"You should have brought her here," I said as I breezed past him into the hallway.

"Your callers seem to have their own opinions about what room they would like to be received in, madam. Who am I to argue?"

Ivy was not sitting when I entered the room. "Good afternoon, Emily," she said, all formal courtesy.

"Heavens, Ivy! What's the matter?"

"I came here to apologize for not having done anything to assist you these past weeks. I've been entirely remiss as a friend." I pulled her down next to me on the settee.

"Why is it always too early for port when we are faced with these sorts of conversations?" My question did not draw even the slightest smile to her face. "I'm perfectly aware that I've put you in far too many awkward situations. If anything, it's I who should be apologizing to you."

"You deserve a friend who understands you better, Emily. Colin brought you to the opera. Margaret and Jeremy persuaded her parents to join you. Your own mother has come to your aid. But all I have done is sit, listen to the gossip, and say nothing more than that I can't believe you would do such a thing."

"Your job is not to disprove these rumors."

"No, but I should have at least tried to offer an impassioned defense of your character."

"I'm not sure that my character would stand up to an impassioned defense."

She still would not smile. "I'm so sorry, Emily. I've just become so embroiled in my own troubles that I've no longer time to manage yours." I was not certain whether she meant this as an explanation or a good-bye. "I need to return this to you." She handed me the book she'd been holding: my copy of Mount Royal.

"Did you enjoy it?"

"I never had the chance to finish it."

"What are these troubles, Ivy? Are you and Robert still having difficulties?"

"Yes, but it's more than that. Lord Fortescue is heaping pressure on him, and —"

"And Lord Fortescue doesn't think it becomes the wife of a future cabinet minister to consort with a fallen woman?"

"You always were too clever," she said.

"I have such a low opinion of Lord Fortescue that nothing you could tell me about him would shock me. What has he done now?"

"He wants you off the guest list for my ball and has had very sharp words with Robert over our friendship."

"I'm sorry, Ivy."

"I've insisted on keeping you on the list. Robert was very kind about it."

"I'll stay home if it will make things easier for you."

"No. You must come. I just wish all this would stop, because, Emily, in the end, my loyalty has to lie with Robert."

"Of course," I said. "How are you enjoying your charity work with the Duchess of Petherwick?"

"It's absolutely dreadful. I think I shall scream if I have to embroider one more christening robe. I can hardly stand the sight of baby clothes."

"So you're not..."

"No," she answered quickly, averting her eyes.

"This is not your fault, Ivy."

"How can I ever know that?" she asked.

"Couldn't you tell Robert that you'd prefer to do your good works elsewhere?"

"The Duke of Petherwick is a valuable political ally."

"You are a very good wife, Ivy. Robert is a fortunate man." I didn't like to see her slipping into melancholy. "So tell me about the duchess. Do you think the marriage is a happy one?"

"She's quite content," Ivy said, perking up. "It surprises me. He's so much older than her!"

"And she's the second wife."

"And he has children nearly as old as she."

"Poor woman," I said.

"Best I can tell she has a baby every time her husband so much as glances at her."

"Doubly poor woman."

This made Ivy laugh. "I suppose you're right. Though at the moment, it sounds like perfection to me."

"Not every time he looks at you, my dear. As lovely as you are, you'd be saddled with an inordinate number of children."

She blushed. "I'd be satisfied with two or three."

"Keep Mount Royal, will you? Read it at night when you're waiting for Robert to come home. Leave your door open. Call to him when he comes in. Tell him that you can't sleep."

"He doesn't like my reading —"

"Throw the book under your bed when you hear him coming. I know you don't feel right going to him, Ivy, and I understand your hesitation to do so. But surely there's nothing wrong with greeting him when he returns if you're awake?"

"Perhaps, Emily, perhaps. I might need more than one book, though. He stays out terribly late."

"I can happily provide you with as many books as you would like." I took her by the arm and led her to the library. "Why did you insist that Davis put you in the drawing room?"

"No nefarious reason. I've always liked the way the room is decorated and wanted to steal ideas for my own house."

"I was afraid you'd come here prepared to throw me over," I said as I opened the door to the library. "What has happened here?" The letters that I had so carefully laid out on the desk were no longer as I had left them. Instead, they had been placed in two neat stacks, and closer inspection revealed that the two final letters written by Léonard were gone.

19

Davis was certain that no one had come through the front door, and I was convinced that the Marie Antoinette thief, who in all likelihood had given me the letters in the first place, was not behind this. Someone in the household must have taken them. Reluctantly, I had my butler round up the staff so that I could speak to each of them individually. No one admitted to having been in the library, nor did any of them behave suspiciously in the least.

There was one servant whose absence from these interviews was glaring: Molly, who, according to my housekeeper, had left the house to visit her ill sister.

"Have you had any problems with her?"

"She's a perfectly adequate girl, although I have noticed that she's rather withdrawn from the rest of the staff." This was hardly surprising, given her experience with Mr. Berry. I asked Mrs. Ockley to send her to me when she returned.

"I wonder about her." Ivy had stayed with me. "Are you quite certain that she's not a friend to Mr. Berry?"

"Of course she's not!" I said. "Think what he did to her."

"I suppose you're right. But it's awfully convenient, don't you think, for him to have a servant whom he knows in your house?"

"I can't imagine that he even is aware that she's here."

"I'd want to find out if I were you."

I watched from the window seat as Ivy left, carrying with her four of the most sensational novels I had on hand. I hoped she could lure back Robert's attention, and I hoped that I would not ever lose her friendship. But I knew that as she was drawn further into the world of the Duchess of Petherwick and her ilk, we would be pulled away from one another. This would trouble me less if I thought it would bring my friend a happy contentment. Though I feared loyalty to her husband might in the end lead her to a life of the worst sort of tedium, I knew that she could never bring herself to choose another path.

These thoughts made me relish my own choices all the more. I might have to tread carefully to keep from alienating society, but I would never have to worry about succumbing to monotony. Quite the opposite.


I find it difficult to believe that you didn't know he had a son," I said to Mr. Barber, whom I had found hard at work on another sculpture in his studio.

"I didn't even know David had a mistress."

"But you did know that he offered financial assistance to those he felt needed it?"

"Yes."

"Did he buy houses for anyone else?"

"I don't know."

"Should I expect to find more of his children flitting about London?"

"I haven't the slightest idea."

"You didn't know him so well as you thought?"

"No, no, I can't believe he left a string of mistresses and children," he said. "He was a devoted husband."

"Only if you apply a rather unusual definition of devoted."

"You must not tell Beatrice any of this. It would devastate her."

"Are you quite certain that she doesn't already know?"

"Of course she doesn't! She would have told me."

"Really? That's an awfully private matter to share with your husband's friend."

"If she suspected David of infidelity, she would have bullied me for information."

"Wouldn't she have assumed your loyalty would rest with him?"

"Beatrice and I have been friends for more than twenty years. She knows I would never lie to her."

I stood up and walked over to where he had been working and touched the cool block of half-carved marble. "Were you better friends with her than with him?" He looked away from me. "Were you in love with her?"

"Years ago, but I knew —"

"Did she return the feeling?"

"My income would not allow me to support a wife. At any rate, I can't remember when I last thought of her in romantic terms. It was for the best that we never married; she's not the sort of woman who would make a good artist's wife. I wouldn't have made her happy. Our interests are too different, as are our temperaments. Furthermore..."

The length at which he went on made his feelings for Beatrice perfectly clear. He still loved her.

"How soon did she marry Mr. Francis after she broke off with you?"

"Beatrice and I never had a falling-out. David proposed to her, and she decided to accept him."

"Did you try to stop her?"

"How could I? I wasn't in a position to offer her half what he could."

I thought of Lord Pembroke, who was calmly standing by, watching the woman he loved prepare to marry Charles Berry. Did men not have the same capacity for love as women? How could they react with such tepid indifference to having their passions thwarted?

"Did it never occur to you that perhaps she cared more about you than the money?"

"Maybe she did. But the reality, Lady Ashton, is that I could not have supported her in an adequate way. As romantic as the idea of an abiding love is, it is not something that can overcome every obstacle."

"I think you are too quick in jumping to your doomsday conclusions. You live comfortably."

"What is acceptable for a bachelor is a far cry from what a wife deserves."

"So we women are left to suffer lost love in exchange for a house and an allowance?"

"It is a man's duty to see that the woman he loves has that which she needs. Sometimes that requires graciously stepping aside."

"Oh, Mr. Barber! I do wish men would allow women to make some choices of their own. We'd all be better off."

I headed directly from the studio to Richmond, thinking during the drive about Beatrice and her husband. Mr. Francis had lied to me about his wife's personality. Beatrice, who had come to me accusing me of an affair, presented herself as a devoted wife. As I considered her behavior, which had initially struck me as bold and direct, I began to wonder if she had practiced a deception of her own. Her husband's request that she give me the snuffbox made her believe that he had not been faithful to her. Grief might wreak havoc on one's ability to think rationally, but unless she had already suspected that his affections had strayed from home, why would she immediately leap to such a conclusion?

"I wish you had told me about your feelings for Mr. Barber," I said, sitting with Beatrice in her garden. "I've just come from his studio. You were in love with him."

"Michael is the truest friend I've ever had."

"More so than your husband?"

"Husbands fall into a different category altogether. You know that." She gazed out over the flowers in front of us. "There is always the desire to bring more comfort than distress to one's spouse, and the result is that, on occasion, one chooses to bury painful experiences."

"But I thought that you and Mr. Francis were so close, perfect companions."

"As perfect as husband and wife can be," she said.

"And Mr. Barber was your confidant?"

"In the past few years, yes. He was always on hand to listen to those fears and anxieties with which I did not want to burden David."

"Forgive me for being so direct, but did this have to do with your inability to have a child?"

"What else could cause such pain? I could see the disappointment in David's eyes. I wanted to mourn, to cry, to shout at the injustice of it, but to do so would only have made him feel more helpless."