A Poisoned Season (3 page)

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

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

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

“How did you learn of the theft?” I asked.

“A friend in Scotland Yard alerted me.”

“And will you investigate?”

“No, Emily. I’m not a detective.”

“Such is our misfortune, Monsieur Hargreaves,” Cécile said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s following Cécile. I’ve never owned anything of Marie Antoinette’s.”

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

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

“Then I am forever indebted to her.”

“As you should be.”

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

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

“Hardly appropriate for us to travel together.”

“I thought you approved of my corruption?”

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

“Anything interesting?” Colin asked.

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

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

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

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

“Could you translate for me? I’m afraid I couldn’t do it without my lexicon.”

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

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

“You could focus on its religious epigrams.”

“Mr. Moore would like that very much.”

“Have you any idea who it might be from?”

“Not the slightest.”

“Should I be jealous?”

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

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

2

W
HAT A BIZARRE INCIDENT,”
D
AVID
F
RANCIS SAID AFTER LISTENING
to my spirited account of the burglary. Cécile had met him the previous week at the studio of Michael Barber, a sculptor, and tonight we brought both gentlemen to my house in Berkeley Square following a trip to the theater to see Mr. Ibsen’s controversial new play,
Hedda Gabler
. Like Cécile, Mr. Francis was a patron of the arts, and the pair had become fast friends the moment they began discussing their mutual admiration of French impressionism.

“Even more bizarre when you consider the fact that there have been three such thefts,” I said, and told them what had occurred at the houses of Lord Grantham and Mrs. Wilmot.

“How strange to find a thief with such specific purpose,” Mr. Barber said. “Why this interest in the French queen?”

“It’s hard to avoid the House of Bourbon since Mr. Berry arrived in London,” I said. “Society is consumed with all things French.”

“C’est vrai,”
Cécile said. “But I will not believe for a moment that Monsieur Berry is behind the crimes. He’s not clever enough by half.”

“And even if he were, he drinks far too much to pull off such a scheme,” Mr. Barber said.

“Do you think he truly is who he says? Surely Marie Antoinette wouldn’t have produced a great-great-grandson of such dubious merit.” I swirled the port in my glass as I spoke.

“Marie Antoinette is not often viewed as a sympathetic character,” Mr. Francis said.

“And history, Mr. Francis, is recorded by the victor. I’d wager that the poor queen wasn’t nearly as bad as we’re led to believe. I’ve always felt she was treated badly in the matter of the diamond necklace.”

“It was a most convoluted business,” Cécile said. “And very likely the queen’s enemies were all too willing to encourage anything that might harm her reputation.”

“Wasn’t there evidence that she was having an affair with a cardinal and had asked him to acquire the jewels for her?” Mr. Barber asked.

“Gossip, Mr. Barber, is hardly reliable evidence,” I replied. “A jeweler made the necklace, which was absurdly expensive, and Marie Antoinette refused to buy it. One of her enemies convinced the cardinal, who was hoping to become the queen’s lover, that she wanted it, and he gave this woman the money to buy it, believing she would give it to the queen.”

“The woman—the Comtesse de la Motte—disappeared with both the necklace and the cardinal’s money,” Cécile continued. “And the queen was presented with a very large bill by the jewelers. Eventually the cardinal and the
comtesse
were brought to trial, but it was the queen’s reputation that suffered. People were quick to believe she was behind the scheme, and it brought to light the idea that her morals were not what they ought to be.”

“The cardinal, perhaps, should not have been brought to trial, but the queen insisted,” I said. “He was charged with insulting her dignity.”

“I should very much like to own the diamonds from that necklace,” Cécile said, her eyes sparkling. “I wonder how difficult it would be to persuade the current owner to part with them.”

“Don’t even consider such a thing until our intrepid thief is caught,” I said.

“I find the nature of these burglaries particularly intriguing,” said Mr. Francis, dragging deeply on his cigar as he walked to the table on which stood a decanter of port. He slowly refilled his glass, offering no further explanation of his comment. “Your port, Lady Ashton, is worthy of its reputation.”

“I wasn’t aware that it had a reputation.”

“Oh, yes. Your scandalous habit of taking it after dinner is a favorite topic of conversation at my club. The members are divided on how a gentleman should react when a lady refuses to retire to the drawing room. Many insist that it would be better to forsake the beverage entirely than to encourage the corruption of a viscount’s widow. However, when faced with your most excellent cellar, it’s difficult for a fellow to stand by his principles.”

“There are few things I enjoy more than a nice port, and I think it’s outrageous that ladies are sent away right as the conversation starts to get interesting,” I said.

Mr. Francis smiled. “Gentlemen don’t want ladies hearing the sorts of conversation that are interesting, and they would be quick to point out that there are many lovely sherries that you could drink.” He returned to his seat.

I noticed that he had done a neat job of directing the conversation away from his comment about the thefts. “If I may return to our previous subject, why is it that you are particularly intrigued by the burglaries we were discussing?”

“A pink diamond from the French queen’s personal collection was taken from my safe no less than a fortnight ago.”

“I had no idea!” Mr. Barber exclaimed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t consider the matter to be of any consequence to you,” Mr. Francis said.

“You are my friend. Of course a theft at your house is of consequence to me.”

“What did the police say?” I asked. “Were they able to find any clues?”

“I didn’t bother to contact them. There’s little hope they would recover the stone, and I prefer to keep my affairs private.”

“Have you hired an investigator to pursue the matter?” I asked.

“No. I can’t imagine there would be any point in doing so.”

“You can’t let such a thing go unreported,” I said.

Mr. Francis was nonplussed. “When was the last time you heard of jewelry stolen by a cat burglar being returned to the rightful owner? It’s a hopeless business.”

“But Mr. Francis, it’s imperative that the crime be investigated,” I said. “Even if it goes unsolved, one must
try
to uncover the truth.”

“I’d rather not upset my wife,” he said. “She’s exceedingly shy and suffers greatly when forced to talk to strangers.”

“But surely she’s noticed that the diamond is missing?” Cécile asked.

“It’s not the sort of thing she would want to wear.” He studied the ashes on the end of his cigar thoughtfully for a moment, then changed the subject. “Have you ladies been to the Royal Academy exhibition? Barber’s got several good pieces in it this year.”

“I’ve been twice,” I said. “There is one sculpture that I remember in particular. A woman holding a basket of flowers. I believe it is yours, Mr. Barber.”

“I’m pleased that you noticed it,” Mr. Barber replied. “It’s one of my favorites.”

“I very much enjoyed it. You did a magnificent job capturing a
sense of movement. I almost believed she would bend over and pick one of the blossoms at her feet.”

“Thank you, Lady Ashton.”

“Do you have an extensive collection of art, Mr. Francis?” I asked.

“Not so extensive as I would like.”

“Francis spends as much money subsidizing studio rentals for artists as he does on their work,” Mr. Barber said.

“No wonder you and Cécile get along so famously,” I said. “I should love to see your collection.”

“I’m afraid you would find it rather underwhelming.”

“I consider that an insult, Francis,” Mr. Barber said, grinning. “You’ve got some of my best pieces.”

“I meant only that, given her own holdings, Lady Ashton would be disappointed in the scope and quantity of what I have.”

“Quantity is a poor measure of the artistic merits of a collection, Mr. Francis. I’m fortunate that my husband possessed such exquisite taste,” I said. “I’ve let his standards for acquisition guide me, although I confess that I’m guilty of keeping for myself some pieces he would argue belong in a museum.” I twisted the gold ring with its image of the Trojan horse that I wore on my right hand. I’d been given it in Paris last year after trapping the man who had murdered Philip.

“But I understand that you’ve made many significant donations yourself,” Mr. Francis said.

“Yes, but there are times when I’m quite overwhelmed with sentiment and find that I can’t donate things that I ought.”

“
Peut-être
Monsieur Bingham is attached to this dish you are trying to get from him,” Cécile said.

“No, he’s keeping it for himself simply out of spite. He’s made no secret of the fact that he doesn’t care for it.” My gaze fell on Mr. Francis, and I felt compelled once again to return to the topic of the thefts, despite a worry that I was being too forward. “I really must
implore you to report the loss of your diamond to the police. It is not something that affects only you. Surely you can’t believe that there is more than one burglar in England seeking objects that belonged to Marie Antoinette?”

“Of course not,” he replied.