“So the poor man never had a chance.” She was pale, and she spoke sitting very upright, her back stiff and her chin high, her hands folded in her lap. She would never betray panic or despair-she had been schooled to greater self-mastery than that-but in the early-afternoon sun there was a rigidity in her that spoke of inner pain. “Nothing he could have said or done would have affected the outcome. I doubt the offense with which he is accused has much to do with him either.”

“He says not,” Pitt agreed. “And I believe him. But it is actually about something else that I have come to you. I know of no way in which you could help me regarding Sir Guy Stanley; in this other matter you may.”

Her silver eyebrows rose. “Other matter?”

“Mrs. Tannifer sent for me this morning. She is deeply concerned, having heard the news-”

“Tannifer?” she interrupted. “Who is she?”

“The wife of the banker, Sigmund Tannifer.” He had temporarily forgotten that she did not know about him.

“Another victim?”

“Yes. She is a woman of courage and individuality, and Tannifer himself did not keep the truth from her.”

The ghost of a smile touched Vespasia’s lips. “I assume Mr. Tannifer’s supposed offense was not of a marital nature?”

“No, financial.” The momentary humor flickered through him also. “The betrayal of trust regarding his clients’ funds. Ugly and certainly ruinous if it were even considered possible it were true, but not personal in the same way. Mrs. Tannifer is wholly behind him.”

“And she is alarmed, very naturally.”

“Yes.” He nodded. “But not simply that. She is determined to fight in every way open to her. She called me because she overheard a conversation on the telephone between her husband and Mr. Leo Cadell, who apparently holds a position of importance in the Foreign Office.” He stopped, seeing a new pain in Vespasia’s face, a very slight tightening of her fingers in her lap. “I came to ask you if you knew Mr. Cadell. I see that you do.”

“I have known him for years,” she answered, so quietly he had to strain to hear her. She saw him lean forward, and cleared her throat. “I have known his wife since she was born. Indeed, I am her godmother. I was at her wedding … twenty-five years ago. I have always liked Leo. Tell me what I can do.”

“I’m sorry. I hoped you might know them, but I wish it were not so well.” He meant it. The ugliness of this seemed to be touching so many places, the pain and the fear spreading, and he still had so little idea even where to look, never mind where to strike back. “Have you any idea as to a connection between Balantyne, Cornwallis, Dunraithe White, Tannifer and Cadell? Anything at all they have in common?”

“No,” she said without waiting to give the matter a thought. “I have already spent too many hours trying to imagine any sphere of influence or power they have in common, or the remotest family connection, and I should be surprised if they were even more than passingly acquainted with one another. I have wondered if there was anyone they could have injured, even unknowingly. But Cornwallis was in the navy; Balantyne, the army. Dunraithe has never been abroad so far as I know, and has always served the law. You say Tannifer is a banker; and Leo is in the Foreign Office. They are not of a generation, so even if they went to the same school, it could not have been at the same time. Brandon Balantyne must be at least fifteen years older than Leo Cadell.” She looked confused and at a loss.

“I have tried everything else,” he conceded. “I have tried financial and business interests, investments, even gambling or sporting pursuits. There doesn’t seem to be anything that ties them all together. If there is, it must be far in the past. I’ve asked Cornwallis. He is the one man I can press for any detail he can recall. He swears he never even heard of any of them, except Balantyne, until a couple of years ago.”

“Then I had better go and call upon Theodosia.” Vespasia rose, accepting Pitt’s hand reluctantly as he stood more rapidly than she and offered it. “I am not yet decrepit, Thomas,” she said a trifle stiffly. “I simply do not shoot to my feet as you do.”

He knew she was not angry with him but with her own limitations, most especially now, when she felt helpless to protect her friends and was growing daily more bitterly aware of how serious was the threat to them.

“Thank you for listening to me,” he said, walking beside her. “Please do not give any undertaking to keep confidences unless you have no other possible way of learning the truth. I need to know all you hear.”

She turned to look at him, her hooded eyes dark silver-gray. “I am as aware as you are of the depth of danger in this case, Thomas, and not only of how deeply it could scar the individual men and women involved but also of the corruption to our society altogether if even one of these men succumbs to whatever it is that is asked of them. Even if it is trivial, and not illegal, the very fact that they can be persuaded to do it at another’s command is the first symptom of a disease which kills. I know these men, my dear. I have known men like them all my life. I understand what they are suffering and what they fear. I understand their sense of shame because they do not know how to fight back. I know what the esteem of their fellows means to them.”

He nodded. No more words were necessary.

Vespasia alighted from her carriage on the pavement outside the house of Leo and Theodosia Cadell. It was a trifle early to call, except for the most formal of visits, which was the last thing she intended, but she had no inclination to wait. Theodosia could leave a message with the footman that she was not at home should anyone else come. She could select any reason she chose. An elderly relative was unwell. That was hardly true-Vespasia was in excellent health-but it would satisfy. She was certainly distressed.

She told her driver to take the carriage around to the mews, out of sight. She would send for him when she was ready to leave. She permitted him to pull the doorbell for her before moving to obey.

She was admitted by the parlormaid and was shown to the large, old withdrawing room with its burgundy curtains and Chinese vases she had always disliked. They were a wedding gift from an aunt whose feelings they had never wished to offend. Theodosia joined her within moments.

“Good afternoon, my dear.” Vespasia surveyed the younger woman carefully. There were thirty-five years between them, but just at the moment that was less than usually apparent. Theodosia also had been remarkably beautiful, perhaps not in the unique way Vespasia had, but sufficient to turn a great many heads-and not a few hearts. Her blue-black hair was touched with silver now, not only at the temples but across the front of the brow. Her dark eyes were magnificent, her high cheekbones just as clear, but there were shadows in her skin and a lack of color that spoke of poor sleep. There was a tightness in her movements and a loss of her usual grace.

“Aunt Vespasia!” No weariness or fear could mar the real pleasure in her greeting. “What a delightful surprise! If I had known you were coming I should have instructed the staff that I am not at home to anyone else. How are you? You look wonderful.”

“I am very well, thank you,” Vespasia answered. “A good dressmaker can achieve a great deal. However, even the best cannot work miracles. A corset can hold together your body and provide the best posture on earth, but there is nothing that can do the same for the face.”

“There is nothing wrong with your face.” Theodosia looked surprised and half amused.

“I hope not, except a certain passage of time,” Vespasia agreed wryly. “But I cannot be so kind to you, my dear, and do so with the remotest honesty. You look worried sick.”

What little color there was blanched from Theodosia’s cheeks. She sat down suddenly in the chair opposite Vespasia, who naturally had not risen.

“Oh, dear. Is it so apparent? I thought I had disguised it rather better than that.”

Vespasia relented. “From most people, I daresay. But I have known you since you were born. Also,” she added, “I have fashioned a few repairs to the appearance myself, well enough to know how they are done.”

“I am afraid I have not been sleeping very well,” Theodosia said, looking at Vespasia, then away again. “Silly, but perhaps I am coming to the time of life when late nights are not as easy to accommodate as they used to be. I hate to admit that.”

“My dear,” Vespasia said very gently, “late nights are usually followed by late mornings, and you are in an excellent position to sleep until noon, if you so wish. If you do not sleep well, it is because you are ill, or something is worrying you too profoundly to allow you to forget it, even in your bed. I rather think it is the latter.”

It was clear in Theodosia’s face that she meant to deny it; it was so plain she might almost have spoken. Then she met Vespasia’s unwavering gaze. Her resistance crumpled, but nevertheless she did not explain.

“May I tell you something about a friend of mine?” Vespasia enquired.

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