down the embankment into the underbrush and then up onto his feet again as soon as he was within the copse of trees.

Which way would the man go after making the shot? Probably to the high ground, where he would have a chance of still seeing the train, and also of seeing anyone who might come after him. A slight hollow would hide him better. It was instinctive.

But how long would he watch the train to make sure he had killed the right man?

Pitt wished he had told Stoker to make it appear that they were flustered, and in some way to indicate that it was Alois who was dead. It was too late now. But perhaps he would think of it anyway.

Pitt moved forward through the thickest part of the trees. The ground was damp. He was leaving footprints. That meant the other man would also. If Pitt could find the tracks, he could follow him. But the assassin would realize that.

Pitt moved as quickly as he could toward where he judged the shot to have come from, trying to move silently, looking down to avoid snapping sticks or getting tangled in the long, winding branches of brambles. Every now and then he glanced up, but all he could see was underbrush and tree trunks with glistening wet bark, a lot of them birch, hazel, and black poplar, and here and there a few alder.

He looked backward once. The train was out of sight, except for the engine, which was stopped a few yards short of the huge hay wagon still splayed across the track, its load now largely moved onto the embankment. From the way the whole thing listed, it seemed that one of the wheels had broken, or come off. But if it was off, somebody would have found a way to put it back on again. There were half a dozen men working to clear the track. When they did, surely the train would go, whether Pitt had returned or not? Stoker would see to that? Or the duke?

Pitt stopped and stood still. He strained to hear movement anywhere ahead of him. How long would the marksman wait? Even if he had not seen Pitt through his scope, he would likely assume his presence, or the presence of someone else coming after him. Why had he not shot at Pitt, at least when he was on the embankment? Had he been concentrating on what was going on inside the train?

Pitt could hear nothing except the steady drip of water off the branches onto the wet leaves, which by this point in March almost moldered down into the earth.

Was there any water here? Yes, a stream along the lower ground. That would be the place to hide tracks. What would a clever man do? Go to the stream, leaving footprints easy enough to follow, then walk along the bed of the stream, leaving no trace at all, and then step wherever he would leave the fewest marks. Perhaps he would even create a false trail, and go back into the water again upstream or downstream from his entry.

How did the assassin get here? How would he leave? Not by train, perhaps not by road—at least for the nearest few miles. Horseback. It was the obvious way, perhaps the only way in this part of the countryside. Faster and easier than walking.

Then where was his horse? He would have left it tied somewhere; the last thing he needed was to come back and find that it had wandered off. If Pitt could find the horse, then the man would come to him. And where was the main road from London?

He turned and started to make for the high ground himself. Perhaps it would even be a good idea to climb a sturdy tree and look around? The horse would be at some point close to the road. He increased his pace.

At the top of the next rise he selected a strong, well-grown alder. Putting his revolver in his pocket, he began to climb. It was awkward. It must have been at least twenty years since he last climbed a tree.

It took a few moments to reach a satisfactory height, where he could see at least a couple of miles in all directions. As he twisted his body the trunk swayed. Better not to risk going any higher. If it broke, it would not only send him crashing down to possible injury, it would also make a considerable noise and tell the marksman exactly where he was.

Holding the trunk hard with his left arm, he looked around as widely as he could, searching for the road in the distance. It was not hard to see. After a moment or two he could trace it from south to north, swinging away to the west eventually. Surely the marksman would have left his horse near it, for once he reached the road again, he would have escaped pursuit. No one on the train had a horse, or any way of communicating with the outside world to call for help.

Pitt climbed down carefully and set off as rapidly as he could without making noise in the direction of the road. If he was wrong, he would lose his quarry completely, but he had no way of knowing where the marksman was anyhow.

Every now and then he stopped to listen, but he heard nothing more than bird calls and the whir of wings now and then. A dog barked somewhere far in the distance a few times, and then fell silent.

He came out on the road about a mile away from the train, perhaps a little more. He kept to the trees at the side. When he had made certain of his bearings, he went back into the woods again and started moving very carefully, looking for a clearing where someone could leave a horse unseen. He had to be quick. Once the marksman had made certain of his kill, and was back here and mounted, it would be impossible for Pitt to stop him, except by shooting him. Pitt was good with a gun; he had learned from his father. But a handgun is very different from a rifle or a shotgun. He knew his chances of hitting a man astride a fast-moving horse would be pretty poor. There would be no time to even make sure he had the right person. It could be some innocent rider in the wrong place at the wrong time.

And the marksman would know all this too.

Pitt moved as rapidly as he could, sprinting through the few open patches he came to. He was deeper into the woods now. He realized it, and swerved back toward the road. The marksman would have left the horse only far enough in to be hidden from passersby.

When he found it, he almost stumbled into it: a beautiful creature, moving quietly, cropping the grass in as wide a circle as its long tethering rope allowed it. It heard him at the same moment he saw it. It raised its head and looked at him curiously.

Pitt drew breath to speak, then realized the man could be close, so he stepped silently back into the shadow of the trees. The horse lowered its head again.

Pitt did not have long to wait. Less than four minutes later, he heard the faint crack of a twig. A man dressed in brown and green stepped out of the shadows and walked toward the horse, which lifted its head again and blew through its nostrils, taking a step toward him.

The man had a rifle with a telescopic sight fixed to it. It was Lord Tregarron.

Pitt stepped forward, his revolver raised high, pointing at Tregarron.

“If you move any closer to the horse I will shoot you,” Pitt said very clearly. “Not to kill, but enough to hurt very much indeed.”

Tregarron froze.

Pitt moved farther out of the shadow of the trees. Tregarron had killed a man. He would inevitably learn that he had not hit Duke Alois. Could he be charged with attempted assassination? There would have to be a trial. It would inevitably expose the duke’s secret position.

Was the bargain Duke Alois had proposed still useful? It was a risk, but then it always had been.

Pitt came farther forward, angling closer to the horse so Tregarron could not get behind it and spoil his clean shot. The revolver was pointed at Tregarron’s chest.

Tregarron smiled. Pitt knew its cruel twist was out of fear.

“Failed, didn’t you?” he said with malice edging his voice. “You let Duke Alois be killed. Not likely to remain in your position much longer, especially when the Austrians tell London who he really was. You didn’t know, did you?”

“Alois?” Pitt raised his eyebrows. “Is that who you were aiming at?” He saw a moment’s doubt in Tregarron’s eyes. “I’d like to let you think you succeeded, but you’ll know soon enough that you didn’t.”

Tregarron blinked, not sure if he was being lied to or not.

“But you did kill someone,” Pitt went on. “Poor chap was one of Alois’s men. Resembled him, certainly.”

Tregarron was standing stiffly, the rifle still in his hands.

“Put it down,” Pitt told him.

“Or what? You’ll shoot me? How would you explain that? I’m out for a ride in the country. Thought I’d shoot a few rabbits. You’re a fool!”

“Good idea, shooting rabbits,” Pitt lifted the barrel of the revolver an inch higher. “Might shoot a few myself.”

“Don’t be so damn stupid!” Tregarron snapped. “You’re supposed to be on a train guarding the head of the Austrian Special Branch, not strolling through the woods shooting at small animals!”

“You’re right,” Pitt agreed. “I wasn’t shooting at small animals, I was shooting at the man who killed one of Alois’s companions. Didn’t see his face. Never realized it was one of our own Foreign Office staff.”

A little of the color drained from Tregarron’s skin. “You can’t try me in court, even if you imagine that you could find proof. You’d create a scandal.” But his voice was hollow. “This will look like an accident: tragic, but no one’s fault.”

“Not even mine, for incompetence?” Pitt asked sarcastically. “Shouldn’t I have foreseen that we would have one of our aristocratic ministers wandering around the woods shooting at rabbits—at head height? Roosting in the trees, were they?”

The blood surged up Tregarron’s face, and his grip tightened on his rifle till his knuckles were white.

“But as it happens,” Pitt went on, “I don’t wish to try you. I have a much better idea. You will pass me your rifle, then I will take your horse and ride to the nearest public transport back to London. You will walk to wherever you wish. I will say that I did not find the man who murdered our unfortunate Austrian visitor, and in return for that favor, at whatever time I wish in the future, you will pass on certain information that I will give you to your connections in the Austrian government.”

Tregarron stared at him as if he could not believe what he had heard. Then, as he studied Pitt’s face, he realized with horror that he really meant it.

“And if I should hear—and I would hear—that you have passed it incorrectly, then you will be exposed as the traitor you are,” Pitt continued. “And your father’s treason would become equally public, as would his regrettable affair with Serafina Montserrat.”

“You filthy bastard!” Tregarron spat.

“I’m a bastard because I would rather use a traitor than shoot him in cold blood and create a scandal I could not control?” Pitt asked, the sarcasm back in his voice. “I suppose that’s a matter of opinion. Mine is that you have betrayed your country rather than allow your father’s treason to be exposed, or your mother to be embarrassed. You had better make your choice quickly. I am not going to wait.”

“And what is to force me to keep my word?” Tregarron asked.

“Fear of exposure,” Pitt replied succinctly. “Pass me the rifle.”

Slowly, as if his limbs hurt to move, Tregarron obeyed.

Pitt took the rifle, still keeping his revolver pointed at Tregarron. Then he moved very carefully to untie the horse and walk it beyond Tregarron’s line of sight before he mounted it. Slinging the rifle over his shoulder, he urged the horse into a trot along the road.

AT HOME AT KEPPEL Street, Charlotte awaited Pitt with intense nervousness. She kept telling herself that there would be no attack in Dover, that the train journey to London would pass without incident. She busied herself with household tasks, but would stop halfway through, pace around, then forget what she had been doing and start something else.

“ ’Ave yer lost summink?” Minnie Maude asked anxiously.

Charlotte swung around. “Oh, no, thank you. I’m just wondering if everything is all right. Which is quite stupid, because I can’t help, even if it isn’t.”

The telephone rang, and she was so startled she flinched and let out her breath in a gasp. Instead of allowing Minnie Maude to pick it up, she dashed into the hall and did it herself.

“Yes? I mean, good afternoon?”

There was a pause while the exchange made the connection. Then: “Charlotte …”

It was Pitt’s voice, and she was overwhelmed with relief. “Where are you? Are you all right? When will you be home?” she asked.

“I’m still in Kent. I am fine and I shall be home late,” he replied. “Please make sure you go to the reception with Aunt Vespasia, or with Jack and Emily, and stay with them the whole time. I shall come when I can.”

“Why are you still in Kent?” she demanded. “Are you sure you’re all right? Is Duke Alois all right? And Stoker?”

“We are perfectly fine. And you will like the duke when you meet him. And I’ll explain later. Please, just go with Aunt Vespasia, or Emily. I am not hurt in the slightest, really.”

“Oh … thank heaven for that. Yes, I’ll go with Emily and Jack.” Already she knew what she meant to do. It was the opportunity she needed. “I’ll see you there.” She replaced the receiver with a smile.

Then immediately she picked it up again and asked to be connected to Emily’s number. She had only a few moments to wait before Emily herself was at the other end.

“Emily? It’s me. Thomas has been held up and cannot accompany me to the reception at Kensington Palace. May I come with you, please? I … I would like to.” She said it gently; it mattered very much.

There was a moment’s silence, then Emily’s voice came back over the wire, filled with relief.

“Of course. That would be excellent. It will be like it was years ago, going together …” She stopped, not sure how to finish.

“What are you going to wear?” Charlotte filled in the silence. “I want to wear black and white. It’s the only new really grand gown I have.”

Emily laughed. “Oh, that’s wonderful. I shall wear the palest possible green.”

“That is your best color,” Charlotte said sincerely.

“Then we shall take them by storm,” Emily agreed. “We shall call for you at half-past seven.” She laughed; it was a light, happy sound. “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.” Charlotte replaced the receiver and went upstairs overwhelmed with relief, smiling all the way. “Minnie Maude! I think perhaps it is time I prepared for the evening,” she called from the landing. Jemima’s door opened on the next floor; she would want to help too, offer advice, and dream of the day when she would attend such events.

CHARLOTTE ARRIVED AT KENSINGTON Palace with Emily and Jack. It was a trifle tight inside their carriage, but both sisters looked superb. Emily’s gown was huge in the crown of the sleeve; the Nile-green silk gleamed like sunlight on still water, and the huge skirts, when swept around, revealed a silver lining underneath. It was slender-waisted, and low at the neck. Diamonds shone at her neck and ears, and on a bracelet over her elbow-length white kid gloves.

Charlotte’s choice was entirely different. It was a fine, sheer silk black overdress with a gleaming white gown beneath. The effect was all light and shadow, and when she moved it had a most extraordinary grace. The ribbon of black satin around the waist accentuated the natural curves of her body, and she wore pearl-and-jet jewelry with crystals that also caught the light in momentary fire. She knew that as she followed Emily in, she drew more eyes, and she held her head a little higher, feeling the warmth flush her cheeks. She did not normally consider herself beautiful, but perhaps for this occasion, she would make an exception.

The queen herself was not attending. She came to very few functions these days, only those where her absence would have been a serious dereliction of her duty as monarch. The Prince and Princess of Wales were traveling abroad, so—fortunately for Pitt, considering the affair at Buckingham Palace—they were not here either. The atmosphere was relaxed, with plenty of laughter amid the clink of glasses. Somewhere just out of sight, a small orchestra was playing lush, lilting Viennese music so that one could not help but wish to dance.

Vespasia arrived, escorted by Victor Narraway. She was always beautiful, but it seemed on this occasion that she had paid more attention to her appearance than usual. She wore a gown of soft violet; its skirt was not as large as many, and the narrowness of it was very flattering, especially to someone of her height, who walked as if she could have balanced a pile of books on her head without losing a single one. She wore a tiara, a very slender thing, a mere suggestion of amethysts and pearls.

Watching her, Charlotte found herself smiling at what a striking pair Vespasia and Narraway made, and knew that Jack, who was beside her with Emily on his other arm, was wondering why she looked so delighted.

They moved on, talking politely, making conversation about anything and nothing. She missed Pitt. It was odd to be here alone. In spite of the magnificence of the palace, with its great high-ceilinged rooms and its sweeping marble staircases, in spite of the wit, glamour, and ceremony surrounding her, there was an emptiness. Charlotte thought of Adriana Blantyre, and for a moment she felt tears prick her eyes. Would his love of Austria be enough to bring Evan Blantyre here, in spite of all that had happened? She scanned the room to see if she could find his familiar figure. Twice she thought she saw him, but when she looked more closely it was someone else.

She had been in the palace over half an hour when she was introduced to Duke Alois Habsburg. He was tall and a trifle thin, with dark hair and an agreeable, slightly absentminded expression. But the moment his attention focused on her she saw the bright intelligence in his eyes.

“How do you do, Mrs. Pitt?” he asked with a smile.

“How do you do, Your Highness?” she replied with a very slight curtsy. She would not have wished him harm, but she wondered why Pitt had to risk his life to defend a man who played at academic pursuits for pleasure, and served no actively useful purpose.

Someone made a joke and Duke Alois laughed, but he did not move from standing almost in front of her. A young woman in pink was staring at them both, clearly waiting for Alois to notice her; at least that was clear to Charlotte. The duke appeared not to have realized it.

“I imagine your husband will arrive soon,” he said to Charlotte.

“Yes, sir,” she replied, forcing herself to smile back at him. “He has been held up. I don’t know why. I apologize.”

“Don’t you?” Alois raised his eyebrows. His expression was agreeably interested. “They stopped our train. Put a hay wagon across the track.” He said it as if he was commenting on something as trivial as the weather. She barely saw the shadow of grief in his eyes. “Unfortunately, they shot my friend Hans. Your husband went straight after the marksman, without hesitation.”

Charlotte was stunned. Suddenly the hubbub of laughter and music drifting from the other room seemed to fade away.

“I’m so sorry. How is your friend?” she asked quietly.

“I am afraid he is dead,” he replied. Only his voice changed, not the bland look on his face. “I think he may not have suffered. It was a perfect shot, straight through the heart.”

She could not think of anything to say. She felt foolish.

“He looked like me,” he said. There was a catch in his voice that he could not hide. “Your husband is a good man. I look forward to knowing him better. Perhaps you will come to Vienna one day? You would enjoy it. It is a beautiful city, full of music, ideas, and history.”

She took a deep breath. “I look forward to it. Thank you, sir.”

He smiled, then turned away to make polite and meaningless conversation with the young woman in pink.

AT THE FARTHER SIDE of the room, Emily was standing beside Jack. They also finished a courteous discussion and drifted from one group to another.

“Where is Thomas?” Jack said very quietly to Emily. “Why isn’t he here?”

“I don’t know,” Emily replied. “But wherever he is, Charlotte isn’t worried about him.”

“Are you sure?” he asked anxiously. “She wouldn’t show it if she were.”

“Of course I’m sure,” Emily said with an elegant shrug of exasperation. “She’s my sister. I’d know if she was pretending.”

He looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “You haven’t read her very well over the last few weeks.”

She flushed. “I know, and I’m sorry about it. I thought she was being very self-important.” She took a deep breath. “I was.” She did not add that she had been afraid that Jack was out of his depth with his promotion to Tregarron’s assistant. That was something he might guess, but she would rather that he did not know it for certain. “Charlotte and I understand each other better now,” she added. She knew he was still looking at her, so she flashed a quick, confident smile, and saw him relax. Now she wondered how worried he had been, and decided she would prefer not to know either. It would be a good thing for them both to have the chance to deny things, and for each to be able to pretend to believe the other.

She tucked her arm in his. “Let’s go and be polite to the duchess of whatever it is. She’s a fearful bore. It will take some concentration.”

“All you need to do is listen,” he replied. He placed his hand momentarily over hers in a quick, gentle gesture, then removed it again instantly and walked forward with her beside him.

“That’s not enough,” she whispered, leaning closer. “You have to smile, and nod in all the right places, and try not to fidget, or let your eyes wander to other people …”

ALMOST UNDER THE GREAT chandelier Narraway was standing next to Vespasia. For a moment or two they were not engaged in conversation with anyone else.

“Where is Pitt?” he asked quietly. “Charlotte doesn’t look worried, but he should be here with Duke Alois. I’ve seen Stoker, dressed like a footman, but that isn’t enough.”

She looked at him closely. “You think something could happen here, in the palace?”

“It’s unlikely,” he replied, almost under his breath. “But it isn’t impossible.”

She was alarmed. She turned to face him, studying his eyes, his mouth, trying to read whether it was fear or merely caution that moved him. His eyes were shadowed, nearly black, the lines around his mouth scored deep.

“Such a scandal, here?” she whispered.

He put his hand on hers, his fingers warm and strong. “Oh, nothing so melodramatic, my dear. Far more likely to be a quick scuffle in the shadows of a corridor, and then a body behind the curtains to be found in the morning.”

She searched his eyes and saw no laughter at all, nothing beyond the wry, gentle irony that softened his words.

“I don’t know where Thomas is,” she answered his first question. “I think something might have happened that we are not yet aware of. Duke Alois looks as if he is mastering his emotions with some difficulty, and I have not seen Lord Tregarron. Have you?”

“No. Please don’t … inquire for him …” He stopped, uncertain how to continue.

“I won’t,” she promised. “At least not yet.”

This time he did laugh, so quietly it was almost soundless. “Of course you will,” he said ruefully. “But please be careful. I have an awful feeling that this threat is not over yet.”

“My dear Victor, our concern with threats will never be over. At least, I hope not. And so do you. You would rather go out in a blaze of glory than die of boredom. As would I.”

“But I am not ready to do so yet!” He took a deep breath. “And I am not ready for you to, either.”

She felt a distinct warmth of pleasure. “Then I shall endeavor to see that my next blaze of glory is not an exit line.”

PITT ARRIVED AT KENSINGTON Palace just under two hours after the reception had begun. He had been home to Keppel Street and washed, shaved, and changed into his evening suit. Leaving Tregarron’s rifle locked in the wardrobe, he had then eaten a cold beef sandwich and drunk a cup of tea. Then, with his revolver in his pocket, which felt lumpy and conspicuous, he had caught a hansom cab, paying extra to the driver to take him with the greatest speed possible. He remembered the jolt of the train stopping, and then the shot, the splintered glass, and the blood as the Duke’s man fell. The devil’s luck, or a brilliant shot? He thought the latter. Had the victim been chosen to accompany Duke Alois because he looked so much like him? Had he known that, and still been prepared to take that risk?

Had Pitt made the right decision in turning Tregarron, rather than arresting him for Hans’s murder? He might never have proved it, and even if he had, what would have been the result? A major scandal, a foreign policy embarrassment of considerable proportions, possibly the loss of his own position, for political clumsiness …

Or alternatively, it would never have come to court anyway. That would have left an impossible situation.

Yet it galled Pitt that the man had attempted to murder Duke Alois, had instead murdered the duke’s friend, and would now walk away from it with neither injury nor blame.

He entered the glittering reception hall feeling absurdly out of place. And yet, he did not look outwardly different from the scores of men standing around talking, to each other and to the gorgeously gowned women in their brilliant colors, their jewels sparkling like fire in the light of the huge chandeliers pendent from elaborate ceilings.

His eyes searched the crowd for Charlotte. He saw Emily. He recognized her fair hair with its diamond tiara, and the pale, liquid shade of green that suited her so well. She looked happy.

He also saw Vespasia, but then she was usually easy to see in any crowd. She was beside Narraway and they were talking to each other, heads bent a little.

What could Charlotte be wearing? Blue, burgundy, some warmer color that flattered the rich tones of her skin and hair; lots of women were wearing such shades. All the skirts were enormous, the sleeves high and almost winged at the shoulder—it was the fashion.

He saw Duke Alois briefly, laughing at some joke or other and smiling at a duchess. He looked exactly the pleasant, absentminded sort of academic he affected to be. The serious and idealistic man who was willing to risk his life, to carry a dangerous burden of secret office, the man who had seen his friend shot to death only this afternoon, seemed like something Pitt had dreamed.

It was small wonder Tregarron had tried to kill Duke Alois. What man would not want to rid himself of such mastery by another, such power to manipulate, or destroy? What he had done, he had done to protect his father’s name, and his mother’s feelings. Not a bad motive. Most people would understand it.

Pitt still could not see Charlotte; he gave up trying from this vantage. He went down the steps slowly and into the crowd. Hardly anyone knew him, so he had no need to stop and acknowledge people.

How had Alois known of Tregarron’s vulnerability? That was something that could not have come from Serafina Montserrat. She had been active long before Duke Alois’s time, and he had not been to London before.

Yet Pitt could not rid himself of the belief that it was Serafina’s crumbling memory that had fired this whole complex series of events. It was Serafina’s memory of Lazar Dragovic’s death that had driven Blantyre to kill her, and then to kill Adriana.

Blantyre also knew about Tregarron. He had said as much. So had Blantyre told Duke Alois about it?

That made no sense at all. Blantyre might have cooperated with Duke Alois, within limits, but he would never have given him, or anyone else, control of his own means of power, the secret knowledge that enabled him to manipulate Tregarron.

Then, like the sun rising on a hideous landscape, the whole picture became clear in his mind. Blantyre would want Duke Alois dead now. As long as he was alive, he could also control Tregarron. With Duke Alois dead, no one but Pitt knew the secrets, and Blantyre discounted Pitt’s courage to act.

Perhaps he also believed that if Duke Alois was murdered while under Pitt’s protection in London, Pitt might be disposed of. Surely it would not be too difficult a task. Pitt was now the head of Special Branch, but he had not proven himself yet. He was still something of an experiment: a man risen from the ranks of the police, rather than a gentleman from the military or diplomatic services. Kill Alois and blame Pitt’s incompetence, and Blantyre would be the only man left with the power to manipulate Tregarron into telling Vienna whatever Blantyre wished, and learning whatever he wished in return. He needed both Duke Alois and Pitt out of the way for Tregarron to be of use to him.

It had to have been Blantyre who had sent Tregarron to kill Duke Alois today. It would have worked perfectly. Pitt would like to have seen Blantyre’s face when the duke arrived this evening, very clearly alive and well!

Where was Blantyre? Was he here? He started to look more earnestly. He would have to find Charlotte later. He pushed through the gaps in the crowds, excusing himself, brushing past, turning from right to left, searching for Blantyre. He ought to be able to spot him. He was a little taller than average, and he stood and moved with a unique kind of elegance, a trifle stiff. He carried his head in a characteristic way.

Pitt glanced over to where Duke Alois had been talking to a duchess, or whoever she was. She was still there, but now she was speaking with a large, middle-aged man.

Pitt turned around slowly, taking a deep breath and letting it out between his teeth. He could not see the duke. One of his men was standing over near the wall, but there was a slight frown on his face, and he too was looking from side to side.

Pitt started to look for Emily. Her fair hair and the pale green of her gown might stand out. Yes, there she was, and Jack was still beside her.

“Excuse me,” Pitt said hastily, brushing his way past a woman in a mulberry-colored silk gown. She glared at him, but he barely noticed. He walked right between two elderly gentlemen, excusing himself again. He must not lose sight of Jack.

“Here! I say!” a young man protested as Pitt bumped him. He in turn trod on a woman’s skirt, which was a fraction too long for her.

“I’m sorry,” Pitt said over his shoulder, and kept going.

“Jack!” he called just as Jack appeared about to begin a conversation with a young man wearing lush side whiskers. “Jack.”

Jack turned, startled. “Thomas! What’s wrong?”

“Excuse me,” Pitt said to the young man. “Something of an emergency.” He took Jack’s arm and pulled him to the side, several steps away from the nearest group. “There was an incident on the train this afternoon. One of Duke Alois’s men was shot—killed outright.”

Jack looked appalled. The blood drained from his face. His eyes swept down Pitt to reassure himself that he was unhurt, then a flash of relief filled his eyes. “I’m sorry. The duke himself is putting a hell of a good face on it. Or is he too stupid in his studies for physical reality to touch him? He does know, I presume?”

“Yes. And he’s anything but out of touch, I promise you.”

“Do you know who it was?”

“Yes, but this is not the time to explain. The duke was here a few minutes ago, but I can’t see him now. Blantyre was behind the shooting, and I can’t see him either. I think he’ll try to finish the job …”

“Here? For God’s sake, Thomas, the place is full of women and—”

“Where better?” Pitt cut across him. “No one will be expecting it. Duke Alois and his men will think he’s safe. I nearly did, until I realized exactly why Blantyre has to kill him. He can’t afford to let him get back to Vienna.”

Jack gulped. “What do you want me to do?”

“Find the duke, tell him you’re my brother-in-law, and keep him in the middle of a crowd, any crowd.”

“What about you?”

“I’m going to find Blantyre.”

“And do what, for God’s sake?”

“Arrest him, but if he forces me to, I’ll shoot him.” As soon as he said it, Pitt was not certain if he would do it—if he could. He was not even certain if he could prove that Blantyre had murdered Serafina.

Jack stood motionless for an instant, then he gave a very slight nod, and turned on his heel, disappearing into the crowd immediately.

Where would Blantyre have gone? One of two places. He could hide in the crowd, where he would be concealed among hundreds of other men dressed in exactly the same fashion. However, his face was known, so people would stop to speak to him, to express condolences over Adriana’s death.

The alternative would be to stay out of sight almost altogether, in the darker, narrower passages, any place where he would not be expected. Change his attitude, his grace of stance or movement, and—from the back at least—he would appear like anyone else, even a servant. The footmen were in livery, but there were always others: a butler, a valet, even a messenger of some sort.

And if he really meant to kill Duke Alois, he would have to do that when he had privacy. He would not intend to be caught.

Pitt went back up the stairs, taking them rapidly. They were too wide and shallow to take two at a time, unless he drew attention to himself by doing it at a run. At the top he stopped, looking for more private rooms, corridors, anterooms, galleries—anything away from the crowd. If he could find Stoker he would ask for his help, but he had no time now to look for him. He too could be anywhere.

There was a door to his left. It was as good a place as any to begin. He had opened it and gone inside when he realized how much better it would be to get some order into his search. Blantyre would not wait forever for the duke; he would stalk him, go where he knew the duke would be, and, sooner or later, get him alone.

Where? The room where the orchestra was playing? A gallery beyond that? A corridor? A lavatory—the one place where a man could spend a few minutes and expect, quite reasonably, to be alone? Blantyre could close a door and be there indefinitely, unseen.

Pitt walked away from the room toward one of the footmen standing at the bottom of the stairs.

“Excuse me,” he said calmly. “Can you direct me to the gentlemen’s lavatory, please? The most convenient, if there is more than one.”

“Just the one available to guests, sir,” the footman replied. “If you go along there to your right.” He gestured discreetly, so no onlooker would have been aware of where he was pointing. “It is the third door along that passage, sir.”

“Thank you,” Pitt accepted, and walked quickly in the direction the man had indicated. He came to the door, hesitated a moment, then turned the handle and went inside. It was beautifully appointed, with half a dozen stalls, each with its own door. Only one was occupied. Was Blantyre in there, waiting until Duke Alois came? Surely in the course of the evening it was certain that he would?

Pitt stood silently with his back against the wall, his heart pounding. Seconds ticked by. There was no sound from the occupied cubicle. Perhaps Alois was already there, already dead? Or unconscious and dying while Pitt stood out here like a fool?

There was a noise outside: footsteps, men’s voices.

Pitt turned his back to the room and pretended to be drying his hands on a towel.

Behind him two men came in. He glanced around. Neither was Alois. He went to the basin and washed his hands, slowly, as if he had something under a fingernail. After several minutes first one man left, then the other. The door at the far end remained locked. There was no sound from within. Was it someone ill? Someone dead? If it was Blantyre waiting for Alois, why had he not even looked out to see who had come in?

More minutes went by. Another man came in and left.

Was Pitt standing here, incessantly pretending to wash his hands, while outside, Blantyre was stalking Alois, and perhaps catching him? Was the duke already stabbed and bleeding to death behind some curtain?

Pitt went to the outside door and, pulling it open abruptly, slipped out. He closed it, then waited. How had Alois walked? Upright, but not like a soldier. With grace, a sort of lanky elegance, as if nothing troubled him. He tried to picture it exactly. A slight swagger—a very slight limp, as if his left leg was just a little stiff.

He walked away a few steps, turned, and walked back, trying to imitate Alois. He put his hand on the door and opened it, then went in walking casually, dragging his left foot so slightly he was not even certain it was enough. He swallowed, gulping air.

The last door opened and he was looking at Evan Blantyre, a long, curved knife in one hand. For a silent, burning second they stared at each other. Then Pitt’s fingers closed around the revolver in his pocket and he lifted it out slowly.

Blantyre smiled. “You don’t have the courage,” he said slowly.

Pitt did not take his eyes from Blantyre’s. “You killed Serafina, Adriana …”

“And Lazar Dragovic,” Blantyre added. “He was a traitor to Austria. But you can’t prove any of it.”

“Austria is not my territory,” Pitt told him. “London is.”

“Austria is the heart of Europe, you provincial fool!” Blantyre said between his teeth. “Get out of my way.”

“And London is the heart of England,” Pitt replied. “Which is irrelevant, except that it is my responsibility. You blackmailed Tregarron into trying to kill Duke Alois, and only ended up killing his friend instead. But one dead man is as important as another.”

“You can’t prove that either, without exposing Tregarron, and his father, and the whole sordid mess of treason. And you’ll expose Duke Alois as well, of course,” Blantyre said. “So there isn’t a damn thing you can do. Now get out of my way, and don’t oblige me to hurt you.”

Pitt stood still, his heart beating so violently he felt certain he must be shaking. His hand ached, gripping the revolver.

Blantyre moved the knife a little so the light caught its blade.

“What are you going to do, stab Alois?” Pitt asked, his voice rough-edged.

Blantyre paled a little.

“Because you can’t afford to leave him alive,” Pitt added.

There was a flash of understanding in Blantyre’s eyes, perhaps of the knowledge that he couldn’t afford to leave Pitt alive either. For an instant he moved the knife a fraction, then let it fall again.

“You can’t arrest me; you’d only make a fool of yourself. And you don’t have the nerve,” he said very softly. “I’m walking out of here and I’ll find Duke Alois another time. Perhaps I’ll follow him back to Vienna. No reason I shouldn’t. You’re out of your depth, Pitt. Pity, because I liked you.” He gave a slight shrug and took a step forward.

Everything that Blantyre said was true.

Pitt raised the revolver. “God forgive me,” he said to himself, and fired.

The sound was deafening.

For an instant Blantyre’s eyes were wide with amazement, then he staggered backward against the cubicle door and it crashed open behind him. He fell, his chest soaked in red. He slithered to the floor, and lay still.

Pitt forced himself to walk over to the cubicle and look down. Blantyre’s eyes were still open, and sightless. Pitt felt his stomach twist violently with regret. Hours seemed to pass before he heard shouts and footsteps along the corridor. He put the revolver back in his pocket and took out his identification. He had it in his hand when two men in dinner suits flung the door open and stopped abruptly. Narraway was immediately behind them, Jack Radley on his heels.

“God Almighty!” the first man exclaimed, his face ashen, staring first at Pitt, then past him to the open door, and Blantyre covered in blood, lying on the tiled marble floor.

Narraway pushed past him, then stopped.

Pitt started to speak, cleared his throat, and started again.

“I am Thomas Pitt, head of Special Branch. I regret to say that there has been an unpleasant incident, but there is no danger now. You might be civil enough to inform Duke Alois Habsburg that the immediate danger to his life is over.”

The first man gaped, then turned very slowly to Narraway.

Narraway looked at him, his eyebrows slightly raised.

“Quite right, Ponsonby,” he said. “He is precisely who he says he is, and the facts are as he states. Be a good chap and get everyone out of here while we have someone clear this up, will you?”

When they were gone, too numb with shock to argue, Narraway closed the door.

“Well done, Pitt,” he said quietly. “It’ll hurt like hell. You’ll dream about it as long as you live, but that’s the price of leadership, making the gray decisions. Black-and-white ones are easy; any fool can deal with those. You’ll have to live with it, but if you hadn’t done it, you would have had to live with every grief that followed because of it.” He smiled very slightly. “I always knew you’d do it.”

“No, you didn’t,” Pitt replied, his voice hoarse.

Narraway shrugged. “I believed it more than you did. That’s good enough.” Then he smiled and held out his hand.

Pitt took it, and held it, hard.

“Thank you.” Simple words, but he had never meant them more.