A Poisoned Season (2 page)

“I hoped he would be more handsome.” Cécile du Lac formed opinions of people quickly and rarely changed them. We had known each other for less than a year, but she had become one of my closest confidantes almost from the moment I’d met her, despite the fact that she was nearer in age to my mother than to me. She watched him as she continued. “And he lacks completely the generous spirit one likes to find in a monarch. If he could not claim a direct relation to Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette, society would hold him in much less regard.”

Almost from the moment Louis XVI’s son and heir had died in a French prison during the revolution, rumors that the boy had escaped began to circulate. Now, nearly a century later, gentlemen were still coming forward, insisting that they were descended from Louis Charles. Charles Berry was the most recent to make the claim, and his story was filled with enough details to convince the surviving members of the Bourbon family to accept him as the dauphin’s great-grandson.

“Don’t judge him too harshly,” Lady Elinor said, moving her hands gracefully in a gesture designed not to emphasize her words, but to show off the spectacular ruby ring on her right hand. “He’s led a difficult life.”

“Do you know him well?” I asked her.

“He was at Oxford with my son, George, although they didn’t move in the same crowd. George has always been very serious. He takes after his father.” Lady Elinor’s husband, Mr. John Routledge, had been a steady if somewhat humorless man, who served in the government as chancellor of the exchequer until his death some years ago. George, who was much older than his sister, had taken a position in the diplomatic corps and had been stationed in India for so long
that I could hardly recall what he looked like. “Let me introduce you. I think you’ll find Mr. Berry most charming.”

The gentleman in question stood not far from us, surrounded by several very eligible heiresses whose mothers watched, hawklike, from a safe distance, eagerly trying to gauge which girl garnered the most attention from the purported heir to the House of Bourbon. I wondered if any of them gave even momentary consideration to what it might be like to actually be the wife of such a man. None of the mothers tried to hide her irritation when Lady Elinor pulled him away.

“How do you find London?” I asked after the introductions had been made.

“A wonderful city. But I must admit that I long for Paris. I have great hopes, you know, that my throne will be restored.”

“Really, Monsieur Berry?” Cécile asked, incredulous. “I had no idea the Third Republic was in danger of being replaced by a monarchy.”

“France would be lucky to have you,” Lady Elinor said.

“It is not impossible. I, of course, would never presume to seek such a thing, but if it proves to be the will of the people…” He let his voice trail off and looked at me as if appraising my value. “You, Lady Ashton, would be an ornament in any court.”

“You flatter me.” I saw a look of dissatisfaction pass quickly across Lady Elinor’s face and realized that she, too, had fallen victim to wanting a royal husband for her daughter. Isabelle was a sweet girl, out for her second season. She was not pretty, not in the classical way, but possessed bright eyes and an eager smile that more than made up for any imperfections in her features. I confess to being surprised by how much she had matured in the past year; gone completely was the child I remembered following me around after my own debut, begging for stories of balls and parties. If she still harbored any of the romantic ideas she’d had as a girl, she was headed for disappointment unless she could convince her mother that Mr. Berry was not a desirable suitor. I
decided to direct the subject away from the gentleman altogether and turned to my hostess. “Have you seen Mr. Bingham this afternoon?”

“He arrived not half an hour ago,” Lady Elinor replied. “Though I must warn you that he’s not one for genteel conversation.”

“I know it all too well. He owns a silver libation bowl—the sort the ancient Greeks used to hold offerings to the gods. The decoration on it is exquisite—Athena, Hermes, Dionysus, and Ares riding in chariots driven by winged Nikes.”

“What is a Nike?” Lady Elinor asked.

“Victory. Perhaps you’ve seen the Nike Samothrace in the Louvre?”

“Ah, yes. How…interesting that you know about such things.”

“I’ve been trying to convince Mr. Bingham to sell me the piece for the past three months and have barely had a civil word from him.”

“Are you a collector?” Mr. Berry asked.

“My late husband was, but he also made many donations to the British Museum. I’ve continued this practice, though I admit it’s not always easy for me to part with what I’ve acquired. But in this case, I want the
phiale
for the museum. It’s too significant to be left languishing in a private home. I had hoped I could persuade Mr. Bingham to donate it himself, but he will not be convinced.”

“Aren’t you clever!” Lady Elinor said, then turned to Mr. Berry. “Lady Ashton is quite a scholar.”

“Surely you’ve put aside all thoughts of studying during the Season?” he asked.

“Studying Greek, Mr. Berry, is what will get me through the Season.” He made a dissatisfied-sounding grunt, and Lady Elinor smiled, confident that branding me a scholar would be enough to keep the gentleman from growing
too
interested in me. I hoped she was correct.

“You speak almost like an Englishman, Monsieur Berry,” Cécile said. “I expected to find you more French.”

“I spent much of my youth in the United States. We did not speak French, even at home. My father sent me to Oxford for university, and I’ve lived in England ever since. He was a very private man, never wanted the public to know his true identity. I respected this position while he was alive, but now that he is dead, I believe it is time to reclaim my heritage.” He stepped close to Cécile and continued in a low voice. “I am moved more than you can imagine by the sight of your earrings. I understand that they belonged to my twice
arrière-grand-mère
.”

“They did, monsieur, and I thought it appropriate to wear them when I met the pretender to the Bourbon throne. Marie Antoinette had them on when she was arrested during the revolution.”

“How I wish I could touch them.” He moved even closer to her, and for a moment I thought he would reach out for them.

Isabelle, who had been summoned to her mother’s side, frowned. “She was arrested wearing them?” she asked. “Aren’t you afraid they’ll bring you bad luck?”

“Not at all,” Cécile replied.

“They’re just the sort of thing that would carry a curse, the tragic fate of a previous owner haunting everyone else who possesses them,” Isabelle said with a dramatic flair.

“I assure you, mademoiselle, that I am not concerned in the least,” Cécile said, shrugging.

“Where did you get them, Cécile?” I asked.

“My brother purchased them for his fiancée. Unfortunately, she died before they were married, and he gave them to me.”

“Died before they were married?” I asked. “Clearly the poor woman was cursed.”

“Not in the least. Claudette had a sickly constitution long before Paul gave her the earrings.”

Although I counted Cécile among my dearest friends, this story of her brother, along with vague rumors that her ancestors had been
sympathetic to the monarchy during the revolution, was nearly all the information I’d heard about her family. Like me, she was a widow, though her husband had died almost thirty years ago. It was this that first drew us together—not simply that we had lost husbands, but that we had lost husbands we did not mourn.

“I would hesitate to wear them,” Isabelle said. “You’re very brave.”

“It would take more than a curse to stop Madame du Lac,” Colin Hargreaves said, striding confidently towards us, a broad smile on his face. “Do my eyes deceive me? Or is it true that the delights of the Season are enough to entice Lady Ashton to abandon the pleasures of Greece?”

“Colin!” I cried, feeling an unmistakable rush of pleasure as he brushed his lips over my gloved hand, the color rising in my cheeks as our eyes met. “Your letter said you would be in Berlin until next week.”

“My business finished more quickly than expected. I called on you at Berkeley Square not an hour ago, and your butler told me I could find you here. Lady Elinor was kind enough to allow me in without an invitation.” His face was already tanned from riding in the summer sun.

“You are always welcome in my home, Mr. Hargreaves,” our hostess said, clearly relieved to find a gentleman other than Mr. Berry paying attention to me. “Have you met Mr. Berry?”

“Yes, we spent some time together on the Continent this spring.” This surprised me. In all the letters he’d sent to me in the past months, Colin had never once mentioned Mr. Berry, and Mr. Berry did not strike me as the sort of man with whom Colin would have much interest in spending time.

“Lady Elinor, would you show me where to find your claret cup?” Cécile asked, a sly smile forming on her lips.

“May I get some for you, Madame du Lac?” Colin asked.

“
Non, merci,
Monsieur Hargreaves. That would defeat my purpose
entirely.” She tapped his arm with her fan as she spoke before turning to Mr. Berry. “And you, sir, come with us. I’d like to hear more about your plans for France.” Isabelle hung back for a moment, but a sharp glance from her mother spurred her to follow the group.

“I shall never be able to adequately thank Cécile for her continuing interest in leaving me alone with you,” Colin said, kissing my hand again as soon as they had left us, “although I’d prefer a more private setting altogether. I should like nothing better than to take you in my arms.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” I replied, half wishing that he would, my hand still warm where his lips had lingered. “But I suppose it’s best not to cause a scandal this early in the Season. Are you free for dinner this evening?”

“Unfortunately not. I’ve a prior engagement.”

“A prior engagement?”

“I am a very eligible bachelor, Emily. You must expect that my calendar will be very full in the coming months.”

“Well, before you begin proposing to any of the debutantes who are sure to throw themselves at your feet, I do hope you’ll consider my feelings. I’d be quite lost if you refused to help me with my Greek.”

“How kind of you to find some use for me.” He squeezed my hand. “It’s work, actually, that will keep me from you tonight.”

“Anything that might interest me?” I asked. Colin was frequently called upon by Buckingham Palace to assist in matters that, as he explained it, required more than a modicum of discretion.

“Definitely not.” Without another word, he led me, rather forcefully, to a quiet corner of the garden, where, though we did not have the privacy my library would have afforded, we were able to greet each other in a much more satisfactory manner.

T
hat night, though I wished I could have seen Colin, I applied myself to translating passages from Homer’s
Odyssey
. I brought my work to bed, where I continued to read until I drifted off to sleep, only to be awakened long before morning, disturbed by the hard cover of the book, which had wedged itself against my back. Sitting up, I gathered my now wrinkled papers and placed them on the bedside table. As I laid the volume of Homer on top of them, something moved near the wall across from me. I hesitated for only a moment before quietly slipping out of bed to investigate, but I was too late. There was nothing there. I might have dismissed it as a dream had I not noticed the curtains begin to sway. Flinging them aside, I half expected to find someone standing before me. Instead, all I saw was the window, which had been closed when I went to bed, now wide open, rain blowing into my chamber.

I quickly lit every lamp in the room, and the flitting shadows that followed me startled me whenever they caught my eye. It was summer, but I felt a chill that I could not shake. My silk curtains were soaked and ruined, but other than that, everything looked as it had when I’d fallen asleep. Nonetheless, I rang for my butler and crossed the hallway to the room where Cécile slept. It appeared that I had overreacted until she inspected her jewelry cases. The locks on each of them had been picked, but of all the exquisite pieces that they contained, only one was missing: Marie Antoinette’s teardrop-shaped diamond earrings, the ones Cécile had worn that afternoon.

Davis, my butler, sent for the police at once, and their thorough search of my house proved what I had suspected after seeing Cécile’s cases: Nothing was missing except the earrings. The priceless antiquities displayed in my library, the old masters’ paintings that could be found throughout the house, and my own jewelry were untouched. Not even the two-hundred-carat emerald-and-diamond necklace that sat next to the earrings was disturbed. Our thief had known what he wanted.

“It is difficult to be angry with a man who shows such refined taste,” Cécile said the next morning as we sat at the breakfast table. “Clearly he is not motivated by greed.”

“It’s a pity your dogs did not bark to warn us of the intruder.” Cécile refused to leave her home in Paris without her pets and would not come to visit me unless I agreed to let her bring them. Caesar and Brutus were tiny things, more likely to cower at the sight of a cat than to bark at a burglar. “If I had woken up earlier, I might have seen him,” I said, frowning. The police had found footprints in the garden beneath my room, and although the rain had washed away any identifying features, they were able to determine that the intruder had entered the house through my window. This revelation had deeply disturbed Davis, who reprimanded the entire staff and assured me that he would personally check the locks in the house every evening. I did not hold anyone responsible. Had it not been raining, I would have directed my maid to leave the window open, and I said as much to Colin when he arrived to find Cécile and me still at breakfast.

“Best to keep the windows closed and locked in the future. I am most relieved to see both of you unharmed after your ordeal. I wouldn’t have called at such a beastly hour if I weren’t concerned about you.”