"What a lovely surprise, Lady Ashton. I'm so glad you've come. My hall looks so much better without that horrid statue you persuaded Mr. Sinclair to give to the museum. I'll never be able to thank you enough."

"I'm glad to know that you're not suffering from the loss."

"I've heard that you're fond of such things, and please don't think I'm criticizing your taste, but I'd much rather have something more modern in my house."

"No offense taken, Mrs. Sinclair," I said, smiling.

"I've half a mind to bring you through the rest of the house to see if there's anything else the museum would take. Mr. Sinclair's grandfather traveled rather too extensively and collected all sorts of sordid things as he went. I'd love nothing more than to get rid of most of them."

Judging by the quality of art I'd seen in the few places I'd been in the house, this was an exciting prospect indeed. But for the moment, it would have to wait. "I wish I had more time today. Perhaps I could come back next week? At the moment I've more questions for you about Jeanne Dunston. Do you know if she left any personal effects for her son?"

"The housekeeper put aside what was in her room, but I doubt that Joseph will ever return to collect the box."

"Is there any chance you would let me take a look at it?"

"I don't see why not, though I can't imagine you'll find anything of interest. I imagine this has to do with the snuffbox again?" I nodded and smiled but decided not to say anything further. The fewer people who knew what I was doing, the better. Mrs. Sinclair rang the bell, and while we munched on lovely watercress sandwiches, the housekeeper was dispatched to the attic. She appeared a quarter of an hour later, carrying a wooden box that must have been covered with the dust now clinging to her dress.

I opened the container at once. Inside were the humble souvenirs of a life spent in service: two nicely embroidered handkerchiefs, a carefully mended pair of gloves, a photograph of a small boy, a postcard from the queen's Jubilee, an ivory rosary, and an extremely old Bible. The postcard was from a woman called Sarah and offered insight into neither sender nor recipient. The Bible was my only hope. The endpaper in the front cover was inscribed: To Bernadette Capet, on the occasion of her first Christmas in England, 1794.

26

My hands trembled as I held the book. "Do you know who Bernadette Capet was?" I asked.

"Let's see...Bernadette...she would have been Jeanne's grandmother."

"And was it she who left France during the revolution? I remember you mentioned something about that during my previous visit."

"Yes."

"Did she come to England alone?"

"Her son was with her, but I've no idea how old he was."

"Did he work here, too?"

"Yes. I don't know much about him, only that he had quite an affinity for horses and worked in the stables all his life. It's such a lovely thing to have the same family in service for multiple generations in the same household, don't you think?"

"Quite. Did Jeanne have any family other than her son?"

"She had two brothers, but they both died long before she did."

"Did Joseph have close ties to anyone in the household? Any friends?"

"I wouldn't know, Lady Ashton. You're welcome to ask the butler, but I'm certain no one knows how to reach him. As I told you, my husband tried."

"Could I borrow this, Mrs. Sinclair?" I asked, holding up the Bible. "I think I might be able to contact Joseph. I'll bring it back, of course."

"I'd be thrilled if you could find him and get the entire box out of the house," Mrs. Sinclair said. "It's very awkward storing legacies for other people, don't you think?"

I could hardly contain my excitement when I was back in my carriage. Sebastian Capet must be Jeanne's wayward son, and if, as I suspected, he was the true heir to the House of Bourbon, his motivation for the thefts was perfectly clear. I could well believe that Mr. Francis knew this. It might even explain his hesitation to report the theft of the pink diamond. Jeanne had confided in him, and he was loath to send her son, a man who in other circumstances might have been a king, to prison. But I still wondered at his letter to Charles Berry. Had he warned Berry of possible exposure? And if so, why?

The road must have been bad, because I was being jostled with such ferocity that it was nearly impossible to keep straight the thoughts in my head. I looked out the window and saw that my driver had moved to the side to let a rider approaching from behind pass us, which it did with most impressive speed. Once it was gone, our ride became smoother but only for a short while. All of a sudden, I heard Waters shouting at the horses. One of them shrieked, and the carriage lurched violently, throwing me against the door. The latch gave way, and I fell out onto the ground.

Waters managed to stop the horses and leapt from his seat. The footmen, who rode standing on the back of the carriage, had jumped clear as we headed off the road and reached me first, helping me up.

"Are you all right, madam?" Waters asked, doing his best to keep his voice steady.

"I think so," I said. "What happened?"

"There was a man on the side of the road. When we got close to him, he drew out a horse whip and struck Aziza across the face. She reared up and startled Hadia. I could hardly control them."

"Where did the man go?" I asked, my heart pounding so violently that I could hardly breathe.

"He had a horse with him, madam. Must've been the gent who passed us just a minute ago. There's no sign of him now. I'd wager that he rode away through the woods."

"You drove magnificently, Waters. I'm amazed that we didn't flip."

While the three men inspected our carriage, I took stock of my injuries. Although I was bruised and dirty, nothing seemed broken, but I could not stop shaking. Waters concluded that everything was in fine working order, and we headed back to London, where, once home, I walked stiffly past Davis as he held the door open for me.

"I can see you want to scold me, Davis," I said. "I assure you that Mr. Hargreaves would find no fault with what I've done." I made my way upstairs and called Meg to help me undress. She was horrified at the condition of my gown and terrified when she heard what had happened, but did not let this get in the way of her efficiency. She sent for tea and prepared a hot bath. I soaked for more than half an hour, knowing that I was likely to feel worse the following day as my bruises developed.

The word of my adventure spread quickly through the household. When the tray arrived from the kitchen, it held not only tea but chicken broth, Cook's panacea for all things dreadful, fresh cut flowers from the garden, a glass of port, and a copy of Great Expectations, which I imagine had been randomly selected from the library by some well-intentioned member of my staff. I applied myself at once to the chicken broth, not because I was particularly hungry but because I had no wish to hurt Cook's feelings by sending it back untouched. Meg tapped on the door.

"Mrs. Brandon is here, madam. Would you like her sent up?"

"Please." I had finished the broth and moved from the table to my bed, where I sat on top of the covers, leaning against the pillows. It was obvious from Ivy's expression that someone had told her about the accident. She rushed to me, sitting on the edge of the bed, biting her lip so hard I thought it would bleed.

"What on earth is going on? You must stop, Emily. You must make sure that you are no longer putting yourself in danger."

"It's not so simple, Ivy," I said. "There's too much at stake."

"Well, that needn't be your concern. Tell the police what you've learned, and remove yourself from the investigation."

"I don't yet know enough to set them on the proper course."

"You're going to get yourself killed. And for what?"

"To keep an innocent woman from being hanged. To prevent a liar from causing the overthrow of a peaceful government."

"Leave it to Colin, then. Why must you insist on doing it yourself?"

I looked at her face, which was filled with a tortured confusion. "Because it's important, Ivy, because I like it, and because I think I'm good at it. I'll be perfectly all right."

"It's selfish, Emily. Selfish. Here I am half-crazed with worry over you, and you dismiss my concern. I know you're clever, I know you're good at what you do. But why can't you leave these things to the people who are supposed to take care of them? You'll hate me for saying it, but it...it...it doesn't become a lady."

"I'm sure my reputation as a lady will come as a great comfort to Jane Stilleman in the hours before her execution."

"You're not the only person capable of solving this, Emily. Haven't enough bad things happened to convince you that you're placing yourself in too much danger?"

"I promised Colin that I would take no unnecessary risks. He made no attempt to stop me."

"I suppose I'm just not as smart as the two of you because I don't see why your involvement is so crucial. I understand that you like the adventure of it, but this is no longer a fun sort of game. Someone is trying to kill you."

"I think you're rather exaggerating things, Ivy."

"Maybe I am, but maybe, Emily, I'm right. Not that you'd listen even if I was. I wonder how you would respond if Margaret said the same things."

Now it was I who bit a lip. I wanted to say that Margaret would make no attempt to stop me, that Margaret would buckle down and help me solve the puzzle, even if there was danger involved. But I had no desire to hurt Ivy, especially now, when she hardly even sounded like herself. I could only assume that things between her and Robert were getting no better.