"No, take it away," I said. "Bring us something cold."

Mrs. Francis did not speak again until the girl had left the room. "His last words were about you."

"How can that be? I only met him once."

"I'll thank you not to pretend innocence. If it was only once — " She had started to cry again, and I could not bear seeing the pain etched on her face.

"Please, let me comfort you." I took her hand, and though she would not look at me, she did not pull it away. "I know not how such a misunderstanding has come to pass. I was never your husband's mistress, nor was I romantically linked with him in any way. He was one of a group of my friends at the theater a week or so ago, and we all came here afterwards. Nothing of significance transpired between us."

"Why, then, was it your name that he uttered with his last breath?"

"I've no idea. You must know his friend, Mr. Michael Barber? He was here with us, and I'm sure he could put your mind to rest."

"Michael was here?" Her shoulders relaxed slightly.

"What did your husband say about me?"

"He asked that I bring his snuffbox to you."

"His snuffbox?"

"It's a pretty silver thing that once belonged to Marie Antoinette. I assumed that he had promised it to you."

This gave me a better sense of why he had wanted me to have the box. "Did he know he was dying?"

"Yes." She raised her eyes to meet mine.

"I can well understand why you suspect what you do. But I think, Mrs. Francis, that your husband was simply trying to protect you." I recounted for her our conversation about the thefts and the pink diamond, leaving out the bits in which he had described his wife. Any lady capable of confronting her husband's suspected paramour so soon after his death had far too much spirit to be painfully shy.

"Now it is I who am confused. What is this pink diamond?"

"The one that was stolen from your home. Your husband saw no point in upsetting you with the news of the theft, although I suppose once it was in the papers he had to come clean. Men do so like to think they're protecting ladies, don't they?"

"We've never owned a pink diamond."

"You're certain?" I asked, not terribly surprised. I remembered that Mr. Francis said that it wasn't the sort of thing his wife would have liked.

"Without a doubt. I've always admired colored diamonds — the white ones seem to me altogether lacking in soul. David knows that better than anyone." She held out her hand to show me her wedding ring, a gold band with a large blue diamond set in it. "You say the newspapers reported this? We don't take them at the house, so I never see them. David prefers to read them at his club."

"The thefts have been the biggest news of the Season." I frowned, wondering why Mr. Francis would have hidden the diamond from his wife. "Could your husband have only recently bought the diamond, intending it as a gift for you?"

"He could not have afforded such a thing. Not anymore." The tears began again.

"I'm sorry. I've done nothing but upset you."

"No." She managed a smile. "I believe you when you say you were not David's mistress. Finding that he was unfaithful to me would be far more troubling than this pink diamond ever could be."

"May I ask how he died? You said he was not ill. Was there an accident?"

"No, Lady Ashton. My husband was murdered. His valet fell victim to the same poison yesterday morning." The air rushed out of my lungs and I could scarcely draw breath. Murdered. My heart felt torn in two for this woman, who, like me, had lost a spouse to violence.

"I must tell you a story," I said, and, taking her hands in mine, recounted for her the story of my own husband's demise, along with my role in uncovering his killer. Soon we were both weeping, and when at last the maid returned with cold lemonade, neither of us touched the glasses she set in front of us.

"You are good to share this with me after I barged into your home making dreadful accusations," Mrs. Francis said. "I'm so sorry."

"When I learned that Philip had been murdered, I accused innocent parties of far worse than adulterous affairs." I remembered well the implacable calm with which Colin had faced my erroneous charges. I may not have been bold enough at the time to denounce him directly, but he knew full well that I suspected him of killing his best friend. "You and I are bound together by a bitter kinship. Please do not feel that you ever need apologize to me for transgressions brought on by your grief."

We sat together some time longer, saying very little. Before she left, I promised to come to her in Richmond after the funeral was over. I knew she would need friends then, when the rest of society would abandon her, another lonely widow left for dead. I felt deeply unsettled when she was gone, all the memories of Philip stirring in me again. I had not thought about him — not really — in months, and realizing this brought back that most unwelcome of companions, guilt. My present happiness in life — my independence, my fortune, even Colin — all stemmed from my husband's death. Had he lived, I would not find myself so pleasantly situated.

My melancholy solitude was soon interrupted. Davis announced Colin and handed me a letter at the same time. Despite the heat, my friend managed to look more cool and crisp than was strictly fair, particularly given the marked contrast of my own appearance. "You've not changed your dress since the regatta," he said, and sat next to me on the silk-covered settee.

"No," I said, dropping the letter on the table next to my lemonade as I told him of my meeting with Mrs. Francis.

"A terrible tragedy," he said. "I read about it in the papers this morning. You're sweating." He caught a drip of water that was falling down my glass of still-untouched lemonade and traced his cool, wet finger around my face, then down my neck. And though my skin responded as it always did to Colin's touch, I was too distracted to really enjoy the sensation.

"What color were Philip's eyes? They were light, that much I remember, but were they blue or gray?"

He pulled back from me. "Blue. What brings this on?"

"Mrs. Francis, I suppose. Speaking with her made me realize that I owe all my current joy to him. It's an odd sort of feeling."

"One of which I'm all too aware. Had I not lost my best friend, I might never have found a woman who could captivate me the way you do. There will always be a touch of the bittersweet in our love, Emily." He stood up, walked across the room, and stared out the window.

I did not feel much like pursuing the subject and fidgeted uncomfortably for a moment before finally picking up my lemonade. "Would you like some?"

"No, thank you. Are you going to open your letter or are you bent on wallowing all afternoon?"

"Why the sudden interest in my mail?"

"Because it was I who found it sitting on your doorstep. Quite mysterious, I thought."

This piqued my curiosity, and I picked up the envelope, examining it carefully before opening it. "I really must spend more time on my Greek," I said once I had unfolded the note. "My skills at sight-reading are woefully lacking. Will you?" I handed it to him:



"I beseech thee, Love, charm asleep the wakeful longing in me." He frowned. "The Greek Anthology again."