connected to Duke Alois or not, but I can’t afford to assume that it isn’t.” He hated having to tell Blantyre this, but there was no escape. “I’m afraid there is no question that she was murdered. There is no other possible conclusion from the evidence.” He saw the surprise and dismay in Blantyre’s face and dreaded the possibility that Narraway was right. Was that why Blantyre had seemed so protective of Adriana? Because he knew she was so emotionally fragile that she could be capable of such a thing? How does any man protect the woman he loves from the demons within herself?
Blantyre was waiting, his dark eyes searching Pitt’s face.
“The amount of laudanum in her body was far more than an accidental second dose could explain,” Pitt went on, knowing it was irrelevant. “I have to consider the possibility that she knew something that has bearing on the reasons for the attempt on Duke Alois. And what she knew might tell us who is behind it.”
Blantyre nodded slowly. “Of course. Poor Serafina. What a sad ending for such a brave and colorful woman.” He lifted his shoulders very slightly. “What can I tell you that would be useful? If I had the faintest idea who was behind the attempt to assassinate Duke Alois, I would have already told you. I am still learning whatever I can, but there are dozens of dissident groups of one sort or another within the Austrian Empire. All of them are capable of violence. I still don’t know if Alois is any more than he seems to be on the surface, or if he is merely a pawn to be sacrificed in some cause we haven’t yet identified-at least not specifically. All I know is, if it happens here, no one will be able to cover it up, or pass it off as an accident.” His expressive face reflected a sharp, sad humor. “Or a suicide,” he added.
“Are you suggesting that what happened at Mayerling was a concealed murder?” Pitt asked with surprise.
“No.” Blantyre did not hesitate. “I think they did what they could to keep it private, perhaps mistakenly. Rudolf was always high-strung, veering between elation and melancholy, and his childhood was enough to turn anyone into a lunatic. God knows, his mother is eccentric, to put it as gently as possible. He grew up with literally dozens of tutors, and no friends, no parental support …”
Pitt did not interrupt. Blantyre spoke softly, looking not at Pitt, but somewhere beyond him.
“Austrian politics are infinitely more complicated than ours. The Hungarians are afraid of both Germany overtaking Austria itself, to their west, and all the Slavic parts of the empire, backed of course by Russia, to the east. The Ottoman Empire is falling apart, and Russia will surely pounce there, wherever it can. Serbia and Croatia could be the gateway to a slow erosion that will eventually eat into the heart of Austria itself.”
He smiled bleakly, looking at Pitt now. “And of course Vienna is a hotbed of ideas about the socialism that is raging all over Europe, the ideas and philosophies that Rudolf admired. There was nothing of the autocrat in him. He was a dreamer, a man in love with the idealism of the future as he wanted it to be.”
The ashes settled in the fire with a very slight sound, but Blantyre did not move to restoke it.
“He was friendly with our own Prince of Wales,” he went on. “They were distantly related, as most European royalty is, but far more than that, they were in extraordinarily similar positions. Like Edward, everything was expected of him, but he seemed to be waiting for it indefinitely. Unlike Edward, he had a wife he couldn’t abide: cold, critical, boring, but eminently suitable for a Habsburg emperor.”
“And then he fell in love with Marie Vetsera,” Pitt concluded.
“No. I think he just came to the end of the road,” Blantyre said sadly. “There was nothing left for him to hope for. He had syphilis, among other things. Not a pleasant disease, and of course incurable.”
“I have learned a great deal more about Serafina Montserrat’s past,” Pitt said quietly, wanting to turn the conversation back to the matter. “Including her presence at the beating and execution of one Lazar Dragovic, and her rescue of his eight-year-old daughter, Adriana.” He saw Blantyre’s face lose its color. If any proof had been needed of Adriana’s identity, the expression on Blantyre’s face would have been sufficient. “Apparently, it is still not known who betrayed Dragovic to the Austrians,” he added. “Unless, of course, Serafina knew.”
Blantyre breathed in and out, and swallowed. His eyes met Pitt’s without wavering, but he did not speak.
“In her rambling, it is possible that Serafina told Adriana, either directly,” Pitt continued, “or enough in bits and pieces that Adriana was able to piece it together and deduce the truth.”
Blantyre swallowed again, with difficulty.
“Are you saying that Adriana believed it was Serafina who betrayed her father?” he asked. “Why, for God’s sake? Serafina was an insurgent herself. Are you suggesting that she was secretly on the side of the Austrians?” There was intense disbelief in his voice.
“I don’t know why,” Pitt admitted. “It makes no political sense, from what we know, but there may be other elements that we know nothing about.”
Blantyre thought for several seconds. “Personal?” he said at last.
“Perhaps.” Pitt waited for him to say that Dragovic and Serafina had been lovers. Did Blantyre know that? If he had been involved in the uprisings himself, on either side, then he might. Or he might have deduced it from what others had said.
Blantyre’s face twisted into a gesture of misery and contempt. “Are you suggesting that they were once lovers, and she took his rejection so bitterly that she was prepared to betray him, and the cause, to have her revenge? I find that impossible to believe. Serafina had many lovers. I never knew of her taking revenge for anything. Life was too short and sweet for that.”
“And Dragovic was loyal to the cause?” Pitt explored another line of thought.
Blantyre’s eyes widened. “As far as I know. But if he wasn’t, what has that to do with Serafina’s death now? Are you saying that she admitted to betraying him because he was a traitor himself? That’s nonsense. No one would believe her. Dragovic was a hero. Everyone knew that; he was willing to die rather than tell the Austrians who else was involved. There is no doubt about that, because no one else was ever arrested. I know that myself.”
“Could he have been betrayed by one of Serafina’s other lovers, out of jealousy over her?” Pitt asked. He hoped that was true. It would remove suspicion from Adriana, and he wanted that very much, for her sake, for Charlotte’s, and above all for Blantyre himself.
“Yes …” Blantyre said slowly. “Yes … that makes more sense. Though God knows who!”
“Someone who cares about their reputation enough to kill Serafina in order to preserve it, and is not only still alive, but is here in London, aware that Serafina was rambling and could betray the truth accidentally,” Pitt replied. “And of course, the person would have to have had access to the house in Dorchester Terrace in order to poison Serafina with laudanum. That must restrict the possibilities to a very few indeed.”
Blantyre rubbed a hand across his face in a gesture of intense weariness. He sighed. “Nerissa Freemarsh?”
“Do you think so?” Pitt asked with surprise.
“She has a lover,” Blantyre said. “Though I doubt very much that you will get his name from her. She is a … a very desperate woman, no family except Serafina, no husband, no child. Such women can be very … unpredictable.” He frowned.
Pitt thought of Lord Tregarron, and what Tucker had told Narraway about Tregarron’s visits to Dorchester Terrace. He needed to know a great deal more about that, absurd as it seemed. What on earth could Nerissa Freemarsh offer a man in Tregarron’s position? A hunger, a need for his attention that perhaps his wife no longer had, unquestioning praise, a willingness to do anything he wished, which again, perhaps his wife would not? Maybe it was no more than simply a safe escape from pressure, duty, and fulfilling other people’s expectations. The more he thought about it, the more reasons there seemed to be.
Had Serafina somehow discovered that, and raised a fierce objection? Considering her own past, it would surely not be on moral grounds; possibly a concern for Nerissa’s reputation and the damage such an affair would do to it, if discovered?
Nerissa might misinterpret whatever Serafina said as a moral judgment, even a condemnation. If she loved Tregarron she would see it as her aunt ruining her last chance for love.
“Apparently Lord Tregarron called to see Mrs. Montserrat.”
Blantyre stiffened. “Tregarron? Are you sure?”
“Yes.” There was no avoiding it any longer. “And Mrs. Blantyre visited her often. But you know that.”
“They have been in touch, on and off, since that time,” Blantyre said quietly, “and the death of Adriana’s father is never spoken of. I don’t know how much Adriana remembers. I hope very little: just confusion and pain,
