Tasha Alexander - A Poisoned Season

"Hardly appropriate for us to travel together."

"I thought you approved of my corruption?"

"I wholeheartedly do, but I don't want to see you that corrupt." He stood up, walked around the table to me, and took my hands. I closed my eyes, anticipating his kiss when Davis entered the room, carrying the morning mail on a small silver tray. Colin contented himself with quickly kissing my hand and went back to his seat. Doing my best to show no disappointment, I turned my attention to the envelopes before me. With invitations to two or three balls every evening, and as many dinner parties, not to mention teas, garden parties, and luncheons, one could easily be overwhelmed during the Season. And that was before considering the Derby, Ascot, the Royal Academy's Summer Exhibition, or any of the numerous other events not to be missed. I sifted through the pile before me, checking for personal correspondence.

"Anything interesting?" Colin asked.

"That's unlikely, unless you've sent me something." I tossed aside a note from my mother, knowing full well that it contained an admonishment for my turning down an invitation to her friend Lady Elliott's reception for Charles Berry. Although my mother had been content to see me married to a viscount — particularly as Philip's family had connections to royalty going back to the reign of Elizabeth — she had taken a renewed interest in my status since I'd come out of mourning and had returned to her hope that I might yet marry royalty.

Another envelope caught my attention. It bore no stamp so must have been hand-delivered. Inside was a short passage, written in ancient Greek:

"Is this from you?" I asked, passing it to Colin.

"Unfortunately not, though I wish it were. I agree heartily with the sentiment."

"Could you translate for me? I'm afraid I couldn't do it without my lexicon."

"Nothing is sweeter than love, and all delicious things are second to it." It's from The Greek Anthology . Perhaps your tutor has succumbed to your charms."

"Mr. Moore?" I laughed. "Not likely. If anything, he's infuriated by my insistence on reading only Homer. Though perhaps I should reconsider that position now that I know how...inspiring... The Greek Anthology is."

"You could focus on its religious epigrams."

"Mr. Moore would like that very much."

"Have you any idea who it might be from?"

"Not the slightest."

"Should I be jealous?"

"Of course not. If I'm not certain that even you could convince me to marry again, then this anonymous admirer, whoever he may be, has not the remotest chance."

"Oh, I'll convince you, Emily. Never doubt it. By this time next year, we'll be breakfasting together daily, and it won't be downstairs."

"What a bizarre incident," David Francis said after listening to my spirited account of the burglary. Cécile had met him the previous week at the studio of Michael Barber, a sculptor, and tonight we brought both gentlemen to my house in Berkeley Square following a trip to the theater to see Mr. Ibsen's controversial new play, Hedda Gabler . Like Cécile, Mr. Francis was a patron of the arts, and the pair had become fast friends the moment they began discussing their mutual admiration of French impressionism.

"Even more bizarre when you consider the fact that there have been three such thefts," I said, and told them what had occurred at the houses of Lord Grantham and Mrs. Wilmot.

"How strange to find a thief with such specific purpose," Mr. Barber said. "Why this interest in the French queen?"

"It's hard to avoid the House of Bourbon since Mr. Berry arrived in London," I said. "Society is consumed with all things French."

"C'est vrai," Cécile said. "But I will not believe for a moment that Monsieur Berry is behind the crimes. He's not clever enough by half."

"And even if he were, he drinks far too much to pull off such a scheme," Mr. Barber said.

"Do you think he truly is who he says? Surely Marie Antoinette wouldn't have produced a great-great-grandson of such dubious merit." I swirled the port in my glass as I spoke.

"Marie Antoinette is not often viewed as a sympathetic character," Mr. Francis said.

"And history, Mr. Francis, is recorded by the victor. I'd wager that the poor queen wasn't nearly as bad as we're led to believe. I've always felt she was treated badly in the matter of the diamond necklace."

"It was a most convoluted business," Cécile said. "And very likely the queen's enemies were all too willing to encourage anything that might harm her reputation."

"Wasn't there evidence that she was having an affair with a cardinal and had asked him to acquire the jewels for her?" Mr. Barber asked.

"Gossip, Mr. Barber, is hardly reliable evidence," I replied. "A jeweler made the necklace, which was absurdly expensive, and Marie Antoinette refused to buy it. One of her enemies convinced the cardinal, who was hoping to become the queen's lover, that she wanted it, and he gave this woman the money to buy it, believing she would give it to the queen."

"The woman — the Comtesse de la Motte — disappeared with both the necklace and the cardinal's money," Cécile continued. "And the queen was presented with a very large bill by the jewelers. Eventually the cardinal and the comtesse were brought to trial, but it was the queen's reputation that suffered. People were quick to believe she was behind the scheme, and it brought to light the idea that her morals were not what they ought to be."

"The cardinal, perhaps, should not have been brought to trial, but the queen insisted," I said. "He was charged with insulting her dignity."

"I should very much like to own the diamonds from that necklace," Cécile said, her eyes sparkling. "I wonder how difficult it would be to persuade the current owner to part with them."

"Don't even consider such a thing until our intrepid thief is caught," I said.

"I find the nature of these burglaries particularly intriguing," said Mr. Francis, dragging deeply on his cigar as he walked to the table on which stood a decanter of port. He slowly refilled his glass, offering no further explanation of his comment. "Your port, Lady Ashton, is worthy of its reputation."

"I wasn't aware that it had a reputation."

"Oh, yes. Your scandalous habit of taking it after dinner is a favorite topic of conversation at my club. The members are divided on how a gentleman should react when a lady refuses to retire to the drawing room. Many insist that it would be better to forsake the beverage entirely than to encourage the corruption of a viscount's widow. However, when faced with your most excellent cellar, it's difficult for a fellow to stand by his principles."

"There are few things I enjoy more than a nice port, and I think it's outrageous that ladies are sent away right as the conversation starts to get interesting," I said.

Mr. Francis smiled. "Gentlemen don't want ladies hearing the sorts of conversation that are interesting, and they would be quick to point out that there are many lovely sherries that you could drink." He returned to his seat.

I noticed that he had done a neat job of directing the conversation away from his comment about the thefts. "If I may return to our previous subject, why is it that you are particularly intrigued by the burglaries we were discussing?"

"A pink diamond from the French queen's personal collection was taken from my safe no less than a fortnight ago."

"I had no idea!" Mr. Barber exclaimed. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't consider the matter to be of any consequence to you," Mr. Francis said.