A Crimson Warning

already speculating.”

Lady Merton, one of the most celebrated hostesses in London, lived, so far as I could tell, a blameless life.

“What are they saying?”

“It must be something her husband’s done. She’s as harmless as they come. But it’s all very strange, don’t you think?” She tilted her head closer to me. “And rather a bit exciting, in a terrible way.”

“Not exciting for the victims,” I said.

“I didn’t mean to be cruel.”

“Of course you didn’t, darling,” I said. “You don’t have a cruel bone in your body. I understand what you’re trying to say. It’s unsettling and exciting all at once. But we must not forget it’s damaging as well. Lives have been ruined and we don’t know what will happen next.”

“It makes me half afraid to look at my own doorstep every morning.”

“You can’t be worried, Ivy. You’ve nothing to hide.”

“Everyone has secrets, Emily.”

*   *   *

The Sanders family may have found a measure of relief in the attention given to the Mertons over the following days. Polly’s birth was no longer a mystery and the story had grown tiresome. Society was now focused on speculating what secret scandal might have inspired this new splash of red paint. Theories had been circulating for nearly a week when I came down to breakfast and found Colin waiting for me, the London Daily Post spread out on the table at my place.

“I thought you’d want to see this right away,” he said.

I put aside my copy of The Aeneid, to which I’d been glued for weeks. After nearly a year of constant study with my friend, Margaret, who was currently holed up in Oxford with her new husband, I’d become invigorated with my newfound competence in Latin. While Greek would always be my passion, it was a pleasure, sometimes, to be free of the challenges posed by a different alphabet. Virgil’s epic was particularly satisfying to me because I liked to see something good happen to a Trojan. Lots of bad happened, too, of course —this was mythology. But if I couldn’t have the Trojans victorious over the Greeks, I was happy to see one of them become so culturally significant to the Romans. What would Julius Caesar, who claimed Aeneas as an ancestor, have done without the legitimacy provided by the mythical hero?

I bent over the newspaper. A paid advertisement took up an entire page but it was not there to suggest one should buy a certain type of bonnet or shoes. Nor did it beg the reader to visit an attraction or show. Instead, it contained the text—almost lurid text—of a series of love letters. Bold type highlighted a dozen characters:

T E R C N O M L K A E R.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“The letters are signed only with initials—M or C,” Colin said. “Now study the bold bits.”

I stared at the letters again. “Merton.”

“You’re quick,” he said.

“Not really,” I said. “It’s dead easy given I already knew their house had been splashed with paint. What about the rest? C L K A E R.”

“Clarke. Samuel, I imagine.”

“Samuel Clarke? The cabinet minister?”

“Precisely,” he said. “The devoted family man and much-admired politician.”

“But Lady Merton? His lover? I can’t believe it. She’s as prim and proper as they come.”

“On the surface,” Colin said. “She’d hardly be the first to seek out love once her duty was done.”

“Heir and a spare and change. Doesn’t she have eleven children?”

“I stopped counting after four.”

I sighed and read aloud. “My soul has awakened at finding you, my darling love, and there can be no happiness when we are apart. I want a home with you, a life, us together. I know all this to be impossible, so will content myself with our stolen moments—and rejoice in those times when we find ourselves with days rather than hours. Am breathlessly awaiting your husband’s trip to France.”

“Damning stuff,” Colin said. “Merton will be spitting nails if it’s true.”

“I bet it is true,” I said. “The rumor about Polly Sanders was.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you.” He scrunched his eyebrows together. “Even a paper as unscrupulous as the Post wouldn’t print such a thing if they had concerns about claims of libel.”

“Mr. Clarke must be the target here, don’t you think?” I asked. “The victim of a political rival, perhaps.”

“But the Mertons’ house was the one painted.”

“So, are we to believe our villain was more concerned with tormenting Lady Merton than Mr. Clarke?”

“It would appear so,” Colin said. “But why?”

“Lady Merton is by far the less likely object of attention,” I said. “But isn’t Polly Sanders as well?”

“An excellent point.”

A footman entered the room with the morning mail on a silver tray. “This was just hand-delivered, sir,” he said, giving my husband a separate letter. Colin sliced it open and read silently before passing it to me.

“Paint on two more houses and I’ve been summoned to Scotland Yard,” he said. “I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

10 June 1893

Belgrave Square, London

My heart is absolutely broken on Lady Merton’s behalf. Her husband swears he’ll never speak to her again, and I do believe he has the will to carry it off. It was hardly Lady Merton’s intention to be so exposed, but no gentleman can tolerate public humiliation well, deliberate or not. Some say she should have been more careful, but I don’t know anyone more discreet. Whoever is behind this revelation is clever and must be connected in some way to her household.

To heap misery upon misery, red paint has marked the edifices of two more houses—those belonging to the Musgraves and the Riddingtons. Both are honorable families, but I know all too well we never can be sure who may be hiding something dark.

All this scandal has made me feel on edge, in ways I haven’t for years. I’d hoped this dreadful business of mine was behind me, that I might never again be concerned by it, but it’s not so easy to free oneself from sins this ghastly. I was half inclined to confide everything in Emily. She’s so sharp and competent. I’ve no doubt she’d take care of it all in a matter of hours. But I’m ashamed, so very ashamed. I can’t bear for her to know what I’ve done. Instead, I tried to make light of what’s happening around me, as if it’s making the season more exciting. I hope I was glib enough but not too glib. I don’t want to make her suspicious.

Colin could help me, but I could never ask him to hide something from his wife and my dearest friend. He’d understand better than anyone what I’ve done. I’m sure he’s seen far worse. Yet Robert, my darling Robert, the sweetest husband England has ever known—what would he think should he ever learn I turned to another gentleman for assistance? It would do no good to work my way out from under all this by burdening myself with yet another secret.

That would only leave me more vulnerable to exposure. Just like Polly Sanders and Lady Merton. And Mr. Dillman.

The thought of what happened to him terrifies me. I’ll do anything to avoid a similar fate. I wonder if the Musgraves and Riddingtons feel the same way.

5

Hating to sit around and feel useless while Colin was working, I decided to call on Lady Glover. As a society outsider, Lady Glover was bound to have an interesting perspective on this spate of vandalism, and it was entirely