Tasha Alexander - Dangerous to Know

“She knows it’s one of my favorites,” he said. “And Flaubert did, after all, live in Normandy.”

“Perhaps she hopes it will inspire me to behave as badly as its heroine so that you might be left alone.”

“I believe she meant it as a peace offering. And I can think of something better to inspire you.” He kissed me. First on the lips, then on the neck. “I can’t risk having you sitting around being unremittingly grim all the time.”

“You think Madame Bovary might make me grim?”

“More like make me grim.” He kissed me again, and I knew when his hand deftly unfastened the pearl button at the top of my nightgown it would be a long time before I slept. Even then, although he’d sent me off to sleep in the most pleasant fashion, I tossed fitfully, tormented by my dreams, hideous scenes of the cistern in Constantinople haunting me, each more terrifying than the reality through which I’d lived. I’d be trapped underwater, feeling my lungs fill, or I’d be clawing at the wooden door, unable to open it before rough hands gripped my neck. I struggled, tangling myself in the sheets, and then screamed when the sensations became too real—something had pricked my neck and drawn blood.

And then Colin’s arms were firm around me, his voice calm and soothing as he covered my face with gentle kisses.

“It’s all right, my love. You’re awake now,” he said.

“It’s more than a dream,” I said, tilting my head back and feeling for what I was certain was an actual wound. I took his hand and placed it on the torn skin.

“That’s no small scratch,” he said, lighting the lamp on our bedside table. “What have you done to yourself?”

I reached for the floor to collect a pillow I must have flung from the bed while I was dreaming, but instead of picking it up I gasped, my heart pounding and my eyes throbbing as I looked at something just out of my reach: a single rose with a small piece of paper wrapped around its stem. I touched the scrape on my neck and knew the instrument of the injury was a thorn. Colin, reaching from behind me, scooped up the offending flower.

“This best not be from your admirer.”

“Sebastian? Who else do you suspect would creep into my bedroom? He does have a history of doing just that.”

“ Our bedroom.” He handed me the paper without looking at it. “What does it say?”

I read aloud:

My husband leapt out of bed with inhuman speed. In a few steps he was at the window, which I’d watched him shut before we’d retired. It was still closed and the shutters locked.

“Bloody hell!” He spun around and started for the dressing room. “Light the lamps, Emily. I want to make sure he’s not hiding somewhere.” Once he left our chamber, he crept as quietly as our intrepid intruder must have, not wanting to scare him off should he still be inside. Colin’s talent for stealth was extraordinary—neither his mother nor Cécile woke when he entered their rooms. But his search was to no avail. There was no sign of Sebastian in our room, nor anywhere else in the house. Confident no one was lurking nearby, Colin tucked me into bed, but did not crawl in next to me. Instead, he perched on a chair near the window. The shadows under his eyes the next morning told me he’d not let himself sleep.

We had the sunny breakfast room to ourselves, having come down at a ridiculous hour. Not, however, too early for the excellent cook, whose warm, buttery brioche tempted me the instant I sat down. I took one from the large basket looming in the center of the table, broke it apart, and slathered more creamy butter seasoned with flakes of sea salt on the steaming halves.

“So your mother knows nothing yet?” I asked.

“No,” Colin said. “I saw no need to disturb her. There will be plenty of time for upset once she wakes. I’ll take care of everything with her—you need not trouble yourself about it.”

“At least you can assure her Sebastian is harmless.”

“We don’t know that, Emily. We’ve no idea what he’s been up to since we last encountered him.”

“Surely you don’t think he’s capable of murder?”

“You know me well enough to expect I would categorically refuse ruling out viable options until they’re proven impossible.”

Colin, who did discreet work for Buckingham Palace, was one of the best agents in the empire. He handled difficult cases, often involving matters that needed to be kept quiet, and was more spy than detective. We’d become close while I was investigating the death of my first husband, and in the subsequent years had worked together to solve three further murders. But it was only on our last case, in Constantinople, that I’d been allowed to act in an official capacity. Queen Victoria, the Palace had informed me, was pleased I’d caught the man who’d killed the daughter of an English diplomat, but horrified to learn I’d been injured in the process. She did not think it appropriate for me to place myself in the line of danger again.

Her position, no doubt, was a direct result of the influence of my own mother, who had, in her youth, served as a lady-in-waiting to Her Majesty. They remained close, and neither hid her irritation when Colin and I had eloped on the Greek island of Santorini rather than taking advantage of the queen’s generous offer of the chapel at Windsor Castle for the wedding. My mother made a habit of being dissatisfied with me. She had no tolerance for any of my intellectual pursuits. She found my interest in Greek antiquities and ancient literature inappropriate for a lady, abhorred the idea that I had begun to think about the issue of women’s suffrage, and exhibited visible pain at my skills as a detective.

The detecting was, to her mind, the most offensive of my many sins. She objected in principle to anything that might be perceived as a useful occupation. A lady should lead a life of leisure, as should her husband. She did not much like Colin’s work, but the fact it was a bit mysterious and had twice led to the queen wanting to knight him (he’d refused both times) vindicated it. Nothing, however, could justify my own involvement in such things.

Colin’s mother swept into the room. “You’re looking something of a disaster today,” she said, glowering at me. She was a striking woman—tall, her hair still more dark than gray, thick and wavy like her son’s. Her taste in clothing was impeccable, every item she wore personally designed by Charles Frederick Worth, the father of haute couture and the finest dressmaker in the world. I admired her gown—the waist impossibly tiny, the skirt, a cascade of rich maroon silk, flared and full below her hips.

“I’m afraid we didn’t get much sleep,” I said.

“If it won’t pain you too much, Lady Emily, I could do without impertinence so early in the day,” she said, waving away a footman who appeared behind her with a silver dish of poached eggs and reaching instead for a plate of sliced melon.

“I meant nothing of the sort—” I began, looking to Colin for assistance. I was in no humor to apologize when I felt she ought to.

“We had a visitor last night,” my husband said.

“A visitor?” she asked.

“I’ll leave the two of you to discuss it,” I said, excusing myself as he began to recount the story. I preferred not to hear Mrs. Hargreaves’s reaction to the violation of her home. Cécile, who felt it indecent to make a habit of rising before noon, was not yet awake, so I decided to call on the Markhams, a spare footman accompanying me just in case the murderer was still in the neighborhood. I decided to walk, not wanting the clopping of a horse’s hooves to mask other, more nefarious sounds. Instead of making my way through the woods, I kept to the road, but even so I started at every snapping twig and dog’s bark. The servant was twice as nervous as I, and insisted on walking behind me, thinking it was a better position from which to offer protection. But his footsteps caused nothing but more unease. Listening to them made me wonder if Edith Prier had heard something similar as her attacker approached her.