“Try to look lighthearted,” he said. “Our villain is trying to put you off the case by upsetting you.”

“Do you think so?” I asked.

“There’s no question in my mind,” he said. “Which suggests that something you’re pursuing is on the right track. Don’t show any cracks now, Emily.”

When we returned home, I found it difficult to hand Bucephalus back to the grooms. I felt too out of sorts even to sit in the library, and installed myself in the green drawing room, where we’d hung paintings done by Monet and Renoir, talented artists and dear friends. I read the same fifty lines of The Aeneid over and over, unable to make any sense of the Latin. Ivy found me in a state when she called to see what had kept me from meeting her at Rotten Row.

“Horrifying! Absolutely horrifying,” Ivy said, after I’d recounted for her the events of the morning. “Poor Bucephalus! You must have been beside yourself.”

“I was. It was awful. Thank heavens they caught the man before he did any harm.”

“I think it’s terribly brave of you to be soldiering on.”

“What else is there to do?”

“I’d be tempted to lock myself in my bedroom,” Ivy said. “And refuse to come out until it’s all over.”

“I don’t believe you,” I said. “You can put on all the ladylike airs you want, but you’ll never convince me you don’t like adventure.”

“You know me too well.”

“How is the ineffable Mrs. Harris?”

“Still extremely displeased with you,” Ivy said. “I’ve been spending quite a bit of time with her and while I agree she may not be entirely motivated by kindness, she’s not all bad, Emily.”

“People rarely are.”

“I have noticed that she’s not using her yellow sealing wax all the time anymore. She’s switched to red for most of her correspondence.”

“When does she use the yellow?”

“I don’t really know,” she said. “She doesn’t write that many letters, to tell the truth. I’ve taken to sitting with her in the afternoon—I’d suggested we could answer notes together, to make the task a more pleasant one. She welcomed the idea, although not with much warmth, and set me up the next day at a small table in her music room. That’s where she likes to write.”

“And you’d bring letters requiring answers with you?”

“Precisely. I had told her I wanted her guidance. That I knew I was sometimes swayed to accept less-than-desirable invitations and that I needed her to help me cull from my acquaintance those she thought beneath me.”

“Ivy! You actually said that?” I asked.

“I did indeed and it worked like a charm. She couldn’t wait to exert more influence over me.”

“You’re very good at this, you know,” I said.

“Why thank you, Emily,” she said, her face glowing. There was no one in Britain lovelier than Ivy when she was happy. Her pink cheeks and porcelain skin could not have been more beautiful. “I’m sure it won’t surprise you to learn you were the first person she suggested culling. But as open as she was to helping me, she was quite the opposite when it came to her own letters.”

“Did she discuss any of them with you?”

“No,” Ivy said. “As I said, she writes very few. Instead, she spends her time on journal entries. She’s got at least five volumes, she told me. Needless to say, I’ve not the slightest idea what she puts in them.”

“Perhaps she deals with her correspondence when you’re not there.”

“No, she told me she doesn’t send or receive much.”

“Does she sit near you when she writes?” I asked.

“No. Her desk is on the far side of the room from my little table. She keeps herself all hunched over, too, so that no one walking by could get even a hint of what she’s doing.”

“This is useful, Ivy,” I said. “Thank you so much for undertaking the task.”

“It’s my pleasure entirely,” she said. “I do like being of assistance.”

“Excellent,” I said. “Then you can come with me to Lady Glover’s.”

17

“Lady Glover’s?” Ivy asked. “I don’t know. I—”

“No discussion.” I took her by the arm and led her—dragged her, really—to the Glovers’ house, only a short walk from my own. The butler admitted us at once, and we followed him through six jewel-toned drawing rooms before reaching his mistress.

“Emily! What do you think of it?” She spread her arms and looked around the room. “It was inspired by you, of course. Only a quick redecoration as of yet. I’ll have it done more thoroughly when we’re back in the country shooting grouse, or whatever dreadful bird is on the wing in August.”

She’d done a credible job turning the chamber from French contemporary to medieval fantasy. A suit of armor stood in one corner, and in the one opposite was a display of horse armor, complete with rider on top. Lances, swords, and an assortment of shields hung from one wall, while the other three were covered with fine tapestries. All of the furniture was heavy and dark. Candelabras on the large table in the center of the room provided the only light save that coming through the windows, which she’d somehow managed to replace with panels of stained glass.

“How did you do this in so little time?” I asked.

“Money makes all things possible,” she said. “What do you think, Mrs. Brandon?”

“I … I…,” Ivy faltered in search of words. “It’s extraordinary. I feel as if I’m in the keep of some Scottish castle.”

“Oh dear,” Lady Glover said. “I was aiming for fifteenth-century France. But it’s a start.”

“How does Mr. Foster like it?” I asked.

“He’s not yet seen it,” she said. “I’ve been keeping him in the Egyptian room, even if he does fancy himself a courtly knight. It’s still my favorite.”

“And your husband?” Ivy asked. “Which is his favorite?”

“His dreadful smoking room,” she said. “Which has been in dire need of refurbishment since approximately 1817. I think he refuses to update it just to ensure I won’t disturb him in his little sanctuary. He knows I can’t bear to spend a moment there as it is.”

“You must know I’ve come to you with the same question I have every day,” I said.

“And today, at last, I have a positive response for you,” she said, pulling a rolled paper from her décolletage. I stifled a laugh and took it from Lady Glover as Ivy did her best to hide her embarrassment.

“We shall have shortly discord in the spheres.” Across the bottom of the page, just as before, was an ominous swish of red paint.

“It’s As You Like It,” Lady Glover said. “I admit to having to undertake quite a search to find the quote. I didn’t expect something from the comedies, you see.”

“No, why would you have?” I frowned. “I wish he’d given some indication of whether he received the reply you’d sent to his first note.”

“Well, of course he received it,” Lady Glover said. “I saw him collect it from my stoop.”

“And you didn’t see fit to share this information with me?” Frustration was replacing my feeling of discomfort.

She fluttered her eyelashes. “A lady must have some secrets.”

“What did he look like?”

“Well, I suppose I must admit—but only to you—that he didn’t come for it himself. He sent a servant of some sort.”

“Was he in livery?” I asked.

“No.” She sighed and leaned forward. “Truth be told, he was rather scruffy for a manservant.”

“How do you know he wasn’t some beggar off the street?” Ivy asked.

“Well, he wasn’t that filthy. At least, not quite.”

“I don’t suppose you had someone follow him?” I asked.

“I followed him myself,” she said. “It was quite an adventure. At least I’d thought it would be. But he went nowhere interesting—just into the back door of Claridge’s Hotel.”

“How is that not interesting?” I asked.

“Because he was summarily ejected not two minutes later,” she said. “And then went towards the East End. I stopped following at that point. The neighborhood was appalling and I quite feared for my own safety.”

I wondered if he had gone to Mr. Majors’s match factory.

“Was there anything that stood out about his appearance?” I asked.

“He must have been in a fight recently,” she said. “He was rather banged up, though the injuries did not look fresh.”

I would have bet anything it was Dobson.

“And you still think he’s the servant to a gentleman?” Ivy asked.

“Dear girl, I never said my correspondent was a gentleman! Do you want tea, either of you?”

“No, thank you,” I said. “I do think the man sending these notes is a gentleman. Who else would have such ready knowledge of Shakespeare?”

“An actor, Lady Emily,” she said. “He’d have a far better command of the Bard’s work than any half-interested gentleman with a perfunctory education.”

“I suppose you would know more about actors than us,” Ivy said, then turned bright red. “I’m so sorry … I wasn’t meaning to insult you. I just thought that, in the current circumstances, your background as—”

“Don’t upset yourself,” Lady Glover said. “I’ve never received such a bungled apology in all my life. You can’t be anything but sincere.”

“I assure you, I am,” Ivy said.

“My experience on the stage has certainly enhanced my view of this entire situation,” Lady Glover said. “The stories I could tell you!”

Ivy leaned forward, her eyes wide. She was no longer embarrassed. The red had faded away and she looked well and truly captivated.

“What was it like?” she asked.

“That, my dear, will have to be a story for another day,” Lady Glover said. “For now, I want to focus on this man and his ill-bred servants.”