for.
Which raised the question in her mind, why had Victor Narraway sent him at all? Was the purpose that Pitt should be in Alexandria? Or that he should not be in London?
She remained with Ryerson another quarter of an hour, but she learned nothing further that was of use. She did not lie by offering him encouragement, she merely asked if there was anything she could send to him to help his discomfort.
“No, thank you,” he said instantly. “I have all I need. But… but I would value it above anything else if you would arrange a few comforts for Ayesha. See at least that she has clean linen… toiletries… I… another woman would have…”
“Of course,” she responded before he could finish. “I doubt they will permit me to see her, but I shall arrange for such things to be delivered. I can imagine what I would wish myself, and see that it is done.”
His face flooded with gratitude. “Thank you…” His voice caught with emotion. “I am profoundly…”
“Please!” she dismissed it. “It is a small thing.” She was already on her feet. “I hear them returning for me.” She met his eyes. She wanted to add something else, but the words died. She smiled, and turned to go.
IT TOOK HER another day and exhaustive enquiry, again a matter of discreetly seeking the return of past favors, a little flattery and a great deal of charm, before she learned where she could find Victor Narraway, and contrive to run into him. It was a reception to which she had been invited, and had declined. It was an awkwardness she loathed to have now to invent an excuse, and beg to accept instead.
Because her acceptance had been most uncomfortable she felt she had the choice either of dressing in excellent but subdued taste, something conservative in a soft color, or of being as bold and outrageous as possible, defying anyone to comment on her change of mind. She might speak with Narraway with less remark or interruption were she to choose the former, but no matter what she wore, she was not an unremarkable figure. She chose the latter, and had her maid take out a gown she had ordered in a moment of extraordinary confidence, a deep indigo silk of so fine a texture it seemed to float. The low neck and the waist were embroidered with silver thread and pearls in a rich, medieval design.
Standing in front of the glass, she was startled by the gown’s drama. She usually chose the aristocracy of understatement, neutral shaded satins and laces, subtle with her silver hair and clear eyes. But this was magnificent, arresting in its simplicity of line, and the somber color was like a whisper of the night itself, elemental and mysterious.
She arrived late at the reception, causing a very considerable stir. It was not her habit to be so obvious. The lateness was her fault rather than her intention. She had left herself little time for the journey, not wanting to be early, and directed her coachman to take a route around the park, which had unfortunately been blocked by a traffic accident-a coach wheel came off, or something of the sort-and they ended arriving late.
She walked into the room alone, and there was a momentary hush. Several people, most of them men, quite openly stared. She had an instant of wondering if she had made a misjudgment, and the gown was wrong after all. She had no jewelry but pearl earrings. Maybe she was too pale, too bleached of her own color for such a depth of tone?
She saw the Prince of Wales, his blue eyes widening with amazement and then appreciation. Beside him a younger man, whom she did not know, cleared his throat, but continued staring at her.
She was greeted by her host, and within five more minutes found herself presented to the Prince. Apparently he had desired to speak to her. They had known each other for years, but it was still a highly formal occasion. One did not presume.
It was over an hour before she managed to find Victor Narraway and converse with him without being overheard.
“Good evening, Victor.” She set the tone as she intended to continue it. She did not know him well, but she was quite aware of who he was, and of the regard in which he was held in the highest political circles, both his virtues and his shortcomings. But he was an intensely private man, and of his true self she knew very little. He mattered to her because of Ryerson, and she acknowledged to herself now, even more so because much of Thomas Pitt’s future lay in his hands.
“Good evening, Lady Vespasia,” he replied, a shadow of amusement in his dark eyes, but also a wariness. He was far too sophisticated to imagine she had found him more or less alone purely by chance.
There was no time to waste, they would be joined within minutes. “I visited Saville Ryerson yesterday,” she told him, and saw no change of expression in his face. “He is going to tell you nothing, in part because I think he knows nothing. It makes no sense that the woman intended to ruin him and hope for someone in his place who would be more favorable to Egyptian financial independence. No such person exists, and she must have been as aware of that as we are.”
“Of course,” he agreed. If he was curious as to what she wanted of him, he was not going to allow her to see it. He remained politely interested, as a dutiful man towards an older woman of rank, but no importance.
It irritated her. “Victor, do not treat me like a fool!” she said, her voice low but her diction so crystal clear as to be cutting. “I know that you have sent Thomas to Alexandria. What on earth for? The first answer that comes to my mind is in order to keep him out of London.” She was satisfied to see him stiffen so imperceptibly that she could not have told which muscle had moved, only that the tension in his body had increased.
“Lovat and the Zakhari woman knew each other in Alexandria,” he replied. His words were innocent but his eyes held hers, probing, trying to feel for what she sought from him. “It would be remiss not at least to make enquiries.”
“To find what?” She raised her eyebrows slightly. “That they had a love affair? One takes that for granted. Ryerson loves her, and I imagine he does not wish to know of her past admirers, but he is not naIve enough to imagine there were none.”
She stopped speaking as a small, thin woman in peach-colored silk moved past them, clinging to the arm of a gentleman with receding hair.
Narraway smiled to himself, his composure perfect.
Vespasia wished she knew him better. She was aware, with amusement at herself, that were she younger she would have found him attractive. His inaccessibility was in itself a challenge. There was emotion behind the cool intelligence, of what nature she did not know. Was there moral or spiritual courage? The answer mattered, because of his power over Pitt.
“If you are considering the possibility that there was some scandal over which Lovat could have blackmailed her,” she went on when they were alone again, “then you could have written a letter to the British authorities in Alexandria and asked them. They would be in a position to find out for you and advise accordingly. They will speak the language, know the city and its inhabitants, and have contacts with the kind of people who inform of such things.”
He drew his breath in as if to argue with her, then looked more clearly into her eyes, and changed his mind. “Perhaps,” he conceded. “But they will answer only what I ask them, whereas Pitt may find other things, answers to questions I have not thought of.”
“Ah…” She believed him, at least as far as he had spoken. There was far more that he was not saying, but had she been able to draw from him anything he did not wish to tell her, then that would have meant that he was inadequate to his job, which thought would wake in her a real fear, deep and abiding.
He smiled very slowly. It had a charm that surprised her. For the first time she wondered if he had ever loved anyone sufficiently profound to disturb that thick layer of self-protection around him, and if so, what kind of woman she had been.
“And of course you are looking into Ryerson, and Lovat’s other associates here yourself, or have someone else doing so,” she stated. “One wonders whether that other person is more able to enquire into London than Thomas would be… or less able in Alexandria.” She did not make it a question because she knew he would not answer.
His smile stayed perfectly steady, but the tension in him increased yet again, perhaps only in the totality of his stillness. “It is a delicate matter,” he said so quietly that she barely heard him. “And I agree with you entirely, judging by what we know now, that it makes no sense. Lovat was nobody. Ayesha Zakhari may be vulnerable to blackmail, but I doubt profoundly that anything a man like Lovat could tell Ryerson would affect his feelings for her. It would be infinitely more likely to end in Lovat’s being charged, or more simply dismissed from his position in the diplomatic service, and unable to find a new posting anywhere at all. He would probably be blackballed from his
