“How do you know about that?”
“Surely you can’t expect I’d reveal a source?”
“Touché, Lady Ashton. I do remember Sanburne, though. And I think I see why you believe there’s a connection with Brandon.”
“Do tell.”
“Sanburne was arrested in a similar raid. The papers all kept quiet about it. Lord Fortescue made it worth our while. But I’m afraid that’s nothing to do with his murder.”
“He bribed you?”
Sir Julian shrugged. “It’s not a question of money, Lady Ashton. The story wasn’t particularly interesting anyway, so it didn’t hurt us to focus on other things. The participants weren’t nearly so high-profile as those at Cleveland Street.”
“Was Fortescue involved?”
“No, no, he’d never be so careless as to let himself get caught in any sort of compromising position. Sanburne worked in his office. Main reason I can recall the story at all is because although Fortescue kept it out of the papers, Sanburne was ruined anyway.”
“So the scandal did become public?”
“‘Public’ isn’t perhaps the proper word. But someone leaked it, and Sanburne’s engagement was called off. The girl’s father humiliated him. Chased him all the way to Vienna, if I recall.”
“Who was Mr. Sanburne’s fiancée?” I asked.
“Oh, I don’t remember. It must have been ten years ago. And these scandals, they come and go so quickly, who could keep track of any of them?” He poured tobacco into a battered pipe.
“I imagine those whose lives were ruined don’t forget so quickly.”
“Now don’t go spoiling my fun, Lady Ashton. If you aristocrats are going to behave badly, you’ve got to expect consequences.”
I hardly slept that night, tossing fitfully in a state of semiconsciousness. I was no closer to finding out who had killed Lord Fortescue, nor had I even a sliver of evidence that might exonerate Robert. But while all this troubled me deeply, it was not what kept me awake. I’d heard nothing from Colin since leaving Vienna, and I could not shake from my head a series of horribly imagined images of what Mr. Harrison might do to him.
At one o’clock, I rose from my bed and paced. At two forty-five, I lit a lamp and tried (and failed) to finish reading
“Madam?”
“You’re already dressed,” I said, surprised.
“It’s nearly five o’clock.”
“Heavens. I’d no idea you get up so early.”
“The household, madam, does not run itself.”
“Well, I shall have to send you to bed earlier. I can’t have you running yourself into the ground.” I passed him the paper I’d brought with me. “Would you please have this wired at once to Mr. Hargreaves in Vienna?”
“It will be my pleasure.” He bowed neatly.
“And, Davis?”
“Madam?”
“You may take the afternoon off. I’m sure that Odette would appreciate seeing some of London before she and Madame du Lac return to Paris.”
“Madam, let me assure you that I am not—”
I raised a hand. “That’s a direct order, Davis. Don’t disappoint me.”
I returned to my bedroom, but there was little point in trying to sleep now. I rang for Meg, soaked in a hot bath for an obscene length of time, and dressed for the morning. None of my friends was yet awake, and I didn’t want to disturb them, so I breakfasted alone, kept company only by the worry I felt for Colin.
Alone, that is, until my mother stormed through the door.
“Lady Bromley, madam,” Davis called over her shoulder, not bothering to come into the room.
“Mother, I thought you were in Kent,” I said, suddenly feeling even more exhausted than I had before.
“I came the moment I heard you were back in England. You did go to Newgate. I’ve had it confirmed by an unimpeachable source, so don’t bother trying to deny it. Whatever could you have been thinking?”
“Robert asked to see me.” I was too tired to come up with an excuse that might be more palatable to her.
“How dare he try to compromise you with such a request? Where is Ivy? I want to speak to her.”
“She’s still asleep, Mother, and I’ll not have you bothering her. She’s upset enough.”
“Well, she ought to be. Made a very poor choice of a husband, if you ask me—”
“I didn’t.”
“Emily!” She rapped her umbrella on the floor. “I will not have you speak to me in such a manner. It’s unconscionable that you—”
“Ivy has trouble enough to contend with. She doesn’t need you to add more.”
“Her situation is—”
“More dreadful than you think.” I measured my words carefully, looked at my mother and raised an eyebrow.
“Really?” She spoke slowly; I nodded. “Poor, dear girl! What will become of the child? This is too awful!”
“Robert is not guilty, Mother. He will be exonerated.”
“I wouldn’t say that with such confidence if I were you,” she said. I could see her mind working, going through the ranks of unmarried men. “There must be a respectable widower out there who would be willing to take her on. An older gentleman, perhaps. By the time she’s out of mourning she will be somewhat less tainted by the scandal, but—”
“Mother! Robert is not dead.”
She sighed. “Of course not. But it never hurts to plan ahead.”
“Now that you’ve mentioned scandals, though, I’ve a question for you.” This piqued her interest, but she waited until a maid had poured coffee for her and left the room before asking me to elaborate. “Do you remember Albert Sanburne?” I asked.
“Sanburne…” She looked towards the ceiling for approximately fifteen seconds before bringing her attention back to me. “Oh, yes. Sanburne. Such a tragedy that he died so young. And his poor sister! How we all despaired for her. She was left without even enough money for a dowry. None of her relatives wanted to take care of the girl —as I recall, she moved from house to house every six months or so. To lose a brother so soon after the deaths of both her dear parents. Too awful for words.”
“To put it mildly,” I said.
“I must say, Emily, that I did fear for your health while you were in Vienna. The influenza is worse there than anywhere. I’m convinced Sanburne would never have died had he contracted the disease somewhere else.”
“Why had he gone to Vienna?” I asked. “I understand there was some to-do over his engagement.”
“Oh, yes. I believe the girl’s father went all the way to Vienna to break the betrothal.”
“That’s strange, isn’t it?”
“Fathers are protective of daughters. It was said that his objections to Mr. Sanburne were very strong indeed.”
“What were they?”
“I don’t know. It was never discussed.”
“Who was the girl?”
“Helen Macinnis. She was heartbroken at the time, but wound up marrying a captain in the Horse Guards. It was an excellent match.” She poured a second cup of coffee. “To return to the reason for my visit, I cannot allow
