Dorchester Terrace

VESPASIA RETURNED TO CALL again on Serafina Montserrat a week after her first visit. It was a bright, fresh day, but surprisingly cold. She was pleased to come inside the house, even though it had an air of emptiness about it. Pale flowers were arranged carefully in a vase on the hall table, but without flair, as if whoever had done it was afraid to be criticized for individuality. All the pictures were straight, the surfaces dust free, but it looked in some way as if the mistress of the establishment was not at home. There were no small articles of daily use visible: no gloves or scarves, no outdoor boots on the rack below the coat stand, no silver- or ebony-topped cane.

She was waiting in the cool, green morning room where the footman had left her when Nerissa came in. She closed the door so softly behind herself that Vespasia was startled to see her there.

“Good morning, Lady Vespasia. It is so kind of you to call again,” Nerissa began. Her unremarkable face was marred at the moment by tiredness and lack of color. Her plain, dark dress did nothing to help, in spite of a pale fichu at the neck.

Vespasia felt something vaguely patronizing in the younger woman’s tone, as if visiting an old lady was a thing one did out of charity rather than friendship.

“It is not kind at all, Miss Freemarsh,” she said coolly. “Mrs. Montserrat and I are more than acquaintances. We have memories in common of times of marvelous hopes and dangers, and too few people with whom to share them, and others to recall of friends we will never see again.”

Nerissa smiled. “I’m sure you do,” she replied. “But I’m afraid you will find Aunt Serafina somewhat less lucid than even a week ago. She is failing very quickly.” She gave a brief, apologetic smile. “Her memory has become even more disjointed, and she has longer lapses into complete fantasy. She cannot now appreciate the difference between what she has read or been told and what has really happened in her own experience. You will have to be patient with her. I hope you understand?”

“Of course I do,” Vespasia assured her. “And even if I do not, it hardly matters. I have come to visit a friend, not to cross-examine a witness.”

“I did not mean to offend you,” Nerissa said, lowering her eyes. “I only wished to prepare you for the deterioration you will see in her, even in so short a time, in case it causes you distress. It really is rather serious. And I hardly know how to put this delicately, but …” She stopped, as if unable to find the right words.

“But what?” Now Vespasia was ashamed of herself for having been so cool. The younger woman was clearly concerned. Perhaps other visitors had been tactless, or had allowed their own embarrassment to show too plainly. “What is it that disturbs you, Miss Freemarsh?” she asked more gently. “Age and illness? Forgetting things is something that happens to most of us who are fortunate enough to have long lives. It can be frightening to realize that we may all be affected one day, but it is not something to be ashamed of. There is no need for you to apologize.”

Nerissa looked up and met her eyes. “It is more than forgetting, Lady Vespasia.” She lowered her voice to a mere murmur. “Aunt Serafina creates fantasies, imaginings as to what she did in the past, and it is embarrassing because her accounts are very colorful, and some of them involve real people and events.” She chewed her lower lip until it was pink. “I wish I could protect her from anyone seeing her like this, with no control over her mind, and most of the time very little discretion with her tongue.” She turned away and lowered her gaze until she was staring at the floor. “She has a great admiration for you, you know.”

Vespasia was startled. She and Serafina were not quite contemporaries, Serafina being a decade older, and they were completely unalike. Vespasia had used her wit, intelligence, and extraordinary beauty to learn information and persuade men of great power to act, as she believed, either wisely or generously. Serafina had been an adventurer in the most physical sense: brave, skilled, and with an iron nerve. She had ridden with the insurgents in Croatia, and manned the barricades, rifle in hand, in the streets of Vienna, before the ignominious collapse of the revolution and the emperor’s return to power in ’48.

Vespasia had done that only once, in Rome, far back in her youth. Their paths had crossed, perhaps half a dozen times since then. They had known of each other through allies in the common cause.

“Are you sure?” she asked quietly. “I think perhaps ‘respect’ would be more accurate, as I have for her. And of course we have a friendship now, in our later years, born possibly out of the understanding of what we fought for then, and the passion, and the losses of those days.”

“You are very modest,” Nerissa replied, a very faint edge of bitterness in her voice. “But admiration is what I meant.” She looked at Vespasia squarely, even defiantly. “She will try to impress you. I’m sorry. It is humiliating to see. It might be better if you simply left a card. I will tell her you called when she was asleep, and you did not wish to disturb her.”

“She will not believe you,” Vespasia replied. “She will know perfectly well that you are keeping people from visiting her because you are ashamed of her. I will not be party to that.”

The color swept up Nerissa’s pallid cheeks, and her eyes were hot with anger. But she was not yet mistress of the house, and she dared not retaliate.

“I was merely trying to save your feelings,” she said very quietly. “And to save Aunt Serafina from being remembered as she is now, rather than as the proud and discreet woman she used to be. I’m sorry if you do not see that.”

“I see it very well,” Vespasia told her, finding herself torn between pity and irritation. “And I assure you, my feelings are of no importance. I shall remember Serafina as I knew her in the past, regardless of what happens now. I am well acquainted with the idea that as we grow older we change, and it is not always either easy or comfortable.”

“You have not changed,” Nerissa said with candor that bordered on resentment.

“Not yet.” Vespasia was now embarrassed herself, as if her health and good fortune were blessings she had not deserved. “But no one knows about the future. In another ten years I may be profoundly grateful if my friends still remember me at all, and call upon me even if I am tedious, and ramble a little, or lose myself in a time when I was more alive, more able, and still dreamed of great accomplishments.”

Nerissa did not reply but turned and led Vespasia up the wide stairway to the landing and across it to Serafina’s bedroom door. Before she entered, Vespasia heard the footman open the front door to another caller.

“Good morning, Mrs. Blantyre. How pleasant to see you. Please do come inside; the weather is most inclement.”

Nerissa half turned and Vespasia caught sight of the amazement in her face. There was also an expression there that might have been resolve, and then a flash of emotion quite unreadable.

“I think Aunt Serafina has another visitor,” she said quickly. “I must go down and welcome her.” She tapped sharply on the door in front of them. Then, without waiting for an answer, she pushed it open for Vespasia, and excused herself again to go downstairs.

“Of course,” Vespasia acknowledged her, and went into the room alone.

Tucker was standing near the door to the dressing room, a silver-backed hairbrush in her hand. The moment she saw Vespasia she smiled and her face filled with relief.

“Good morning, m’lady. How are you?”

“Good morning, Tucker,” Vespasia replied. “I am very well. I am glad to see you with Mrs. Montserrat. How are you?” It was a purely rhetorical question, a matter of good manners. She smiled at Tucker and nodded slightly, then turned toward the bed.

Serafina was sitting up, her hair dressed. She looked wide awake, and as soon as she met Vespasia’s eyes she smiled back. Only when Vespasia was closer did she see a vacancy in her look, an expectancy, as if she had very little idea who her visitor was.

Vespasia sat down in the chair beside the bed and for a moment felt exactly the embarrassment and distress she had told Nerissa were unimportant. Unexpectedly, they were overwhelming. She had no idea what to say to this person in front of her, helpless, a spirit trapped not only in an aging body but also in a mind that had betrayed her.

Serafina was waiting, staring at her hopefully.

“How are you?” Vespasia asked. She felt that it was completely inane, yet how else could she begin?

“My leg hurts,” Serafina replied with a rueful little shrug. “But if you break bones, you can expect that to happen. I’ve broken enough; I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Vespasia felt a twinge of alarm. Was it possible Serafina really did have a broken bone? Could she have tripped and fallen? Old bones break easily.

“I’m sorry,” she said with sincerity. “I hope the doctor has seen it? Has it been properly cared for?”

“Yes, of course it has,” Serafina answered her. “It was in a cast for weeks. What an incredible nuisance. I can’t ride a horse with a cast on, you know.”

Vespasia’s heart sank. “No, of course not,” she said, as if it had been a perfectly ordinary comment. “And it still aches?”

Serafina looked blank. “I beg your pardon?”

After glancing at Tucker, who shook her head almost imperceptibly, Vespasia looked back at Serafina and struggled for something to say. Surely Adriana Blantyre had called to see Serafina and was even now on her way up? Or was it possible she’d come to see Nerissa? They were not so very different in age—six or seven years, perhaps. But socially they were worlds apart: Adriana the wife of a man of privilege, wealth, and accomplishment, Nerissa a simple woman of no standing, and past the usual age of marriage. Vespasia found herself listening for another footfall on the landing beyond the door, expecting interruption at any moment. Knowing how vague and distracted Serafina was today, surely Nerissa would thank Adriana for calling, but advise her to come again another day?

She turned to Tucker. “I saw Mrs. Blantyre arriving. Perhaps you might suggest to Miss Freemarsh that she call at a more fortunate time?”

Tucker was about to reply when there was a knock on the door. A moment later Adriana Blantyre came in. Clearly Nerissa had warned her that Vespasia was already here.

“Good morning, Lady Vespasia,” she said with a smile of pleasure. Then she turned to Serafina. “How are you today? I brought you some lilies from the hothouse. I gave them to Nerissa to put in water.” She perched on the edge of the bed, far from where she would disturb Serafina’s feet.

“I’m well, thank you,” Serafina replied, blinking and looking puzzled. “In fact, I can’t think what I’m still doing in bed. What time is it? I should be up.” A look of alarm filled her face. “Why are you here in my bedroom?”

“You’ve been unwell,” Adriana said quickly. “You are recovering, but it’s too soon to be out yet. And the weather is very cold.”

“Is it?” Serafina turned to face the window. “Is it autumn? The tree is bare. Or winter?”

“Winter, but nearly spring,” Adriana told her. “Rather raw outside. The sort of wind that bites through your clothes.”

“Then it was nice of you to come,” Serafina remarked. “Do you know Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould?”

“Yes, we have met,” Adriana assured her.

“Vespasia and I are old friends,” Serafina said, nodding a little. “We fought together.”

Adriana looked confused.

“Oh!” Serafina gave a little laugh. “Side by side, not against each other, my dear, never against each other.” She shot a glance at Vespasia, a secret, amused communication.

Adriana looked at Vespasia for confirmation, or perhaps for help.

Vespasia tried to keep the surprise from her face.

There was no possible course but to agree. “Certainly,” she said with as much enthusiasm as she could. “Each in our own fashion.” She must steer the conversation away from further trouble. How much did Serafina remember? Was she now recalling actual past events, or was she about to start one of the rambling journeys of the imagination that Nerissa had referred to?

“It sounds exciting,” Adriana said with interest. “And dangerous.”

“Oh, yes.” Serafina leaned back a little against her pillows, her dark eyes gazing far away in the distance of recollection. “Very dangerous. There were deaths.”

“Deaths?” Adriana’s voice was a whisper, the color fading from her face.

Vespasia drew in her breath to interrupt. There had been, of course, but it was long ago, and there was no point in raking over tragedy now. But Serafina continued before she could break in.

“Brave people,” she said softly. “Passions were very high. Men and women sacrificed their lives for the cause of freedom.” She frowned and studied Adriana closely for several moments. “But you know that. You are Croatian. You know all these things.”

Adriana nodded. “I’ve heard the stories.” Her voice choked, and she coughed to clear her throat, and perhaps to give herself a moment to master her feelings. “I wasn’t there myself.”

Now Serafina seemed lost. “Weren’t you? Why not? Don’t you want freedom for your people? For your language, your music, your culture? Do you want to wear the Austrian yoke forever?”

“No,” Adriana whispered. “Of course I don’t.”

This time Vespasia did interrupt, politely but firmly. “That was all ages ago, my dear. Mrs. Blantyre was hardly even born then. Those are old griefs. Much has happened since that time. Italy is united and independent, at least most of it is.”

Serafina looked at her as if she had momentarily forgotten Vespasia’s presence. “Trieste?” she asked, hope flaring in her eyes.

Vespasia thought for an instant of lying, but it was such a condescension, such a denial of respect, that she could not do it.

“Not yet, but it will come,” she assured her.

“What are you doing about it?” Serafina asked. She was puzzled, as if raking her memory, but there was also challenge in her question.

“Do you not think it wiser to discuss other things just now?” Vespasia suggested. “Fashion, perhaps, or the latest art exhibition, or even politics here at home?”

“Prince Albert is German, you know,” Serafina said. “The Saxe-Coburgs are everywhere. Everybody who is anyone at all has at least one of them in the family.”

“Prince Albert is dead,” Vespasia assured her firmly.

“Is he? Oh, dear.” Serafina blinked. “Who killed him? And for heaven’s sake why? He was a good man. How terribly stupid. What is the world coming to?”

“Nobody killed him.” Vespasia glanced at Adriana and back again to Serafina. “He died of typhoid fever. It was many years ago now. And yes, you are quite right, he was a good man. Perhaps next time I come I shall bring you the latest edition of the London Illustrated News, and you can look at the current gossip, such as there is, and some of the fashions for spring.”

Serafina turned her hands outward in a gesture of resignation. “Perhaps. That would be kind of you.” She closed her eyes. Her face looked pale and strained, her brows a little wispy, her eye sockets hollow.

Vespasia rose to her feet, staring at Adriana. “I think perhaps we should leave Mrs. Montserrat to have a little rest. She seems tired.”

“Of course,” Adriana agreed reluctantly. She looked at Serafina. “I’ll come back and see you again soon.”

Serafina did not answer. It appeared that she had drifted off to sleep.

Adriana led the way out, followed by Tucker. Vespasia was at the door when she turned one more time to look at Serafina. The older woman was staring wide-eyed, suddenly very much awake, her expression one of terror. The next moment the look was gone, and her face was completely blank again.

Vespasia closed the door and, leaving Adriana outside on the landing with Tucker, she went back to Serafina. Gently putting her hand over the stiff, blue-veined ones on the coverlet, she asked, “What is it? What are you afraid of?”

The fear returned to Serafina’s eyes. “I know too much,” she whispered. “Terrible things, plans of murder, the dead piled up …”

“Plans about whom?” Vespasia asked, trying to keep the pain out of her voice. “My dear, most of them are gone already. These are old quarrels you are remembering. They don’t matter anymore. It’s 1896 now. There are new issues, and they don’t involve us as they used to.”

“I know it’s 1896,” Serafina said quickly. “But some secrets never grow old, Vespasia. Betrayal always matters. Brothers, fathers, and husbands sold to the executioner for the price of advancement. Blood money can never be repaid.”

Vespasia stared at her and saw the clear, sharp light of intelligence in her eyes. There was nothing blurred now, nothing uncertain. But she was afraid, and she could not hide it. Perhaps that was what shocked Vespasia the most. In all the times they had met—in London, Paris, and Vienna, in the ballrooms or at a secret rendezvous in some hunting lodge or backstreet room—she had never seen Serafina white with terror.

“Who are you afraid of?” she whispered.

Serafina’s eyes filled with tears, and one hand closed over Vespasia’s, her thin fingers desperate. “I don’t know. There were so many. I’m not even sure which ones matter anymore. And half the time I don’t know what I’m saying!” Tears filled her eyes. “I’m not sure who is allied with whom these days, and if I make a mistake, they’ll kill me. I know too much, Vespasia! I thought of writing it all down, and letting everyone know that I had, but what good would that do? Only the guilty would believe me. It’s all so …”

Vespasia held Serafina’s hand with both of hers. “Are you certain there are still secrets that matter, my dear? So much has changed. Franz Josef is a relatively benign old man now, broken by tragedy …”

“I know. And I know what that tragedy was, more than you do, Vespasia.”

“Mayerling?” Vespasia asked with surprise. “How could you know more about that than what was public information? They burned the place to the ground, and all the evidence with it.”

“Not all,” Serafina said softly. “I know people. I’ve only lost my wits in the last year.” She searched Vespasia’s eyes. “But there are other secrets, older ones. I know who shot Esterhazy, and why. I know who Stefan’s father really was, and how to prove it. I know who betrayed Lazar Dragovic.” The tears spilled down her tired cheeks. “I’m so afraid I’ll forget who I’m talking to, and say something to give it away.”

Vespasia realized that Serafina was frightened not only of letting the secrets slip, but also that whoever was involved would fear the revelations enough to kill her before that happened.

Today she knew what year it was, and she knew Vespasia. But when Adriana Blantyre had been there, Vespasia was uncertain whether Serafina had truly been aware and was only pretending to be confused, or whether she had actually believed it was a different time. Remembering the look in Serafina’s eyes, the blank helplessness, she feared it was the latter. Anyway, what purpose could there be in trying to mislead Adriana?

“Perhaps it would be a good idea to see fewer people for a little while?” she suggested. “It might even be possible to make sure the ones you do see are those who would know little of such things anyway, so even if you mistook who they were, what you said would be incomprehensible to them. I know that could be terribly boring, but at least it would be safe.”

Serafina understood that and sadness filled her face. “Perhaps it would be smarter,” she agreed. “But will you come back again? I …” Embarrassment prevented her from finishing the request.

“Of course,” Vespasia assured her. “We could talk of whatever you wish. I would enjoy it myself. There are too few of us left.”

Serafina nodded with a smile, and sank back into the pillows, her eyes closed. “And Adriana,” she whispered. “Take care of her for me. But …” She gulped and her voice choked. “But perhaps I shouldn’t see her again … in case I say something …” She stopped, unable to finish her thought.

Vespasia remained a few minutes longer, but Serafina seemed to have drifted into a light sleep. Vespasia moved the sheets a little to cover her thin hands—the old get chilled very easily—then she walked softly from the room.

She went down the stairs and asked the maid in the hallway to send for Nerissa so she might express her good wishes and take her leave.

Nerissa appeared within moments, her face shadowed with anxiety.

“Thank you for coming, Lady Vespasia,” she said a little stiffly. “I’m sorry you had to see Aunt Serafina so … so unlike the person she used to be. It is distressing for all of us. You will know now that I was not being alarmist when I said she is sinking rapidly.”

“No, of course not,” Vespasia agreed. “I’m afraid she is considerably worse, even in the few days since I last saw her. I think it might be wise, in view of her … imagination, if you were to restrict her visitors rather more. I suggested to her that it might be a good idea to see only those who are young enough to know little or nothing of the affairs with which she used to be concerned. She was pleased with the suggestion. It will ease her fears. And of course, as you say, it would be very sad if people were to remember her as she is now, rather than as she used to be. I would much prefer not to have it so, were I in her position.”

She was uncertain exactly how to phrase Serafina’s request regarding Adriana.

“You might gently turn aside Mrs. Blantyre, if she calls again,” she began, and saw the puzzlement in Nerissa’s face. “She is of Croatian birth, which seems to awaken particular memories and ideas in your aunt,” she continued. “You do not need to give explanations.”

Nerissa bit her lip. “I can’t ask Mrs. Blantyre to call less often, or to leave earlier. She is an old friend. It would be … very discourteous. I couldn’t explain it without causing offense and saying more than I know Aunt Serafina wishes. But of course I shall do my best to discourage anyone from staying very long. Tucker is already helping greatly with that. She very seldom leaves my aunt alone. Thank you for your understanding, and your help.” It was final. She was not going to accept any advice.

“If there is anything further, please call me.” Vespasia had no choice but to leave the matter.

“I will,” Nerissa promised.

Vespasia walked down the steps to her carriage with her feeling of unease in no way lifted. Serafina had seemed so sure that she did not want to see Adriana again, but for whose sake? There had been a tenderness in her when she spoke the younger woman’s name that was deeper than anything Vespasia had ever seen in her before. And Adriana, in turn, had seemed to care more than casually, more than a mere act of kindness would require. Was it simply because they were fellow exiles, with a love of country, or something else?

Vespasia was in her carriage and more than halfway home when she suddenly changed her mind and rapped her cane against the ceiling to draw the coachman’s attention. He stopped and she asked him to take her instead to the home of Victor Narraway.

As she had expected, when she arrived Narraway was not in, but she left him a note asking him to call her at his most immediate opportunity. The matter was of some urgency, and she required his advice, and probably his assistance.

NARRAWAY CAME HOME IN the late afternoon, tired from the boredom of having sat most of the day in the House of Lords listening to tedious and exhaustively repetitive arguments. Vespasia’s note gave him a rush of excitement, as if at last something of interest might happen. Never in his life had Vespasia disappointed him. He put through a telephone call to her, even before taking off his coat. Her invitation was simple, and he accepted without hesitation.

He found himself sitting forward a little in his seat in the hansom as he watched the familiar streets go by. His imagination raced as to what it might be that concerned her to this degree; there had been a haste in her handwriting, as though she were consumed by a deep anxiety, and the tone of her voice on the telephone had confirmed it. Vespasia did not exaggerate, nor was she easily alarmed. His mind went back over other tragedies and dangers they had been concerned about together, most of them involving Pitt. Some had come very close to ending in defeat; all had held the possibility of disaster.

As soon as he reached her house he sprang out of the cab and hurried up the steps. The door opened before he had time to pull the bell. The maid welcomed him in, took his coat, and showed him to Vespasia’s peaceful sitting room, its windows and French doors offering views of the garden.

“Thank you for coming so promptly,” she said, rising to her feet. It was an unusual practice for her. He noticed that she did not quite have her customary composure. There was something almost indefinably different in her manner. She was as exquisitely dressed as always, in a blue-gray gown with deep décolletage, pearls at her ears and throat, and her hair coiled in a silver crown on her head.

“I presume you have not eaten? May I offer you supper?” she asked.

“After you have told me what it is that troubles you. Clearly it is urgent,” he replied.

She gestured for him to be seated, and resumed her own place beside the fire.

“I visited Serafina Montserrat again today,” she told him. “I found her considerably worse; her mind has deteriorated a great deal—I think.” She hesitated. “Victor, I really do not know at all quite how much she is losing her wits. When I first arrived she seemed lucid, but her eyes were filled with fear. Before I had the opportunity to speak with her for more than a few moments, Adriana Blantyre called.”

“Evan Blantyre’s wife?” He was startled. Blantyre was a man of considerable substance and reputation. “Courtesy, or friendship?” he asked quietly.

“Friendship,” she answered without hesitation.

He watched the deepening anxiety in Vespasia’s eyes, and noted the presence of another emotion he could not read. “Perhaps you had better tell me the heart of it,” he said quietly. “What is it you fear?”

Vespasia spoke slowly. “As soon as Adriana came into the room, Serafina seemed to begin rambling, as if she had no idea what year it was. Adriana was very patient with her, very gentle, but it was disturbing.”

“What year does she imagine she is in?” Narraway was beginning to feel the same intense pity he knew Vespasia was feeling, even though, as far as he was aware, he had never met Serafina Montserrat.

“I don’t know,” Vespasia replied. “Possibly the fifties, or early sixties, not very long after the revolutions of ’48.”

“And who does she believe Adriana to be?” he asked, puzzled. “She cannot be more than forty, at the very outside. I would have thought less.”

“That’s what makes so little sense,” Vespasia answered. “Serafina took her for a Croatian patriot, which is not completely divorced from the truth. But she was rambling. Her eyes were far away, her hands clenched on the sheets. And then when Adriana left, I remained behind for a few moments, and suddenly Serafina was completely herself again, and the fear returned.” She took a deep breath. “Victor, she is afraid that someone may kill her in order to prevent her from revealing the truths she knows. She spoke of betrayals, old grudges, and deaths that cannot be forgotten, but as if they were all current, and there was more violence to come. She mentioned Mayerling.”

“Mayerling?” He was incredulous. “But Serafina was living here in London at the time, wasn’t she?” he asked. “And she must have been well into her seventies and surely not privy to the inside circles of the Austrian court anymore. Vespasia, are you sure she isn’t … romanticizing?”

“No, I’m not sure!” Her face was full of grief. “But her fear is real, that I have absolutely no doubt of. She is terrified. Is it possible that there is something for her to fear?” Her voice dropped. “Something apart from loneliness, old age, and madness?”

He felt the pain strike him; to his shame, not for Serafina Montserrat, but for Vespasia, and for himself. Then the instant after, it became pity.

“Probably not,” he said quietly. “But I promise that tomorrow I shall begin to look into it. I had better do it discreetly; otherwise, if by any wild chance this is true, I shall have given whoever she fears more to fear from her.”

“Yes, please be careful.” Vespasia hesitated. “I am sorry if I am asking you to waste your time. She seemed so sure, and then the next moment completely lost, as though she were alone in a strange place, searching for anything familiar.”

Narraway brushed it aside. He did not want her to feel obliged to him. He told her the truth, startled at how simple it was for him to confess to her.

“I’m glad of something to do that is a challenge to my mind rather than my patience,” he told her. “Even if it should prove that Mrs. Montserrat has nothing to fear, as I hope it will.”

Vespasia smiled, and there was amusement in it as well as gratitude. “Thank you, Victor. I am grateful that you will do it so quickly. Now that that is decided, would you like some supper?”

He accepted with pleasure. It would be very much more enjoyable to share the evening with her than to eat alone. Before the O’Neil business, before going to Ireland with Charlotte on that desperate mission, he would have considered dining at home a peaceful end to the day, and the idea of company would have been something of an intrusion. Solitude, a good book, the silence of the house—all would have been comfortable. Now there was an emptiness there, a deep loneliness he was incapable of dismissing. No doubt it would pass, but for the moment, Vespasia’s quiet sitting room held a peace that eased his mind.

NARRAWAY GAVE VESPASIA’S REQUEST a great deal of thought as he sat quietly in his own chair by the hearth, after midnight, still not ready to go to bed. Was he afraid of sleep, of nightmares, of waking in the dark in confusion, for an instant not knowing where he was? Or perhaps for longer than just an instant? Would that time come? Would he be alone, pitied, no one remembering who he used to be?

Physical changes were part of the tests of life, and they included loss of the senses and perception. It was not pathetic to lose some of one’s awareness of the present and slip back to happier times.

He could recall his own youth with sharper detail than he had expected: his early years in Special Branch, long before he was head of it; when he was only learning, newer than Pitt ever was, because he had not had the decades of police experience. He had had authority, and traveled to some of the most exciting cities in Europe and beyond. He smiled now at the memories. They seemed happy and exciting, looking back, even though he knew he had at times been lonely then. And there had been failures, some of them quite harsh.

Now he thought of Paris only for its grace, the old quarters steeped in the history of revolution. In his youth he had been able to stand in the Cordeliers with his eyes closed and imagine that if he opened them he would see the ghosts of Robespierre, the giant Danton, and the raving Marat, hear the rattle of tumbrels over the stones, and smell the fear. The passion haunted the air.

He had been gullible then, believed people he should not have believed, one beautiful woman in particular, Mireille. That had been a mistake that had nearly cost him his life. He had felt a starry-eyed pity for her that had bordered on love. He had never been so stupid again.

Thinking of that brought back sharp recollections of what Herbert, his commander at the time, had said to him. And with his memory of Herbert, he knew who he should seek for answers to Vespasia’s questions.

HE WAS AT THE railway station by half past seven the following morning, and caught the train southward into the bleak, rolling countryside of Kent before eight o’clock. At Bexley he alighted into a hard, driving wind and walked along the main platform to look for a carriage.

By nine o’clock he was knocking on the door of an old cottage just off the high street. Bare, twisted limbs of wisteria covered most of the front walls, but he imagined that in the summer they would be covered with soft, pale, lilac flowers. He could smell rain in the wind, and the bitter, clean aroma of woodsmoke drifting from the chimney.

The door was opened by a middle-aged woman wearing an apron over her dark skirt. She looked startled to see him.

“Mornin’, sir.” She seemed uncertain what to say next.

“Good morning.” Narraway saved her the trouble of finding the words. “Is this the home of Geoffrey Herbert?”

“Yes, sir, it is. Mr. Herbert is just eating his breakfast. May I tell him who is calling?” She did not add that it was an uncivil hour to visit, especially unannounced, but it was in her eyes.

“Victor Narraway,” he replied. “He will remember me.”

“Mr. Victor Narraway,” she repeated. “Well, if you would come in out of the cold, sir, and take a seat in the sitting room, I’ll tell him you’re here.” She grudgingly pulled the door open wider.

He stepped inside. “Actually … it’s Lord Narraway.” He was not used to the title himself, but this was an occasion when the respect it might command would be of service.

She looked startled. “Oh! Well … I’ll tell him, I’m sure. Would you like a cup o’ tea, sir, I mean, Your Lordship?”

Narraway smiled in spite of himself. “That would be most appreciated,” he accepted.

The sitting room was architecturally typical of a cottage: low-ceilinged; deep window ledges; large, open fireplace with heavy chimney breast. But there the ordinariness ended. One entire wall was lined with bookshelves; the carpets were Oriental with rich jewel-colored designs; and there were Arabic brass bowls on several of the surfaces. It all brought back sharp memories of Herbert, a man of vast knowledge and eclectic tastes.

Herbert himself came into the room twenty minutes later, when Narraway had finished his tea and was beginning to get restless. He had not seen Herbert in fifteen years and he was startled by the change in him. He remembered him as upright, a little gaunt, with receding white hair. Now he was bent forward over two sticks and moved with some difficulty. His clothes hung on him, and his hands were blue-veined. His hair had receded no further, but it was thin. The pink of his scalp was visible through it.

“Lord Narraway, eh?” he said with a faint smile. His voice was cracked, but his eyes were bright, and he maneuvered himself to the chair without stumbling or reaching to feel his way. He sat down carefully, propping the two sticks against the wall. “It must be important to bring you all the way down here. Dawson told me you are not in the Branch anymore. That true?”

“Yes. Kicking up my heels in the House of Lords,” Narraway replied. He heard the edge of bitterness in his tone and instantly regretted it. He hoped Herbert did not take it for self-pity. He wondered what to add to take the sting from it.

Herbert was watching him closely. “Well, if you’re not in the Branch, what the devil are you doing?” he asked. “You aren’t here looking up old friends; you don’t have any. You were always a solitary creature. Just as well. Head of the Branch can’t afford to be dependent on anyone. You were the best we had. Hate to admit it, but I’d be a liar not to.”

Narraway felt a surge of pleasure, which embarrassed him. Herbert was a man whose good opinion was worth a great deal and had never been easily won.

“So what do you want?” Herbert went on, before Narraway could find any gracious way of acknowledging the compliment. “No need to explain yourself. I wouldn’t believe you anyway. If you could afford to tell me, it would hardly be worth the bother.”

“Austria-Hungary,” Narraway replied.

Herbert’s sparse eyebrows shot up. “Good God! You’re not still raking over Mayerling and Rudolf’s death, are you? Thought you had more sense. Poor bastard shot the girl, then shot himself. He was always a melancholy creature, other than the occasional attack of good cheer on social occasions. Give him wine, laughter, and a pretty face, and he was fine, until the music stopped. Just like his mother. He was always a disaster waiting to happen. Could have told you that years ago.”

“No,” Narraway said succinctly. “It’s not about Rudolf at all, so far as I know.”

“Then what? You said Austria-Hungary.”

“Going back thirty years, or more maybe, to uprisings, planned or actual,” Narraway said.

“Plenty of them.” Herbert nodded. “Autocratic old sod, Franz Josef. Relaxed his hold a bit recently, I’m told, but back then he ruled with a rod of iron. He and Rudolf never saw eye to eye. Chalk and cheese. What about it?” He frowned, leaning forward a little and peering at Narraway. “Why do you care? Why now?”

“Thought you weren’t going to ask me,” Narraway said pointedly.

Herbert grunted. “Of course there were uprisings. You know that as well as any of us. Stop beating around the bush and tell me what it is you’re really asking.”

“A major revolt, drawing in other countries as well. Possibly a Hungarian uprising?”

A look of contempt flickered across Herbert’s gaunt face. “You can do better than that, Narraway. You know as well as I do—or you ought to—that the Hungarians are content to be a safe, second-rate power, ruled by Vienna while having a very comfortable life, if not quite cock of the walk. If they rose up against the Austrians they’d lose a great deal, and gain nothing. They are quite clever enough to know that.”

“The Croatians?” Narraway suggested.

“Different kettle of fish altogether,” Herbert agreed. “Erratic, unstable. Always plots and counterplots, but nothing has ever come of them, at least not yet. That’s not what all this is about, is it? Foreign Office thinks there’s going to be another Croatian problem of some sort, do they?”

“Not so far as I know,” Narraway said truthfully.

“Blantyre’s your chap,” Herbert observed. “Evan Blantyre. Knows the Croatians as well as anyone. Lived there for a while. Wife’s Croatian. Beautiful woman, but unstable, so I hear. Delicate health, always sick as a child. Not surprising, family caught up in rebellions and things.”

Narraway leaned back in his chair. “I’ll ask him, if things look like they’re heading that way. What about the Italians? They still haven’t got some of their northern cities back. Trieste and that region, for example.”

Herbert thought about it for a few moments. “Italian nationalists,” he said thoughtfully. “Could be trouble there. Disorganized, though, in spite of Cavour and Garibaldi and all the unification stuff. Still quarrel like cats in a bag. Thought they’d quieted down a bit.”

“Perhaps,” Narraway said dubiously. “Do you remember in the past an Italian woman by the name of Montserrat?” He watched Herbert’s face for even the slightest flicker of recognition.

Herbert smiled a long, slow curl of amusement, his eyes bright. “Well, well,” he said with a sigh. “Serafina Montserrat. Why on earth are you asking about her? She must be seventy-five at least, if she’s still alive at all. I remember when she was thirty. Rode a horse better than any man I knew, and fought with a sword. Used to be quite good myself, but I was never in her class. Knew better than to try. Saved me from making a fool of myself.”

“Italian nationalist.” Narraway made it more a statement than a question.

“Oh, yes.” Herbert was still smiling. “But not averse to lending a hand to anyone who was against Austria, wherever they were from.”

“Openly?” Narraway asked.

Herbert looked shocked. “Good God, no! Secretive as a priest, and devious as a Jesuit too.”

“You make her sound religious.”

Herbert laughed. It was a purely happy sound, bringing to his face for a moment the shadow of the young man he had once been. “She was as far from a nun as a woman can get. Although I didn’t know most of that at the time.”

“How did you learn?” Narraway asked. “Perhaps more important to me, when did you learn and from whom?”

“From many people, and over several years,” Herbert replied. “She worked very discreetly.”

“That’s not what you implied,” Narraway pointed out.

Herbert laughed again, although this time it ended in a fit of coughing. “Sometimes, Narraway, you are not nearly as clever as you imagine,” he said after several moments, still gasping for breath. “You should have taken more notice of women. A little self-indulgence would have helped you learn a great deal, not only about women in general, but about yourself as well, and therefore about most men.” His eyes narrowed. “Too much brain and not enough heart, that’s your trouble. I think secretly you’re an idealist! It’s not pleasure you want—it’s love! Good God, man, you’re a total anachronism!”

“Serafina Montserrat,” Narraway reminded him sharply. “Was she a wild woman, riding and fighting beside the men, and sleeping with a good few of them, or was she discreet? I’m not here simply because I have nothing to do and need somebody else’s business to meddle in. This could be important.”

“Of course you need something to meddle in!” Herbert said without losing his smile. “We all do. I’d have died of boredom if I didn’t meddle in everything I could. The locals all loathe me, or pretend they do, but they all come to see me now and then because they think I know everybody’s secrets.”

“And do you?” Narraway inquired.

“Yes, mostly.”

“Serafina,” he prompted.

“Yes, she was as tough and skilled as most of the men, better than many,” Herbert responded. “Not really a beauty, but she had so much vitality that you forgot that. She was …” He seemed to be staring back into memory. “Elemental,” he finished.

Narraway could not help wondering how well Herbert had known her himself. That was a possibility he had not considered before. Was he asking for information about a past lover of Herbert’s? Or was that merely imagination, and a little wishful thinking?

“You have not so far touched on anything remotely discreet about her,” he pointed out.

“No,” Herbert agreed. “She seemed to be so obvious in her support of Italian freedom fighters that most people assumed she was as open about everything else. She wasn’t. I deduced, completely without proof, that she knew a great deal about Bulgarian and Croatian plans as well, and even had connections with early socialist movements in Austria itself. That last I am convinced of, but I couldn’t produce an iota of evidence to support it.”

“A clever woman,” Narraway said ruefully. “Bluff and double bluff.”

“Exactly,” Herbert agreed. He leaned forward in his chair, wrinkling his jacket. “Narraway, tell me why you want to know. It’s all water under the bridge now. You can’t and shouldn’t prosecute her for anything. And if you ask me officially, I shall deny it.”

Narraway smiled, meeting the other man’s eyes. Herbert’s thin cheeks colored very slightly.

“She is ill and vulnerable,” Narraway answered, wondering, even as he said it, if he was wise to do so. “I want to make sure she is protected. To do that, I need to know from what directions attacks might come.”

Herbert’s face lost all its good humor. “Attacks?” he snapped.

“The threat may be more imagined than real. That is why I need to know.”

Herbert sat still without answering for several moments, staring past Narraway to the rainswept garden, with its sharply pruned roses and budding leaves fattening on the trees. When at last he returned his gaze to the present, his eyes were clouded.

“I’ve realized how little I actually knew about her,” he said quietly. “She was a creature of intense passion. Everything done with a whole heart. I assumed I knew why, and what her loyalties were, but since what you need now is far deeper than that, I have only observations and beliefs to offer you—for what they are worth.”

“It will be more than the little I know now,” Narraway replied immediately. “First, is she image or substance, in your belief?”

“At first, I thought image,” Herbert said with an honesty that clearly pained him. “Then I came to believe there was substance. I am still of that opinion.”

“What changed your mind?”

“A betrayal,” Herbert said very quietly. “There is no point in asking me the full story of it because I don’t know. At the time I only knew of the execution, and that it was for plotting an assassination …”

Narraway felt a sudden chill. “An assassination?”

Herbert looked at him sharply. “For God’s sake, man, it was thirty years ago, and it didn’t happen anyway. The whole thing was abortive. The leader himself was captured, beaten, and shot. Most of the others escaped.”

“But Serafina Montserrat was involved?” Narraway persisted. “How? Are you skirting around saying that she was the one who betrayed the leader?”

Herbert was horrified. He glared at Narraway as if he had blasphemed. “No! She was all kinds of things: willful, reckless, arrogant at times—certainly promiscuous, if you want to call it that—but she would have died for the cause. It was only through a mixture of extreme skill and courage, and the loyalty of others, that she survived. And a degree of luck. ‘Fortune favors the bold’ was never truer of anyone than it was of her.”

Again Narraway wondered exactly how well Herbert had known her. Not that it mattered, as long as what he was saying was the truth, as far as he knew it.

“So she could be in danger?” he concluded. It was barely a question anymore.

“I don’t know,” Herbert said honestly, but there was more emotion in his eyes than Narraway could ever recall having seen there before. “It was so long ago, and from the standpoint of anyone in London, far away. Who do you know who gives a damn about Croatian independence now?”

“No one,” Narraway admitted. “But betrayals always matter. The time and place of them are irrelevant.”

“They do matter,” Herbert agreed. “Far too much to wait thirty years for revenge.”

Narraway could not argue with that. Almost certainly all the people concerned were dead, or too old to execute revenge anymore, just as Serafina herself was.

“Thank you.” He acknowledged the point. “Can you think of anyone else who might shed more light on the subject of why she is so afraid?”

“The current expert in that area of the Foreign Office is Tregarron. But you know that. And, of course, for northern Italy, with which Serafina was most concerned, it is Ennio Ruggiero, and for Croatia, Pavao Altabas.”

Narraway got to his feet. “I’m much obliged.” He held out his hand. “Thank you again.”

Herbert smiled. “It’s good to see you, Narraway. I always knew you’d do well.”

“You taught me well,” Narraway replied sincerely. “I hope to hell I taught my successor as much.” He hesitated.

“Why do you say that?” Herbert asked.

“Did you worry about me?” Narraway asked him. “Whether I would succeed, whether I had the steel, and the judgment?”

Herbert smiled. “Of course, but I had more sense than to let you know it at the time.”

“Thank you,” Narraway said wryly.

“Wouldn’t have done you any good,” Herbert replied. “But you caused me a few sleepless nights—unnecessarily, as it turned out.”

Narraway did not ask him about what.

NARRAWAY WENT TO SEE Ruggiero, as Herbert had suggested, and spent over an hour without learning anything beyond what Herbert himself had already mentioned. Ruggiero was an old man and his memory was clouded by emotions. Italy was now united, and he wanted to forget the frictions and griefs of the past. He especially wanted to forget the losses, the sacrifices, and the ugliness of fighting.

Narraway thanked him also. To have probed and argued, perhaps caught the old man in lies, not of intent but of wishful thinking, facts covered over by dreams, would have benefited no one.

Next he went to visit Pavao Altabas and found only his widow. He had died recently, and Herbert had been unaware of it.

The widow was much younger than Pavao had been, and she knew nothing of the uprisings. The name of Serafina Montserrat meant nothing at all to her.

Lastly, he went to see Lord Tregarron, not at the Foreign Office but at the club where both were members. It was the end of the day and Tregarron was tired and unwilling to talk. However, Narraway gave him no civil alternative, short of getting up very conspicuously and leaving.

They sat opposite each other in armchairs on either side of a huge log fire. Narraway ordered brandy for both of them. The steward brought it with murmured words of apology for interrupting them, although they were not as yet in conversation.

“Leave us to talk, will you, Withers?” Narraway asked him. “No interruptions, if you please!”

“Certainly, my lord,” Withers said calmly. “Thank you.” He bowed and withdrew.

Tregarron looked grimly at Narraway, waiting for him to explain his intrusion.

“Damned long day, Narraway,” he said quietly. “Is this really necessary? You’re not in Special Branch anymore.”

Narraway was surprised how deeply the reminder cut him, as if his position had defined his identity, and without it he had no standing with those who had so recently treated him with something akin to awe. He hid his hurt with difficulty. If he had not needed Tregarron, he would have found a way to retaliate, even though, at the same moment, he realized that any retaliation would betray his own vulnerability.

He forced himself to smile, very slightly. “Which removes the responsibility from me, but does not take away the freedom to meddle, if I can do it to the good,” he replied.

Tregarron’s dark face tightened a little. “Am I supposed to deduce from your last remark that you are justifying some interference in foreign affairs that I otherwise might object to?”

Narraway’s smile grew bleaker. “I have no intention of interfering in foreign affairs, justifiably or not. But my concern is with information about the past that may prevent an action in the present of which I am uncertain, and I need to know more.”

Tregarron’s heavy eyebrows rose. “From me? You must know that I cannot tell you anything. Do not keep obliging me to remind you that you are no longer head of Special Branch. It is uncomfortable, and ill-mannered of you to put me in a position where I have no choice.”

Narraway kept his temper with difficulty. He needed Tregarron’s information, and he no longer had any means of forcing it from him, as Tregarron knew. It was this aspect of having lost power to which he was finding it hard to accustom himself.

“I am not seeking any current information,” he said levelly. He found himself suddenly reluctant to explain his reasons to Tregarron. “It is the general climate of issues thirty or forty years ago.”

“Thirty or forty years ago? Narraway, what the devil are you playing at? Thirty or forty years ago where?” Tregarron leaned forward a little in his chair. “What is this about? Is it something I should know?”

“If I should come to believe that it is, I shall certainly tell you,” Narraway answered. “So far it is only rumors, most of which seem to me more like overheated imagination. I wish to prove, or disprove, them before I bother anyone else with them.”

Tregarron’s attention sharpened. “Regarding what, exactly?”

Now Narraway had no choice but to either tell the truth, or very deliberately lie. “Certain whispers about a woman named Serafina Montserrat,” he answered.

A shadow crossed Tregarron’s face. “How on earth could she matter now?”

Narraway changed his mind about what to say next.

“Memories, stories,” he said fairly casually. “If I know the truth, or something close to it, I can dismiss them safely.”

Tregarron tensed. “Who is talking about Mrs. Montserrat?” he asked. “This all sounds like gossip. But it could be dangerous, Narraway. Damage can be done that is hard to reverse. You did the right thing in coming to me. I have looked into her past since we last spoke. She worked mostly in the Austro-Hungarian sphere. She apparently knew a lot of people, and was regrettably free with her favors.”

“But all years ago,” Narraway pointed out. He was surprised how much he resented Tregarron’s implication, even though he had never met Serafina himself. She was Vespasia’s friend. He took a deep breath before he continued. “I imagine most of the men concerned are also dead, and their wives, who might have cared, as well.”

“Would you like it said of your father?” Tregarron snapped.

Narraway could not imagine it. His father had been rather dry, highly intelligent but remote, not a man who would have been accessible to a woman such as he imagined Serafina Montserrat to have been. He smiled at the thought, and saw a flash of fury in Tregarron’s face; it was gone again so rapidly that he was not certain if it had been real, or his imagination.

“The thought amuses you?” Tregarron asked. “You surprise me. Would it have amused your mother too?”

That was a sharp wound, a territory Narraway did not wish to explore. “Of course not,” he said quietly, his voice tighter than he had meant it to be. “It is so far from the truth of what I was inquiring into that it had an oblique humor. No one’s reputation in that area is in jeopardy, so far as I am aware.”

“So what area is it to do with, then?” Tregarron asked, his face now all but expressionless.

Narraway chose his words carefully, thinking of what exactly Vespasia had said. “It is to do with political freedom, old plots and current ones regarding Croatia throwing off the Austrian yoke. And possibly northern Italy.”

“Perhaps you don’t understand me,” Tregarron said, now allowing a faint smile onto his face. “Serafina Montserrat must be in her mid-seventies, at least. According to what I have heard, she was reckless and something of a troublemaker. She created an unfortunate reputation for herself, although some of the stories about her are probably apocryphal. If even half of them are true, she was a highly colorful character, and a passionate Italian nationalist. She would have been quite capable of planning an assassination, and she had the steel in her nature to carry it out. However, so far as I know, she never succeeded in actually doing so.”

He crossed his legs, easing back in his chair a little, his eyes never leaving Narraway’s face.

“The only event anything like that,” he continued, “I heard as a story. I’m not sure what truth there is in it.”

Narraway watched him intently.

Tregarron assumed the air of a raconteur. “A group of dissidents plotted to assassinate one of the leading Austrian dukes who was particularly vehement in his grip on the local government in northern Italy. It would be fair to say that he was oppressive, and at times unjust. The emperor Franz Josef has always been excessively military, but he used to be less dictatorial than he is now. Nevertheless, this dissident group planned the assassination of some duke—I forget his name—and very nearly succeeded. The plot was clearly thought out and very simple in essence. No clever tricks to go wrong, nothing left to chance.”

“But it didn’t succeed?” Narraway questioned him.

“Because they were betrayed by one of their own,” Tregarron answered. “They fled. It seems Montserrat was among those who fought the hardest to save them, but she couldn’t. She was wounded in the struggle that followed, and the ringleader was taken, summarily tried, and executed.”

It was the kind of bitter tale that Narraway had heard often enough, especially when he had been in Ireland. He thought of Kate O’Neil, and of the actions he had thought responsible for his own loss of office. And then, in spite of himself, he thought of Charlotte Pitt, of love, loyalty, and wounds that would ache eternally.

Was this what it was about, a retreat into ancient sorrows, coming back to haunt one in old age? Was Serafina going back in her mind to that time, or another like it? Could she have been the one who betrayed the would-be assassin, and now feared some final revenge? Or justice?

Tregarron interrupted his thoughts.

“What can this have to do with anything today, Narraway? I can’t help you if I don’t know what on earth you’re really looking for. Or why.”

“From what you say, I rather think it has nothing to do with anything today,” Narraway lied. “As you point out, she must be in her seventies, at least. That is, if she is still alive at all, of course.” He rose to his feet, smiling very slightly. “Thank you for your time, and your candor.”

BUT THAT WAS FAR from what Narraway thought as he rode home in a hansom through the wet streets, glancing every now and then at the cobblestones gleaming in the reflected lamplight.

Tregarron had lied to him, if not in words, then in intent. There was something Tregarron feared, but Narraway was not sure if it was an old danger resurfacing, some past error that would jeopardize Tregarron’s present reputation or relationships, or if it was some totally new issue of which Narraway was unaware. But then, if it concerned the Austrian Empire, even had he still been in Special Branch, he might not have been informed. Regular diplomatic affairs had nothing to do with Special Branch.

If Serafina believed she had made lasting enemies, then it was certainly possible that she was right. The idea of such a once-magnificent woman lying old and broken, fearing for her life, deeply and painfully aware that she could no longer protect herself, hurt him with a disturbing depth.

Was he becoming soft, no longer able to judge an act impartially? Yes, he did love Charlotte. It was time to admit that to himself. In fact, after Ireland, it would be absurd to deny it. He had always despised self-delusion in others, and he had come very close to practicing it himself. That she would never care for him as more than a friend was something he had to accept. If he did so with grace, then he could keep her friendship at least.

Had that devastating vulnerability changed him?

Yes, perhaps it had. For one thing, it had given him a tenderness toward Vespasia he had not felt before: a greater understanding of her as a woman, not merely her formidable courage and intelligence. She too could be hurt in ways she would never have allowed him to see, had he not also newly experienced personal pain, surprise, and self-doubt.

It was a frightening change, but not entirely a loss.

He was determined to learn a great deal more than the very general picture he had of Austro-Hungarian affairs, particularly in reference to the dictatorial emperor Franz Josef, whose only son, Crown Prince Rudolf, had died so tragically at Mayerling.

The old man’s heir was now his nephew, Archduke Franz Ferdinand, a man of whom Franz Josef did not approve. For one thing, Ferdinand had chosen to love a woman inappropriate to become the wife of the heir to the empire. The poor creature was merely some countess or the other. That made Ferdinand, in the old man’s opinion, of unsound judgment, and lacking in the dedication to duty necessary to succeed him. But he had no choice. The laws of heredity could not be argued with, or the legitimacy of the entire monarchy would be destroyed.

Should Narraway tell Vespasia the little he had learned? Perhaps so. It would be a courtesy to Serafina. Then she would know that at least one person believed her. Next time he saw Vespasia he would do so. It would be a good reason to see her again.

And should he speak to Pitt?

Not unless anything he learned about present-day Austrian affairs indicated that there could be an assassination attempt on some visiting royalty. Pitt had more than enough to do without chasing the current danger of that, if any existed, as well as all the usual Special Branch fears of anarchist bombings, and the constant rebellions in Ireland. There were Russian dissidents in London, fleeing from the ever-increasing oppression and grinding poverty at home. Additionally, there were British-grown socialists who believed that the only way to improve life for the poor was to commit outrages against the Establishment.

Pitt did not need to hear rumors about a betrayal that happened thirty years ago and a thousand miles away. Narraway had done the job himself long enough to know the importance of leaving alone what did not matter. Telling Vespasia would be sufficient.