She smiled back at him, a little bubble of laughter inside her.
“You have an advantage. I would never, in even my silliest dreams, have thought to find you here, all but shoulder to shoulder with the Prince of Wales.”
His eyes were soft, old jokes remembered, absurdities within the tears. “Touche,” he acknowledged. “But the battlefield is everywhere now.”
“It always was, my dear,” she answered. “It is more complicated here. Few issues are as simple as they seemed to us then.”
His gaze did not waver. “They were simple.”
She thought how little he had changed. It was only the superficial things: the color of his hair, the faint lines on his skin. Inside he might be wiser, have a few scars and bruises, but the same hope burned just as strongly, and all the old dreams.
She had forgotten love could be so overwhelming.
“We wanted a republic,” he went on. “A voice for the people. Land for the poor, houses for those who slept in the streets, hospitals for the sick, light for the prisoners and the insane. It was simple to imagine, simple to do when we had the power… for a brief spell before tyranny returned.”
“You hadn’t the means,” she reminded him. He did not deserve to be patronized by less than the truth. In the end, whether the French armies had come or not, the republic would have fallen because those with the money would not give enough to keep its fragile economy going.
Pain flashed into his face.
“I know.” He glanced around the marvelous room in which they stood, still full of music and the chatter of voices. “The diamonds in here alone would have secured us for months. How much do you think these people are served in these banquets in a week? How much is overeaten, how much thrown away because it wasn’t needed?”
“Enough to feed the poor of Rome,” she answered.
“And the poor of London?” he asked wryly.
There was a bitterness of truth in her reply. “Not enough for that.”
He stood staring silently at the throng, his face weary with the long battle against blindness of heart. She watched him, knowing what he thought all those years ago in Rome, and saw beyond doubt that he was thinking the same now. Then it had been the Pope and his cardinals, now it was the Prince and his courtiers, admirers, hangers-on. This was the Crown of Britain and its Empire, not the three-tiered crown of the Pope, but everything else was the same, the splendor and the indifference, the unconscious use of power, the human frailty.
Why was he in London? Did she want to know? Perhaps not. This moment was sweet. Here in this noisy, superficial glamour of the ballroom she could feel the heat of the Roman sun on her face, see the dust, sense the glare in her eyes-and imagine under her feet the stones that had rung to the steps of legions who had conquered every corner of the earth and shouted “Hail Caesar!” as they marched, eagles high, red crests bright. She was back where Christian martyrs had been thrown to the lions, gladiators had fought, St. Peter had been crucified upside down, Michelangelo had painted the Sistine Chapel.
She did not want the past overwhelmed by the present. It was too precious, too deeply woven into the fabric of her dreams.
No, she would not ask.
Then the moment slipped past, and they were no longer alone. A man named Richmond greeted them pleasantly, introducing his wife, and the moment after, Charles Voisey and Thorold Dismore joined them and conversation became general. It was trivial and mildly amusing until Mrs. Richmond made some comment about ancient Troy and the excitement of Heinrich Schliemann’s discoveries. Vespasia forced her attention to the present and its trivia.
“Remarkable,” Dismore agreed. “Extraordinary persistence of the man.”
“And the things they discovered,” Mrs. Richmond enthused. “The mask of Agamemnon, the necklace probably worn by Helen. It makes them all real in a way I had never imagined… actual flesh and blood, just like ordinary people. It is the oddest sensation to take them out of the realms of legend and make mortals of them, with lives that leave physical remains, artefacts behind.”
“Probably.” Voisey sounded cautious.
“Oh, I think there’s little doubt!” she protested. “Have you read any of those marvelous papers by Martin Fetters? He’s brilliant, you know. He makes it all so immediate.”
There was a moment’s silence.
“Yes,” Dismore said abruptly. “He is a great loss.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Richmond colored deeply. “I had forgotten. How terrible. I am sorry. He… fell…” She stopped, clearly uncertain how to continue.
“Of course he fell!” Dismore said tartly. “God knows how any jury came to the conclusion they did. It’s patently absurd. But it will go to appeal, and it will be reversed.” He looked at Voisey.
Richmond turned to look at him as well.
Voisey stared back.
Mario Corena was puzzled.
“Sorry, Corena, can’t give an opinion,” Voisey said tersely. His face was pale, his lips pinched. “I shall almost certainly be one of the judges to sit when it comes to appeal. But this much I do know, that damned policeman Pitt is an ambitious and irresponsible man with a grudge against those of better birth and fortune than himself. He’s determined to exercise the power his position gives him, just to show he can. His father was deported for theft, and he’s never got over it. This is some kind of revenge against society. The arrogance of the ignorant when they are given a little responsibility is terrifying.”
Vespasia felt as if she had been slapped. For a moment she had been at a loss for words. She heard the anger in Voisey’s voice, saw the heat in his eyes. Her own anger was equal.
“I was not aware you were acquainted with him,” she said icily. “But then I am certain a member of the judiciary such as you are would not judge any man, regardless of his birth or status, other than on the most carefully tested evidence. You would not allow other men’s words or deeds to weigh with you, least of all your own feelings. Justice must be equal to all, or it is no justice at all.” Her voice dripped sarcasm. “Therefore I must presume you know him far better than I do.”
Voisey’s skin was so pale the freckles on it stood out. He drew in his breath but did not speak.
“He is a relative of mine, by marriage,” Vespasia finished. A very distant relative, but she had no need to add that. Her great-nephew, now dead, had been Pitt’s brother-in-law.
Mrs. Richmond was astounded. For a moment she found it almost amusing, then she realized how seriously everyone else was taking it; the emotion was charged in the air like a coming storm.
“Unfortunate,” Dismore said in the silence. “Probably the fellow was doing his duty as he saw it. Still, no doubt at all the appeal will reverse the verdict.”
“Ah… yes,” Richmond added. “No doubt at all.”
Voisey kept his discretion.
CHAPTER THREE
A little over three weeks later Pitt was home early from Bow Street and pottering happily in the garden. May was one of the most beautiful months, full of pale blossom, new leaves and the brilliant flare of tulips, the heavy scent of wallflowers rich as velvet. The lupines were beginning, tall columns of pinks, blues and purples, and he now had at least half a dozen Oriental poppies opening, fragile and gaudy as colored silk.
He was doing more admiring than actual work, even though there were sufficient weeds to have kept him fully occupied. He was hoping Charlotte would finish whatever domestic duties she had and would join him, and when he heard the French doors open he turned with pleasure. But it was Ardal Juster who walked down the lawn, his dark face grim.
Pitt’s first thought was that the appeal judges had found some flaw in the procedure and the verdict had been overturned. He did not believe there was new evidence. He had searched everywhere at the time and questioned
