Tasha Alexander - A Fatal Waltz

“While you were in my room.”

“No—” The door opened, and Colin and Mr. Harrison entered the room.

“What did you find?” Lord Fortescue asked.

“All of them,” Mr. Harrison said, holding up a neat stack of papers. “They were in her room underneath a copy of the collected works of Aristophanes.”

“This is outrageous,” I said. “I—”

Colin raised a hand to stop me, his eyes on Lord Fortescue. “This is nothing but the barest sort of circumstantial evidence. Anyone could have put that bracelet on your floor, and anyone could have put the papers in her room.”

“Perhaps, but I think the police would believe my version of the story. And I’m certain I could come up with at least one witness who saw her leaving my chamber. I wonder what Sir Julian would make of all this? I’m certain he’d want to run something about it in his paper.”

“You’ve no more interest in involving the police or the newspapers than I do,” Colin said.

“Quite right, as always, Hargreaves. Do you think Her Majesty would be interested in hearing my story? Would it cause her to lose faith in her favorite agent?”

“It’s more likely to shake her faith in her favorite political advisor. The papers were in your possession. You should have seen to it that they were in a secure location.”

“The queen would not approve of your marrying a woman suspected of theft.”

“It does not become a man of your position to attack a lady. Save your venom for some other adversary,” Colin said. Through all this, Mr. Harrison had remained silent, leaning against a bookshelf, inspecting his fingernails. His jacket hung open, and I saw that he was carrying a pistol under it.

“Ah.” Lord Fortescue laughed. “So you don’t view her as an equal, just as a mere lady? Can’t imagine she’ll be happy to hear that.”

“She’s my equal, but your superior. You degrade yourself by trying to insult her.”

“A devastating observation. Think on it, though, Hargreaves. Can you afford a wife whose integrity is so easily compromised?”

“I’ve done nothing to compromise my integrity,” I said, my voice strong. “Other than having the poor judgment to converse with you after dinner.”

“I’m glad to see you’re using the rope I’ve so generously left for you. You’ve let us all witness the danger of women trying to think for themselves. I’ve nothing further to say on this subject for now. But remember, Lady Ashton, that regardless of the opinion of your fiancé, I could use this incident against you. Do not try to cross me again. And when I need something from you, don’t forget that this will become public should you refuse me.” With that, he stalked out of the room, Mr. Harrison following close behind, a cold smile on his face.

I turned to Colin at once. “I’m so sorry,” I said, and told him the details of my arrangement with Mr. Harrison.

“A clumsier plan than I would expect from Fortescue.” He frowned and took my hand. “You must be more careful, though. What made you trust Harrison?”

“His story seemed reasonable; what he was asking of me, nominal.”

“But what made you think he was trustworthy? It’s simple to tell a reasonable story that is full of lies. Consider a man’s character before you decide to believe him.”

“Forgive me?” I asked, feeling like a child who’d been scolded for interfering with adults. It was unlikely that Kristiana had ever found herself in a comparable situation. She was Colin’s colleague, his professional equal. I was the lowest sort of amateur. Was he drawing the comparison, too?

“Of course I forgive you. But you must promise that in the future you will be completely candid with me before you embark on anything like this.”

“I promise.” I hated that he had to ask this of me. “What was in the papers Mr. Harrison took?”

“He was correct when he told you they were politically sensitive. But that’s all I can say. Don’t worry any more about Fortescue. There’s enough political trouble brewing that he’ll soon have no time to worry about you. I fear there’s more at stake than any of us realizes.”

“Was there truth in what Mr. Harrison said to me?”

“Yes.”

“I wish you could tell me more,” I said.

“So do I. Because I suspect you wouldn’t be daunted in the face of danger. There’s something surprisingly appealing about you wanting to play spy.” He took me firmly by the arms and kissed me, harder than usual. “You’ve always had a deleterious effect on my self-control, and I’m afraid this only makes it worse.”

“I’ve never been particularly fond of your self-control,” I said, returning his kisses and pulling him closer.

“How soon can we be married?” he asked.

“I’m free this afternoon, if you don’t have other plans.”

“If only,” he said, kissing me deeper still. It was a very good thing we were not depending on my own self-control. At that moment, I knew I had none left.

6 December 1891

Berkeley Square, London

Madam:

I am forwarding via express the enclosed letter, as a missive I received from Madame du Lac’s maid alerted me of her mistress’s situation.

—Davis

30 November 1891

Rue Saint Germain, Paris

Ma chère Kallista,

You know how much I have anticipated seeing you this Christmas. Aside from the pleasure I always take in your company, I had looked forward to at last seeing your country estate. Not, mind you, that I believe Ivy’s claims that Ashton Hall could rival Versailles—size alone makes that impossible—but I think this will be your last year in possession of the house, and I would like to see it and your late husband’s antiquities.

But I am afraid that I have to cancel our plans. I have received a most distressing telegram from my childhood friend, Sissi. Oui, that Sissi—Elisabeth, the empress of Austria. She is suffering from a deep depression and asks that I come visit her. She never recovered from the loss of her son to suicide—Do you know the story of the scandal at Mayerling? It happened soon after your own husband died, so you may not have heard the details.

The Crown Prince Rudolf and his mistress, a young woman named Mary Vestera, were found dead at the prince’s hunting lodge, both shot. Supposedly they had planned to die together—he killed her and then himself. I’ve never quite believed it. It was all hushed up at once, but of course that serves only to make rumors spread more quickly.

It seemed a straightforward case, but there are many people who believe the couple were murdered. Sissi is one of them. Unfortunately, she’s no more likely to be told the truth about that night than you or I. One would think that she would be in a position of power, but some scandals are so great that they must be hidden from everyone.

I think if they weren’t so very set on keeping the truth hidden, I would be more inclined to believe the official story.

I cannot ignore my friend’s pleas to visit her—but still very much want to see you, too. Consider coming with me. The city is stunning at Christmas, incomparable for New Year’s, and after that, the Fasching carnival will be at its peak. For a connoisseur of the waltz, there is no better place.

I realize it would be impossible for you to get away until after Christmas, but will hope to see you soon after the New Year, once your other guests have returned to their own homes.

Odette continues her unbearable moping and is cheered only momentarily when letters arrive from Davis. I had no idea your butler was such a romantic. I believe he is sending her poetry. What a pity I can’t convince you to move to Paris. I fear that one of us is bound to lose a treasured servant before long.

I am your most devoted friend,

Cécile du Lac 

I was terribly disappointed to read Cécile’s letter. I understood, of course, why she could not come to me at Christmas, but I would miss her keenly. The idea of meeting her later in Vienna was appealing and something that merited serious consideration, but it would be difficult to get away until late January—my parents planned to stay at Ashton Hall most of the month. After that, however, I would be more than ready for a flurry of waltzes.

Lord Fortescue would not have liked it in the least, but at the risk of courting more of his displeasure, I planned to spend the remainder of the day cataloging the art that filled Beaumont Towers. If I was careful to limit this activity to times when the gentlemen were out shooting, it was unlikely in the extreme that he would notice what I was doing. Unfortunately, I found very little of interest. A wooden box caught my notice—smooth mahogany inlaid with a circle of mother-of-pearl in the center—and I opened it, hoping to find treasure inside. Instead, I saw one slender dueling pistol with silver mountings that bore the symbol of the Baron of Beaumont: a griffin in profile.

The inside of the case was fitted to hold two guns, cradled in crushed velvet, but the second space held no weapon. Fabric tabs protruded from both edges of the lining, and when I pulled on them, the interior fitting lifted out of the box. Underneath, against bare wood, were the charred remains of a burnt piece of paper that crumbled when I tried to examine them. Frustrated, I closed the box and moved upstairs to unoccupied bedrooms. As I walked into a small anteroom on the second floor, I saw a woman sitting, one hand over her eyes, her shoulders shaking.