Tasha Alexander - A Fatal Waltz

He refused, insisting that we take a carriage. He rode with me back to the hotel, escorting me all the way to my room, where Cécile reached for me the moment she saw my face. I think she spoke to the policeman, but I didn’t particularly notice. I walked over to the window and stared out of it, focusing on nothing. The door closed, the officer was gone, and my friend embraced me.

“Kallista, we must leave this city.”

“I have to find Colin,” I said. I wanted to cry, to scream, something. But all I felt was an enormous void engulfing me. Cécile rang for Meg and Odette and ordered them to begin packing our things.

I did not leave the window.

I didn’t hear Jeremy come in. He’d found Rina curled up at her house, reading a book. She had not sent him the note and was completely astonished to see him. Knowing instantly that he’d been tricked, he returned to the Stephansdom, only to learn that someone had been murdered inside. I hardly heard him speak as he told the story.

My friends did not try to convince me to come away from the window. Eventually, Jeremy pressed a glass of port into my hand, guiding it with his up to my mouth. I drank, but tasted nothing. I handed the glass back to him and dropped into a chair.

“We will leave on the Orient Express tomorrow,” he said, sitting across from me. “Do you know where Hargreaves is? We can send him a wire if you’d like. I’ve no doubt he’ll return before our departure.”

Colin didn’t come back. I had not the slightest idea of where he’d gone—only that he’d traveled by train, wasn’t terribly far from Vienna, and had expected to return before the end of the day. We waited as long as we could, sending our baggage to the station ahead of us and not leaving until we were in danger of missing the train. The last thing I did was write two letters: one to Colin and one to the empress.

The trip was a hideous one. I did not sleep at all, images of Herr Schröder and Harrison’s knife haunting me whenever I closed my eyes. I did not want to know how much worse my dreams would be. I staggered onto the ferry at Calais, and was barely cognizant of anything around me when we arrived at Victoria Station the next morning. The yellow fog was back again, shrouding London in an unholy veil. Margaret was waiting for us at the platform—Jeremy must have wired her—and the moment I saw her, I snapped out of my morose trance.

“Are you all right?” she asked almost before I’d stepped off the train.

“I wouldn’t know how to even begin to answer that question,” I said. “But I’m glad you’re here.” She looped her arm through mine, and we bent our heads together. A silent friend can offer untold comfort. I knew not how to begin to cope with what had happened, only that I could not bear to stop and think about it. Keeping occupied was the only solution. Robert’s trial was fast approaching; I could not let him run out of time. I would focus on him and later think about the rest. Margaret understood this well.

Once outside the station, our party split. Jeremy took a cab to his club while Cécile, and the maids returned to Berkeley Square in my carriage. Margaret and I had other plans: we were going to Windsor to descend unannounced on the estate of the Reynold-Plymptons.

If the lady of the house was surprised to see us, she hid the emotion with the skill of an artisan. She welcomed us into her drawing room, which was filled with souvenirs from the time she and her husband, who had been an ambassador, spent abroad: ivory from India, Egyptian glass bottles, an elaborate Turkish coffee set. On the walls were stuffed and mounted animal heads—the ambassador must be a hunter—most of them African, all of them staring down upon us with looks of reproach.

“What a lovely room,” Margaret said, the corners of her mouth twitching as she tried not to smile. “I understand that you’ve quite a flair for home redecoration.”

“It’s always been a hobby of mine,” Mrs. Reynold-Plympton said.

“I recognized your touch at Beaumont Towers,” I said. “I particularly liked the Merchant of Venice murals in the drawing room.”

She gave me a catlike smile. “You did not come here to discuss the drawing room at Beaumont Towers.”

“No, I did not. You were kind enough to tell me that there was someone else on the dueling field in Vienna with an interest in British politics. Would you please tell me who?”

“Lady Ashton, you know that I, more than anyone, want to see my dear Basil’s murderer brought to justice. But I have looked into this matter of the second—a man for whom I have no personal liking. Regrettably, he was not involved.”

“Tell me his name,” I said.

“It’s irrelevant.”

“I’d still like to speak with him.”

“Emily is incorrigible,” Margaret said. “She’ll never rest unless she finds out for herself. Can’t you humor her?”

“I don’t see what good could come of it.” Her smile was implacable.

“But surely it would lead to nothing bad. I’m not going to accost him in public.”

“I simply don’t see the point,” she said.

“You should have no objection to me wasting my time,” I said.

“You are remarkably persistent, a quality I admire.” She put on a pair of spectacles and peered at me. “I did not much like you when we first met, but I should perhaps excuse your naïveté as a thoroughly unoriginal sin of youth.”

“I admit freely that we started off in a less than desirable manner.”

This made her laugh. “You accused me of having an affair with Robert Brandon.”

Margaret leaned forward in her chair. “I’ve always thought Emily should write fiction. She has such a flair for narrative.”

“Yes, well, I assure you my decision to confront you stemmed from the best of intentions,” I said. “But what has always impressed me about you, Mrs. Reynold-Plympton, is that you have forged for yourself real political power. I can’t think of another lady of my acquaintance who’s managed to do such a thing. It’s common knowledge that Lord Fortescue depended on your advice.”

“An astute observation.” She pulled her shoulders back just a bit and sat taller in her chair.

“And one that should be shared by gentlemen in the government.” I was gambling. Was she sensitive to the fact that the majority of men would have dismissed her expertise?

“Hmpf.” She whipped off her spectacles with a flourish. “We ladies are forced to operate entirely behind the scenes—and that’s unlikely to change in my lifetime.”

“I have…” I paused, smiled, and wrung my hands, hoping that I looked like someone in search of a mentor. “I’ve taken some steps to assist my fiancé in his work. I confess that you’ve been my inspiration. I know I’m an absolute novice, but perhaps someday you and I could combine forces.”

“Are you trying to manipulate me?” she asked.

“No, of course not.”

“Of course you are.” She studied me for a moment and then laughed again. It sounded like music. “I may have just begun to like you, Lady Ashton. It’s possible you would make a useful ally.”

“Will you tell me his name?” I asked.

“James Hamilton. He works in the office of the chancellor of the exchequer and is very likely to be prime minister one day.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m hoping that you’re a more dependable confederate than the typical gentleman. I don’t like being disappointed.”

“You’ve no cause for worry on that count,” I said. “I’m at your disposal should you require my assistance.”

“Of course you are.” She returned her spectacles to her face. “You owe me. I won’t forget that.”

“Can I beg one more favor?” I asked.