Anne Perry - Dorchester Terrace

He saw Duke Alois briefly, laughing at some joke or other and smiling at a duchess. He looked exactly the pleasant, absentminded sort of academic he affected to be. The serious and idealistic man who was willing to risk his life, to carry a dangerous burden of secret office, the man who had seen his friend shot to death only this afternoon, seemed like something Pitt had dreamed.

It was small wonder Tregarron had tried to kill Duke Alois. What man would not want to rid himself of such mastery by another, such power to manipulate, or destroy? What he had done, he had done to protect his father’s name, and his mother’s feelings. Not a bad motive. Most people would understand it.

Pitt still could not see Charlotte; he gave up trying from this vantage. He went down the steps slowly and into the crowd. Hardly anyone knew him, so he had no need to stop and acknowledge people.

How had Alois known of Tregarron’s vulnerability? That was something that could not have come from Serafina Montserrat. She had been active long before Duke Alois’s time, and he had not been to London before.

Yet Pitt could not rid himself of the belief that it was Serafina’s crumbling memory that had fired this whole complex series of events. It was Serafina’s memory of Lazar Dragovic’s death that had driven Blantyre to kill her, and then to kill Adriana.

Blantyre also knew about Tregarron. He had said as much. So had Blantyre told Duke Alois about it?

That made no sense at all. Blantyre might have cooperated with Duke Alois, within limits, but he would never have given him, or anyone else, control of his own means of power, the secret knowledge that enabled him to manipulate Tregarron.

Then, like the sun rising on a hideous landscape, the whole picture became clear in his mind. Blantyre would want Duke Alois dead now. As long as he was alive, he could also control Tregarron. With Duke Alois dead, no one but Pitt knew the secrets, and Blantyre discounted Pitt’s courage to act.

Perhaps he also believed that if Duke Alois was murdered while under Pitt’s protection in London, Pitt might be disposed of. Surely it would not be too difficult a task. Pitt was now the head of Special Branch, but he had not proven himself yet. He was still something of an experiment: a man risen from the ranks of the police, rather than a gentleman from the military or diplomatic services. Kill Alois and blame Pitt’s incompetence, and Blantyre would be the only man left with the power to manipulate Tregarron into telling Vienna whatever Blantyre wished, and learning whatever he wished in return. He needed both Duke Alois and Pitt out of the way for Tregarron to be of use to him.

It had to have been Blantyre who had sent Tregarron to kill Duke Alois today. It would have worked perfectly. Pitt would like to have seen Blantyre’s face when the duke arrived this evening, very clearly alive and well!

Where was Blantyre? Was he here? He started to look more earnestly. He would have to find Charlotte later. He pushed through the gaps in the crowds, excusing himself, brushing past, turning from right to left, searching for Blantyre. He ought to be able to spot him. He was a little taller than average, and he stood and moved with a unique kind of elegance, a trifle stiff. He carried his head in a characteristic way.

Pitt glanced over to where Duke Alois had been talking to a duchess, or whoever she was. She was still there, but now she was speaking with a large, middle-aged man.

Pitt turned around slowly, taking a deep breath and letting it out between his teeth. He could not see the duke. One of his men was standing over near the wall, but there was a slight frown on his face, and he too was looking from side to side.

Pitt started to look for Emily. Her fair hair and the pale green of her gown might stand out. Yes, there she was, and Jack was still beside her.

“Excuse me,” Pitt said hastily, brushing his way past a woman in a mulberry-colored silk gown. She glared at him, but he barely noticed. He walked right between two elderly gentlemen, excusing himself again. He must not lose sight of Jack.

“Here! I say!” a young man protested as Pitt bumped him. He in turn trod on a woman’s skirt, which was a fraction too long for her.

“I’m sorry,” Pitt said over his shoulder, and kept going.

“Jack!” he called just as Jack appeared about to begin a conversation with a young man wearing lush side whiskers. “Jack.”

Jack turned, startled. “Thomas! What’s wrong?”

“Excuse me,” Pitt said to the young man. “Something of an emergency.” He took Jack’s arm and pulled him to the side, several steps away from the nearest group. “There was an incident on the train this afternoon. One of Duke Alois’s men was shot-killed outright.”

Jack looked appalled. The blood drained from his face. His eyes swept down Pitt to reassure himself that he was unhurt, then a flash of relief filled his eyes. “I’m sorry. The duke himself is putting a hell of a good face on it. Or is he too stupid in his studies for physical reality to touch him? He does know, I presume?”

“Yes. And he’s anything but out of touch, I promise you.”

“Do you know who it was?”

“Yes, but this is not the time to explain. The duke was here a few minutes ago, but I can’t see him now. Blantyre was behind the shooting, and I can’t see him either. I think he’ll try to finish the job …”

“Here? For God’s sake, Thomas, the place is full of women and-”

“Where better?” Pitt cut across him. “No one will be expecting it. Duke Alois and his men will think he’s safe. I nearly did, until I realized exactly why Blantyre has to kill him. He can’t afford to let him get back to Vienna.”

Jack gulped. “What do you want me to do?”

“Find the duke, tell him you’re my brother-in-law, and keep him in the middle of a crowd, any crowd.”

“What about you?”

“I’m going to find Blantyre.”

“And do what, for God’s sake?”

“Arrest him, but if he forces me to, I’ll shoot him.” As soon as he said it, Pitt was not certain if he would do it-if he could. He was not even certain if he could prove that Blantyre had murdered Serafina.

Jack stood motionless for an instant, then he gave a very slight nod, and turned on his heel, disappearing into the crowd immediately.

Where would Blantyre have gone? One of two places. He could hide in the crowd, where he would be concealed among hundreds of other men dressed in exactly the same fashion. However, his face was known, so people would stop to speak to him, to express condolences over Adriana’s death.

The alternative would be to stay out of sight almost altogether, in the darker, narrower passages, any place where he would not be expected. Change his attitude, his grace of stance or movement, and-from the back at least-he would appear like anyone else, even a servant. The footmen were in livery, but there were always others: a butler, a valet, even a messenger of some sort.

And if he really meant to kill Duke Alois, he would have to do that when he had privacy. He would not intend to be caught.

Pitt went back up the stairs, taking them rapidly. They were too wide and shallow to take two at a time, unless he drew attention to himself by doing it at a run. At the top he stopped, looking for more private rooms, corridors, anterooms, galleries-anything away from the crowd. If he could find Stoker he would ask for his help, but he had no time now to look for him. He too could be anywhere.

There was a door to his left. It was as good a place as any to begin. He had opened it and gone inside when he realized how much better it would be to get some order into his search. Blantyre would not wait forever for the duke; he would stalk him, go where he knew the duke would be, and, sooner or later, get him alone.