"I'm sorry, Ivy. I don't mean to dismiss your concerns."

"I know that you and Margaret don't take me seriously. I suppose I ought to try to be the sort of friend to you that she is, but I don't want to. I only wish that things would return to how they used to be, before either of us was married, when you were satisfied with being happy. I think that you now prefer challenge to contentedness."

"Is that so wrong?"

"It is when you ask your friends to sit back and watch you throw yourself in harm's way."

"I'm not asking you to sit back."

"You know full well that there's nothing else I can do." She clasped her hands in her lap and fixed her gaze on them. "I apologize for arguing with you after you've had such a frightening experience. It was wrong of me."

"Ivy — "

"I must go. Robert's at Westminster and will expect me to be home when he returns."

"Are things well between you?" I asked.

"Robert's such a considerate husband. I'm fortunate to have him." And with that response, so impersonal, so perfectly appropriate, I knew that Ivy was releasing me as a confidante. She smiled stonily, her lips hardly moving, and wished me well. I couldn't bear to watch her walk away from me, but when I heard the heavy bedroom door close behind her, I started to cry. Our lives may have taken contrary directions, but I had no desire to be adrift in a sea of my own without the comfort of her friendship.


It was dark when I next opened my eyes, so I knew that I must have fallen asleep, and was disappointed to have let so many hours slip away from me. My head was throbbing, but I lit a lamp and rang for tea, asking to have it sent to me in the library. I made my way slowly downstairs, feeling notably stiffer than I had a few hours ago. With effort, I lowered myself into my desk chair and pulled open a drawer in which my husband had kept the blank leather notebooks he used for his journals. There had been five there when Philip died. One I used for my study of Greek. Another, which contained both Greek and notes from my investigation, Sebastian had stolen in the park along with the Odyssey. Now I would use a third. I hesitated for an instant, wondering if I should save these remaining volumes for something else, perhaps reserve them only for Greek or to start a journal of my own. When they were gone, I would be left with one fewer remaining tie to Philip, and for some reason this struck me as unreasonably poignant. I liked the idea of the notebooks, sitting where he'd left them, waiting to be used.

"Cook sent tea and a hot toddy, madam," Davis said, placing the tray on my desk.

"She takes good care of me."

"Are you quite certain that you're not in need of medical attention?"

"Quite." I smiled. "The footmen assured me that they suffered no injuries, as did Waters. Is that true?"

"They're all perfectly fine, madam."

"Good." I sipped the toddy. "And the horses?"

"They suffered no lasting injuries. If I may, madam?" Davis was standing at rigid attention.

"Please, go ahead."

"I took the liberty of informing Inspector Manning about the events of the afternoon. Mr. Hargreaves asked me to" — he cleared his throat — "that is — "

"He asked you to make sure the inspector was aware of my activities."

"Yes, madam. I have no doubt that you would have told him yourself were you not recovering from the accident."

"Of course." I couldn't help but smile. "I found the reticule I had with me in the carriage in my room, but I didn't see the Bible that I was holding. Do you know where it was put?"

"A Bible? I don't remember seeing it. I'll check with Baines." He returned a few minutes later with the footman.

"I gave your bag and the Bible to a maid, madam," Baines said. "But I don't know what she did with them."

"Which maid, Baines?" I asked.

"I can't remember her name. She's one of the new girls."

Davis sprang into action at once. A quick search of the servants' quarters revealed that Molly and her few humble possessions had disappeared.

27

"You should never have trusted her," Margaret said the next afternoon. She was pacing but kept well away from the windows in the library.

"I suppose you're right, but I still cannot believe that she would have any ties to Berry after what he did to her."

"I don't like to be cynical, but it's possible that he didn't force himself on her. She might have welcomed the attention and then been upset when she realized she would never be anything to him."

"Theoretically possible, I suppose, but highly unlikely."

"So what now?" she asked.

"It's time to send another message to Sebastian. It's essential that I speak with him." Margaret wanted me to quote Homer to him, but I elected to take a simpler approach:


Sebastian, I've seen your mother's Bible and know your true identity. Please come to me at once.


"Surely he's no reason to hide from you any longer now that you know the truth," Margaret said. "Capet is the Bourbon heir. Francis knew this. Presumably, he told Berry. But how do you reconcile all this with Francis's infidelity? Berry may have had motive to kill him, but so did Beatrice."

"It's entirely possible that the murder had nothing to do with the French throne. If Beatrice knew that her husband had a mistress and a child" — I sighed — "it would be much more satisfactory to know that there was a larger motivation behind Mr. Francis's death."

"Is there a motivation stronger than love betrayed? Although..." Margaret paused. "If Beatrice always loved Mr. Barber, can she really claim to have been betrayed?"

"Think on it: She loves Barber but has given him up for Francis. For years and years she buries her feelings and treats her husband with respect and affection, coming, in the end, to love him. Now, presume she learns that this man, for whom she had walked away from love, has callously tossed her aside for another woman. That is a betrayal that would be keenly felt."

"Maybe. I think she'd take the opportunity to invite Barber back into her life. If her husband took a lover, why shouldn't she? That's exactly what I'd do."

"Really?" I looked at her carefully. "Is this a roundabout way of telling me that you've decided to marry Jeremy?"

"Heavens, no! First off, his mother would never stand for it, and second, I'm convinced that Jeremy is capable of grand passion. Now, I've no illusions about fidelity in many marriages, but I shouldn't like to have a husband with a grand passion for someone else."

"You sell yourself short, Margaret. Perhaps you will be his grand passion."

"There's no chance of that. I thought him to be the most frivolous of gentlemen up until the past couple of weeks. Now there's a change in him, a seriousness in the way that he looks at one woman in particular."

"Tell me it's not Lettice?"

"No, Emily, it's you."

"Jeremy is a dear friend, and I can assure you that he would never consider me anything else."

"Believe what you will. I can only tell you what I see. There's a sort of adoration that's crept into the way he speaks about you. There's no fawning in it, mind you. 'Passion' is the only word that fits."

"Infatuation, more likely," I said, not believing he felt even this. Jeremy and I had been friends so long that any other sort of relationship was inconceivable.

"Think what you like. I am confident, however, that unless your own affections take a remarkable change of course, the Duke of Bainbridge is going to remain a bachelor for a very long time."

"Jeremy has always had a fickle nature. Any apparent devotion he has for me stems entirely from my lack of availability and will soon be replaced with fervor for someone equally inaccessible." Davis entered the room with the mail. "Did Mr. Hargreaves send a reply to my letter yesterday?"

"Not of which I am aware. I shall look into the matter at once, madam."

He returned not half an hour later, deeply apologetic. He had instructed Baines to deliver my letter, but when the footman had gone to collect it, he could not find it. A maid — the same one to whom he'd later given my effects from the carriage — was passing through the foyer and told him that she'd seen me remove a note from the mail tray moments earlier. He assumed I had changed my mind about sending it. There was no doubt in my mind what had happened. Molly had taken it, along with Bernadette Capet's Bible, to Charles Berry.

"I need you to find Molly," I said to my butler. "Do whatever you must, but bring her to me."


While I waited for Davis to bring news of my wayward maid and for Sebastian to reply to my latest message, I decided to distract myself by calling on two ladies, each of whom was in a position to provide information significant to friends of mine. I went first to Eaton Place, where I spent a most diverting half hour with the Countess Anders, Lord Pembroke's mother. After discussing the German state visit (there was a feeling of general relief at the kaiser's good behavior), Princess Louise's wedding to Prince Aribert of Anhalt (the countess was convinced the marriage would never last), and the difficulties in finding and keeping a decent cook (I made a mental note to increase Cook's wages), I moved the conversation in a different direction.

"How is your son, Lady Anders? I know that he and Miss Routledge were quite attached before her engagement."

"Oh, poor Tommy was heartbroken when she threw him over, though I must admit that I wasn't entirely disappointed. I'm sympathetic to Elinor wanting Berry for her daughter. Royal blood is always an attractive lure. Charles Berry may have no fortune, but if rumors are correct, that will all change shortly, and Elinor will be lauded for having gambled so well."