“Actually, it was Garvie we were more interested in-to begin with,” he told her.
“Yes, I am aware of Charlotte’s concern for him; you do not need to explain that to me.”
The shadow of a smile touched his lips and then disappeared. “It was Mrs. Pitt who learned where Garvie was,” he said wryly. “From a priest in Seven Dials.” They were walking along the footpath side by side, away from the Old Bailey down to Ludgate Hill, then east towards the vast shadow of St. Paul’s, its dome dark against a bright, windy sky.
“That sounds like Charlotte,” she responded.
He drew in breath as if to say something, then the thought vanished and another, far darker, took its place.
“There was an atrocity in Egypt,” he said so quietly she could barely hear him. “Twelve years ago. Lovat, Garrick, Sandeman, and a man named Yeats were involved. Ferdinand Garrick concealed it then. If it is exposed now, to anyone at all, it could set Egypt ablaze, and cost us Suez. There are men who will kill to keep it silent.”
“I see.” She drew in a long, shaky breath. The thought did not surprise her. Money, power and passionate loyalties were involved. “Do I assume that Lovat was murdered in revenge for this?”
“It looks like it. God help them… who wouldn’t? But I shall protect Stephen Garrick as long as it is necessary, and you may tell his father so. I have as much interest in keeping him safe from his enemies as he has. Please say no more. I don’t know yet who is playing in this, or on which side. I would save Ryerson if I could, but it is beyond my ability now.”
She hesitated only momentarily. “May I visit him, to offer the services of a friend?” she asked.
“I will arrange it this evening,” he promised. “You should say all you wish to him then. Once the jury is in, I… I believe you may have no further opportunity.”
She found without warning her voice was trembling. “I see. Thank you.”
“Lady Vespasia!” He did not risk the impertinence of using her name without her title.
“Yes?” She had her composure again.
“I am truly sorry.” The pain in his face was momentarily naked. She did not know why Ryerson’s conviction should hurt him so much, or even whether he believed him guilty of more than foolishness, but she was certain beyond any hesitation at all that the emotion was deep and private, part of the man, not the calling.
She stood still, facing him on the quiet footpath in the shadow of St. Paul’s. “There are some things we cannot do,” she said softly. “No matter how intensely we desire it.”
He was self-conscious, something she had never seen in him before.
“Come to the Newgate entrance at eight,” he said, then he turned and went back into the courtroom.
EVEN NARRAWAY COULD CONTRIVE only a very brief visit for Vespasia. She had expected Ryerson to show signs of the strain he must be feeling, but in spite of her mental preparation for it, she was shocked when she saw him. She remembered him as a big man. The sense of his physical power had always been overwhelming, the most remarkable thing about him, more than the character in his face or the intelligence or the charm.
Now as he stood up at her entrance into the cell, he looked drained. His skin was pale and had a peculiar dry, papery look, and although he wore the same clothes she had seen him in last time, today they seemed too big for him.
“Vespasia… how good of you to come,” he responded huskily, holding out one hand to greet her, then withdrawing it the moment before he touched her, as if suddenly conscious that she might not wish it.
She was stabbed by the terrible thought that the change in him was because he no longer believed in Ayesha Zakhari’s innocence. He did not look like a martyr to a cause, more like a man whose dreams have been broken.
She forced herself to smile very slightly, just a warmth to her face.
“My dear Saville,” she responded, “I shall owe favors to no end of people for the privilege.” It was not true, but she knew that just for an instant it would make him feel better. “And I have only a few minutes before some miserable man, tied to his duty, will return to fetch me,” she continued. “It occurred to me that there might be some service I could perform for you that perhaps you had not been able to ask of anyone else. If there is, then please tell me now, in case we do not have another opportunity to speak alone.” It was a brutal truth, but there was no more time left for skirting around it. This was the time, here, this evening.
He controlled himself with a magnificent effort, and replied to her with total calm. Certain bequests to staff who had served him well were already attended to, but there were personal thanks he would like to have given, and an apology here or there. It was the latter which weighed upon him most heavily, and he was grateful to have her promise to do those things, should it prove necessary. He knew that she would do it graciously, with both the candor and the humility he wished.
The guard returned. She told him icily to wait, but he did so standing at the door.
“Is there anything else you need?” she asked Ryerson. “Anything personal that I may bring for you?”
The ghost of a smile flashed on his face, and vanished. “No, thank you. My valet has done that for me every day. I am so…”
She held up her hand to silence him. “I know,” she said quickly. She looked at the guard and permitted him to hold the door open for her. “Good-bye, Saville, at least for the moment.” She went out without looking back. She heard the sound of steel on steel as the door closed and the heavy tumblers of the lock fell into place.
She was crossing the entrance on her way to the outside doors when she saw a discreetly clad dark-skinned man walk almost silently past her in the opposite direction, his eyes averted. He was holding a small, soft-sided bag in his hand. Presumably, this was Ayesha Zakhari’s house servant, taking her clean linen and whatever else she required. He was so self-effacing as to have mastered the art of being almost invisible, and she would not have recognized him were she to see him again in different clothes. She was forcibly reminded that he belonged to a very different culture. Then she realized with a sense of amazement that she had not actually seen Ayesha Zakhari, as far as she could recall. Surely if she had met her anywhere, she would have remembered?
And yet she was the center of this storm which was going to destroy Ryerson, and possibly Stephen Garrick as well.
Vespasia went out into the street where her carriage was waiting, and allowed her footman to assist her up the step and to be seated comfortably, her mind still absorbed in thought.
GRACIE WAS ALONE in the house when she heard the knock on the scullery door. It was late on a wet and gusty night. Charlotte and Pitt were both out briefly to visit Charlotte’s mother, whom they had not seen in some time.
The knock came again, urgent and persistent.
She picked up the rolling pin, then put it down and chose the carving knife instead. Keeping it hidden in the folds of her skirt, she tiptoed to the back door and opened it sharply.
Tellman stood on the step with his hand raised to knock again. He looked cold and worried.
“You should have asked who it was before you opened,” he said immediately.
The criticism stung her. “You stop telling me wot ter do, Samuel Tellman!” she retorted. “You in’t got no right. This is my ’ouse, not yours.” She realized as soon as the words were out that her heart was pounding with suppressed fear, and she knew he was right. It would have been so simple to ask who it was, and she had not thought of it because she had been so preoccupied with thoughts about Martin Garvie, and people taken against their will and shut up in Bedlam, and the fact that they had not been able to solve the case of a man shot to death in a woman’s garden at night. What was he there for? No good, skulking in the bushes.
Tellman came inside. He was pale and his face was drawn with lines of tension.
“Somebody’s got to tell you what to do,” he said, closing the door hard. “You haven’t got the sense you were born with. What’s that?”
She put the knife down on the kitchen table. “A carvin’ knife. Wot does it look like?” she snapped back.
“It looks like something a burglar would take off you and hold to your throat,” he replied. “If you were lucky.”
“Is that wot yer came ’ere ter tell me?” she demanded, swinging around to face him. “It in’t me ’as got no wits.”
“Of course I didn’t come to tell you that!” He stood near the table, his whole body too tight to sit down. “But
