The Angel Court Affair (Thomas Pitt 30) (25 page)

‘His reputation,’ she agreed. ‘Or it’s about a truly vast amount of money. And since he invests for the Church, and some of the Royal Family, he would indeed be ruined.’

‘That’s why I’m afraid there is a connection with something far more serious, and he knows what it is.’

‘Victor, is Sofia’s murder going to be the one that starts the revolution we seem to be on the brink of? Or is it to do with this Spanish-American war?’

‘I don’t know,’ he admitted. ‘But please be careful. This may not be as simple as I thought.’

She had not told Narraway, nor anyone else for that matter, but she had read a little of the writings of certain self-proclaimed revolutionaries. They burned with anger and pity at the injustice of all social orders, the power that robbed people of dignity and hope, and too often even of life. They believed that without government, men would revert to a natural goodness, and it would be the dawn of a new age. It needed only one passionate, violent act to initiate it and give everyone else the courage. None of them explained why the violent wars of the past had not caused such new birth.

She understood their rage and pain, but she thought them totally deluded in their philosophy, perhaps driven mad by the injustice they saw, and in most cases also experienced, but mad nevertheless.

Sofia Delacruz was not angry, she was full of hope. At least that was what she had seemed. Was Vespasia so easily misled? Did the key perhaps lie in the nature of Nazario, the man she had married, and presumably loved?

But if what Barton Hall had told Pitt was true, then they were joined by an act of selfishness that had ended in tragedy for others. A woman and two children were dead as a result of adultery and abandonment. Could any happiness, let alone a bond of trust, be founded on acts so utterly callous?

Was repentance enough to expunge such horror? Sofia herself had said that repentance was incomplete if you kept the fruits of your sins. There was a natural justice that demanded you repay in some fashion. Words mattered, but if the acts negated them then the words were an added offence, a hypocrisy.

She hoped intensely that she could find some other answer to Sofia’s actions, something that fitted with her words. Except, of course, that sometimes it is the bitterness of knowing what you have done that teaches change, and the understanding and need for your own forgiveness that makes you forgive others.

She must be prepared for whatever she learned.

Narraway left early, telling Vespasia only that he had no idea how long he would be gone, but that there was no cause for anxiety if he did not come back by dark.

He stood near the door from their room into the passageway to the stairs down into the main hall. It was a very comfortable hotel. He had decided they would be more conspicuous in a smaller hotel than here in what would have been a natural choice were they simply tourists. Neither had any wish to be taken for people on honeymoon, which was perhaps what they were.

Vespasia in particular felt self-conscious and rather absurd to be so happy in a condition that usually belonged to people a third her age. And yet she felt few of them would have treasured it so deeply, or been so acutely aware of how precious happiness is, how easily wasted, or scarred with small acts of thoughtlessness and self-importance.

She stood now looking at him. She would like to have touched him, perhaps kissed him, but would he find it inappropriate, misplaced when he was about to go out in search of answers to horrific murders, and further violence to come? There were decisions they had to make that might end in pain whatever they did.

And yet a moment not taken might be regretted for a long time, and never completely undone. Then was her decision complete in her mind.

She walked over to him, head high as always, and touched his cheek gently. She was almost his height. ‘Good luck,’ she whispered, and kissed his cheek.

He put both arms around her for an instant, then let her go and turned to leave, but she saw the smile on his face, and the emotion that for a moment almost overwhelmed him.

When he was gone Vespasia’s first action was to obtain copies of the local newspapers for the last few days, and study the Society pages. She was searching for any names with which she was familiar, and a reasonable guess as to where she might contrive to meet these people in a manner that would appear to be chance. It needed to be as soon as possible. The letter the kidnapper had sent to Pitt did not allow for more than a few days to find Nazario Delacruz and persuade him of the issues, then accompany him back to England. More importantly than that, and weighing far more heavily, how much longer could Sofia endure such misery and pain? Might her abductors even kill her without intending to? Surely they would never give her back alive anyway?

As she considered the matter, the obstacles to success seemed ever greater. And yet haste might jeopardise their slim chances of making the right decisions, choosing the right words, judging Nazario correctly. She could not imagine the heartbreak of the decision he had to make; the pain of it would distract her from the only useful thing she could do.

Having studied the newspapers carefully, she saw exactly what she needed.

Accordingly, the late afternoon found her tired, suffering a little from the weariness of travelling and the considerably greater warmth of southern inland Spain, as compared with London. She dressed in one of the few more fashionable gowns she had brought with her, a warmer colour than she usually wore, and very flattering.

At half-past five she alighted from her hired carriage at the entrance to classical gardens where an early evening soirée was being held.

She entered with her head high, and such an air of both elegance and command that no one questioned her right to be there.

It took her half an hour of polite and completely meaningless chatter, compliments and name-dropping before she came face to face with the woman she had come to meet.

Dorothea Warrington was not beautiful, but she had money and a certain flair. She possessed a sharp wit and remarkable hair and she made the best of both. She stood still by the fountain in the centre of the garden and stared with growing incredulity as Vespasia approached her.

‘Good evening, Dorothea,’ Vespasia smiled. ‘I had no idea you were still in Spain, but it suits you admirably. I have never seen you look so very well. You make the rest of us seem positively insignificant.’

Dorothea, who had left London Society under something of a shadow, and who had hated her dark, almost swarthy looks, suddenly felt much better about herself. She looked Vespasia up and down, noting her fair skin and the high carriage of her head.

‘How generous of you,’ she replied with a tentative smile. ‘You are right, of course. I am enjoying it here very much.’ It was a total lie. She hated it. But in Toledo no one knew of her misjudgements in London. ‘Surely at this time of the year you are here for the climate?’ Her sharp eyes tried to assess Vespasia’s fortunes and what kind of disaster could have driven her from the heart of the London Season to a relatively small place like Toledo, where she had to be unknown. The gleam of interest in her eyes could be taken for concern, but it had the brilliant sheen of curiosity.

Vespasia had foreseen exactly that and was prepared.

‘I have a goddaughter who has fallen in love, most unsuitably, as it turns out,’ she replied with a slight, graceful gesture of her shoulders as if to shrug it off.

‘Oh dear,’ Dorothea said quickly, moving a step closer. ‘How unfortunate.’

‘Indeed.’ Vespasia restrained herself from moving back. ‘Her mother is naturally beside herself that the matter should be ended without . . . scandal. She has already made her feelings known, with the worst possible results.’

‘Oh dear,’ Dorothea murmured again, moistening her lower lip. ‘Young people can be so headstrong. But when we think we are in love . . .’ She let the conclusion hang in the air, waiting for Vespasia to furnish more details.

‘Exactly,’ Vespasia nearly choked on the words. She had forgotten how loathsome Dorothea could be. Since her own disgrace she relished that of others. ‘I see you understand. I thought I might prevail. She will at least listen to me, if I can speak to her alone. She knows that I will have her interests at heart, not a matter of conformity.’ She wondered how much more to embellish the lie. Watching Dorothea’s face, she decided to put another confidential touch to the story. ‘I have been in love a few times myself, and afterwards wished I had listened to advice.’

Dorothea’s black eyebrows rose. ‘Haven’t we all,’ she said softly. ‘Not always with fortunate results.’ That was possibly a bleak reference to her own exile in Spain. ‘Can I be of any assistance? I know a number of people . . .’

‘Perhaps,’ Vespasia agreed. ‘It may be somewhat . . . urgent . . .’

Dorothea was elated, her eyes gleaming.

‘Have you heard of a woman called Sofia Delacruz?’

Dorothea gasped. ‘But of course! She is very well known. For heaven’s sake, you don’t mean that your goddaughter has become caught up in that absurd cult? Is she in love with one of them? Then you must do all you can.’

‘You know something of her?’ Vespasia asked innocently, her brows arched above her wonderful silver-grey eyes.

‘Personally? Of course not. But I have heard. She is quite beyond eccentric. I am embarrassed to say that she is originally English, so I hear. But of course she married a Spaniard, so she is no longer really one of us.’

Vespasia repressed a shudder of distaste.

‘What is she like? Do you think it would be worth appealing to her?’ she asked.

Dorothea spread her hands. ‘Not in the slightest. She listens to no one. She is a religious fanatic. She’ll tell you all kinds of preposterous things about who she thinks you are, but you can’t agree with her. At least that’s what I’ve heard. I’ve never met her.’ She waved her thin hands dramatically. ‘I can’t stand all the earnest abstract passion. Such poor taste, don’t you think? Nothing worse than a crushing bore. What on earth can you do with them?’

‘Pass them on as rapidly as possible,’ Vespasia said instantly. ‘Unfortunately we cannot all agree as to who they are. Is this woman really such a bore?’

‘I have no idea,’ Dorothea admitted. ‘I suppose if you really are serious, you could go and ask the people in her organisation.’

‘Will they not be more than a little biased?’

‘You could always try the opposition,’ Dorothea suggested. From the flatness in her voice she was losing interest.

‘Opposition?’ Vespasia asked.

Dorothea gave an elaborate shrug of her shoulders. It was a gesture that fell short of elegant. ‘Well, my dear, she is hardly universally admired, is she? Her past is rather worse than questionable . . . don’t you think? Or do you not know about it?’

Vespasia presumed she was speaking of Nazario’s wife, the tragic Luisa, but just in case she was not, she affected ignorance. Even if she were right, another more colourful and less charitable version of the story might be useful, tasteless as it would be.

‘I see you don’t!’ Dorothea said with relish. ‘Very beautiful in a weird, melodramatic sort of way, if you like that kind of thing. Apparently Nazario Delacruz did . . . like it, I mean. Doesn’t look like an Englishwoman in the least! All black eyes and Spanish pride. Walks as if she is on wheels.’

‘The . . . wife?’ Vespasia had very nearly slipped and named her.

‘No, of course not! Sofia! Luisa was a gentle creature, a little spoiled, perhaps. And boring, for all I know. But so are half the women in London . . . at least half.’

Vespasia was beginning to feel as if she were paying dearly for these scraps of information, if they were even that.

‘Indeed,’ she said shamelessly. ‘Unfortunately the interesting ones tend to leave. One cannot help wondering if that is cause and effect . . .’

Dorothea turned that remark over in her mind suspiciously, then decided it was a rather delicious compliment.

‘From a good family, of course,’ she continued. ‘I was always surprised Luisa’s family didn’t take some kind of revenge, on both Nazario and Sofia. Perhaps it will happen yet. I think I would! Wouldn’t you?’ It was a direct question.

Vespasia decided to pursue it. ‘Yes, I think I might, if I had the courage,’ she agreed. ‘But I could be content to bide my time, until I could do it really well, and not be caught at it.’

‘Don’t you think the police, or whoever it is, would understand?’ Dorothea asked. ‘Or the law courts, at least?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe it would depend upon what private vengeances they had, I suppose. Even so, I think I would prefer not to have to explain myself, or my family’s tragedies, in order to avoid being punished for the vengeance . . . whatever it was.’

Dorothea gave a little shiver of delight. ‘I’m so glad you came to Toledo. Life is going to be so much more interesting now you are here.’

‘What is the name of this family?’ Vespasia enquired.

Dorothea’s eyes widened. ‘For heaven’s sake, you are not going to call on them, are you? That would be . . . daring!’ She meant brazen and inappropriate, but she would be delighted if Vespasia did such an indiscreet thing.

‘Not at all,’ Vespasia denied. ‘But you did remark upon how surprising it is that they have not taken any vengeance on Nazario or Sofia. I wonder if there is a reason for that.’ She saw Dorothea’s look of intense and sudden interest. ‘It does seem . . . unusual, don’t you think?’

‘Now that you mention it, yes! Yes, I do. I wonder why that should be. It’s been years. I couldn’t wait so long. I shall make some discreet enquiries and let you know.’

‘Their name?’ Vespasia prompted her.

‘Oh, I shall let you know,’ Dorothea replied airily. ‘Didn’t I say?’

Vespasia refused to take the bait. Perhaps she had deserved this. She would despise herself as much as she despised Dorothea were the stakes any less high. Now she forced herself to smile. ‘I should be interested to know more about Sofia herself. But I don’t imagine you could help with that . . .’

‘I . . .’ Dorothea coloured faintly. ‘I have a slight acquaintance with a nun in one of the convents on the outskirts of the old city. If you wish, I can take you there?’