"Would you like me to send this cable at once, or shall I wait until after you've read what Mr. Hargreaves has to say?"

"Send it now, Davis. It's quite urgent. If I need to add anything, I can always send another."

Davis bowed and left me to my reading. I was glad for the privacy the moment I opened the envelope. This letter was, if I may be so bold, the most exquisitely written, lyrical declaration of love that had ever been put to paper. It sang from the page. I read it three times through before noticing that my skin had grown hot, and my hands were trembling. So beautiful was it that I longed to read it aloud, to hear its melody spoken, until I remembered Colin's suggestion that in a London town house, one is never truly alone.

And then, all at once, I realized that I'd missed the point entirely. With a sigh, I pulled out a blank piece of paper and copied out the first letter of every third word. His news complemented mine perfectly: Lady Elinor's fortune had been spent funding Garnier and his would-be revolutionaries. That was why there was no money left for Isabelle's dowry. She wouldn't need one if her mother were in the position to arrange for her marriage to a future king. And surely, financing the enterprise gave Lady Elinor the power to choose a queen for Charles Berry.

It was a risky proposition, however. Without a dowry, Isabelle would be in dire straits should the restoration fail. But it was nearly a reasonable gamble. The republic in France was staggeringly unpopular. Monsieur Garnier was loved by all and was too savvy a politician to fall victim to the weaknesses that had caused Boulanger's coup to fail.

Did Lady Elinor know that Berry was a fraud? Had she been willing to risk so much only because she believed he truly had descended from Louis XVI? The knowledge that her family had helped refugees fleeing from the terror nagged at me. Would they have known what became of the dauphin?

I am not particularly proud of what I did next, but my options were limited. I sent a note to Isabelle, inviting her to come with me to the British Museum. I received her reply at breakfast the next morning and went round to collect her at Meadowdown as soon as I'd finished eating.

We walked through two Greco-Roman galleries before, in the Archaic Room, I summoned the courage to turn the conversation in the direction I knew it must go.

"Do you miss Mr. Berry?" I asked as we stood in front of the Strangford Apollo, a marble statue said to be from the Cyclades. Looking at it made me long for Santorini.

"I find that I can bear his absence rather well," Isabelle said.

"I've learned about your family's involvement in assisting refugees from the French Revolution. It seems some sort of poetic justice that you should wind up engaged to the heir of the House of Bourbon."

"That's precisely how my mother views it." She stared blankly at Apollo.

"I understand that the Torringtons helped a most important person," I said. "It must be quite a wonderful story."

This, to my surprise, made Isabelle smile. "I always did like it, especially the bit about the pink diamond. So romantic."

"I don't think I know that part," I said.

"The dauphin offered my family a pink diamond to repay them for their help, but my great-great-grandfather refused to accept it. It was one of the few things the boy had that belonged to his mother, and the Torringtons felt strongly that he should keep it as a memento of her." She laughed. "A lovely gesture but foolish in the end. He obviously had to sell it at some point, probably to pay for his passage to America. If he hadn't, it never would have wound up being stolen by that dreadful thief here in England, would it?"

"No, I suppose not," I said, and realized that I'd been holding my breath while she spoke. Apollo's smile seemed to reproach me.

We walked through the rest of the museum. Isabelle found the mummies most diverting. As for me, I hardly took notice of anything that we saw. I did not for a moment believe that Louis Charles had sold the pink diamond. When the newspapers reported its theft, Lady Elinor must have immediately identified the stone's owner as the one person who could, without fail, bring her plan to ruin.

Did she confront him? Confirm in some way that he was Louis Charles's heir? I felt sick once again, certain that, had I not convinced Mr. Francis to report the theft, he would still be alive. My thoughts turned at once to little Edward. Was there any possibility that Lady Elinor knew about the boy? Sebastian was not the only person who had been following me; could I have unwittingly led her to Edward? And what about Mrs. White? Did she know of her son's royal blood?

I invented a headache and took Isabelle home, then directed Waters to drive me to the Whites' house. The housekeeper admitted me at once but glowered as she brought me to her mistress. I would not have thought it possible, but Mrs. White was even thinner than when I had last seen her.

"I'm so sorry to bother you again, but I have a few more questions about Mr. Francis. Did he ever tell you anything...special...about himself? Perhaps by way of explaining why it was so important for him to have a child?"

"Don't all men want children?"

"Probably," I said. "But he gave you no particular reason for his desire?"

"No, Lady Ashton. He was always very kind to me but kept his thoughts to himself. Took great interest in what I was doing, and, of course, in Edward, but almost never told us anything about the rest of his life. No surprise there, though."

"Have you noticed anything strange around your house since his death?"

"Whatever can you mean?" she asked.

"Has anything or anyone struck you as suspicious?"

"You don't think that someone in my household —"

"No, no. It's just that I have reason to believe that the person who killed Mr. Francis might have an interest in Edward."

"You think my son is in danger?"

"I can't be sure," I said. "But I think it would be best if you and the boy went away for a while."

"We don't have anywhere to go." I had to strain to hear her voice.

"Don't worry. I know of a place where you will be perfectly safe."

"I don't know that I should trust you," she said.

"I can well understand that, and I fear there's little I can do to reassure you. Forgive me, but you and Mrs. Francis held dear the same man. She knows me well enough to trust that I am capable of solving his murder. Please, Mrs. White, I'm only trying to protect your son."

"I'm not sure what to think," she said, and tugged at her already ragged cuticles.

"Inspector Manning of Scotland Yard can vouch for me. Would you like me to send him to you?"

"Mr. Francis would want me to keep the boy from harm."

"Will you go?"

She looked as if she wanted to sigh but that the effort would be too great for her frail body. "Yes. What else can I do? I can't very well stay here if I've been warned of danger, and I wouldn't know where to take him on my own. But I would like to speak to the inspector."

"I'll ask him to come as soon as possible. I shall need you to be ready to depart tomorrow. Tell none of your servants, and don't bother to pack. I'll arrange for clothes and whatever else you need to be purchased for you. If there's anything to which Edward is especially attached, you may bring it, so long as it won't draw attention to the fact that you're leaving."

"You're certain this is necessary?"

"No, I'm not. But if there is danger, and we do nothing, the consequences could be more dreadful than either of us can imagine."


Inspector Manning called on Mrs. White a few hours later and reported that he had little difficulty convincing her that she was doing the right thing by following my advice. After talking to her, he seemed to take my role in the investigations more seriously.

My suspicions regarding Lady Elinor troubled me greatly, particularly because, if they were correct, Isabelle's life would be thrown into turmoil. I hated to think that a woman who had been a family friend for so many years could be guilty of such a crime, but it seemed increasingly likely that she was responsible for the deaths in Richmond. I needed firm evidence, and decided to visit Floris, the store from which the shaving lotion that had killed both men had been purchased. Mr. Floris himself spoke to me. He was, understandably, hesitant at first. But when I explained the nature of the case on which I was working, he agreed to help. Together, we combed through his records. A mere two days after the story of the pink-diamond theft appeared in the papers, someone bought one bottle of lavender shaving lotion. The receipt, unlike the others, did not list the name of the purchaser, so Mr. Floris called for the clerk who had written up the sale.

"Oh yes, I do recall this," he said, smiling. "She ordered a number of items for herself, too, but wanted this to be kept separate. I believe it was a gift for a gentleman."

"Do you remember her name?" I asked.

"I'm afraid I don't."

"Could you describe her?"

"Middle-aged, I think. Fair hair."

"Would you recognize her if you saw her again?"

"I think so. It wasn't the first time I'd helped her."

"There must be a receipt for the other things she bought," I said, and continued to make my way through the stack of sales records, stopping when I found a name I recognized. On the same date, from the same clerk, Lady Elinor Routledge had purchased two bottles of eau de toilette and four combs.


"I never would have suspected her!" Margaret exclaimed as we sat in my library that evening. Davis had opened an excellent port for us and, though I know he did not approve, brought what was left of Philip's stock of cigars for my friend.