that.”
She spread more butter on her piece of toast.
“All kinds of people have served in the embassies of Europe at some time or another, especially that of Vienna,” Vespasia said.
She passed him the marmalade. “And apart from government positions, most of the aristocracy travels for pleasure, to hunt, to drink beer, to exchange ideas-philosophy, sciences. To climb mountains in the Tyrol, or to sail on the lakes. To visit Venice and the Adriatic, especially the coast of Croatia with its islands. And always we go to the glory and the ruin of Rome, and imagine ourselves heirs to the days of its empire. Some of us go to Naples to gaze at Vesuvius and imagine the eruption that burned Pompeii. We see the sunlight on the water and dream for a little while that it always shines.”
“What does that have to do with Austria’s survival as an empire?” he asked.
“Very little,” she replied. “But a great deal to do with indiscretions, with secrets that people might still wish to keep, even forty years later.”
The crisp toast and sharp marmalade lost their taste. Pitt could have been eating cardboard.
“You mean Serafina was in those places and would have known all sorts of things?”
“She was very observant. It was part of her skill.”
“So there were likely many Austrians she could’ve blackmailed,” he concluded.
“Certainly. Britishers as well. She was neither spiteful nor irresponsible,” Vespasia said gently, “but she understood the weaknesses of people. And now Blantyre may know a great many things from Serafina’s confused mind, and he may well have no moral boundaries in his crusade to preserve the power of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and all that he believes depends upon it.”
Pitt leaned forward slowly, his hands pressed hard against his face.
“It is time for some very difficult decisions, my dear,” Vespasia said after a moment or two. “When you have made sure that Duke Alois is safe, you are going to have to deal with Evan Blantyre. You have the heart of a policeman, but you must have the brain of the head of Special Branch. Don’t forget that, Thomas. Too many people are relying on you.”
12
Pitt sat in the housekeeper’s room at Dorchester Terrace waiting for Nerissa Freemarsh to come. He had expected her to deliberately keep him waiting, and he was not disappointed. It gave him time to think very carefully about what he intended to say, how much of the truth to tell her, and how much pressure to exert. He had felt a certain compassion toward her when they had first met. At one time or another during his career in the police he had seen many single young women who were dependent upon a relative who made full use of them as unpaid servants. Occasionally, a parent had intentionally kept one daughter home for precisely that purpose.
It was wretched for anyone being such a dependent, an onlooker at life but never a participant. Nerissa had been one of those with very little choice. She did not have the charm or the daring to have set out on her own. She could not create adventure for herself, as Serafina had done; perhaps Serafina had secretly despised her for that. If so, Nerissa would’ve realized it, even if she could not have put a name to it or explained why.
Was Nerissa flattered that another woman’s husband had made advances to her, professed a kind of love? Or had she genuinely cared for him, probably far more than he had for her? Was Pitt insulting her in assuming that Blantyre’s interest was solely in Serafina, and that Nerissa was merely the excuse to visit? He felt a certain anger for a man who could use a woman’s obvious vulnerability in such a way.
The door opened, without a knock, and Nerissa came in, closing it behind her. She stood facing him as he rose to his feet. Today she had a jet-and-crystal brooch at her throat and matching earrings giving light to her face. They were beautiful. Pitt wondered briefly if they had been Serafina’s.
“Good morning, Miss Freemarsh,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry to disturb you again, but several new facts have come to light, and I need to ask you some further questions.”
She seemed calmer today. There was no sign of anxiety in her face as she heard this news.
“Indeed? I am aware of Mrs. Blantyre’s suicide,” she answered coolly, facing him with her hands folded in front of her. “A tragedy, and yet it appears to have been inevitable. I gather that she held my aunt responsible for her father’s death, or at least for his being caught by the Austrians and executed for insurrection. I was aware that she was …” She looked for the right word, cutting but not overtly cruel. “… fragile. I was not aware that it was so very serious. I’m sorry. I know that suicide is a sin, but in the circumstances, perhaps it is better that she should have taken her own life, rather than face arrest and trial, and the shame of all that.” Her face tightened. “And they might have locked her away in an asylum, or even hanged her, I suppose. Yes, I … I have to respect her for her choice. Poor creature.”
Pitt looked at her, a well of pity, disgust, and revulsion building up inside him. Did she know that it was Blantyre who had betrayed Lazar Dragovic, killed Serafina, and then Adriana too? Was she a party to it, or ignorant of everything, guilty of nothing but falling in love with another woman’s husband? He did not know.
“Please sit down, Miss Freemarsh. I’m afraid the situation is not as simple as that.”
She sat obediently, hands folded in her lap, and he returned to the housekeeper’s chair.
“You’re not going to make the case public, are you?” she asked in dismay. “Surely that is not in the government’s interest? It is simply the tragedy of a woman who suffered as a child, and did not recover from it.” Her scowled. “You would drag her husband through a mire of shame and embarrassment he does not deserve, and to what purpose? Please do not say that it is justice. That is complete nonsense, and would be the utmost hypocrisy on your part. My aunt caused the death of Mrs. Blantyre’s father, politically justified or not. Mrs. Blantyre’s mind was unhinged as a child because of it. I believe she was actually there and witnessed the whole appalling thing. She never knew who betrayed him, until Aunt Serafina’s own mind began to wander, and somehow in her ramblings she gave herself away. In a hysteria of revenge, Mrs. Blantyre killed her, and then, realizing what she had done, took her own life. Justice has already been more than served.”
He looked at her and wondered how much of that she truly believed, and how much she had convinced herself of.
“Are you sure?” he asked, as if he was seeking proof himself.
“Quite sure,” she replied. “And if you consider it, you will see that it makes perfect sense.” There was no doubt visible in her, no unease. He could see no sign of real pity either. She could not, or did not, wish to imagine herself in Adriana’s place.
“When did your aunt tell you about Lazar Dragovic’s death?” he asked, affecting only mild interest. “And when did you realize that Dragovic was Adriana’s father?”
Nerissa looked startled. “I beg your pardon?”
She was playing for time, trying to understand what he was looking for, and how to answer him.
“You know about Dragovic, and that Adriana witnessed his death herself, as an eight-year-old child,” he explained. “Someone told you. It is not recorded in any written history, obviously, or Adriana would have known it all the time. Only those present knew the truth.”
Nerissa swallowed. He could see her throat convulse.
“Oh. Yes, I see.” Her hands were knotted in her lap now, her knuckles white.
“So when did your aunt tell you this?” he persisted. “And why? She cannot have wished you to tell anyone, least of all Adriana Blantyre.”
“I … I can’t recall.” She took a deep breath. “I must have pieced it together from her ramblings. She was very incoherent at times. Lady Vespasia would tell you that. Bits and pieces, jumbled, not knowing who was with her.”
“And you realized from all those ‘bits and pieces’ that Adriana Blantyre was actually Lazar Dragovic’s daughter, that Serafina had betrayed him to the Austrians, that she and Adriana had witnessed his execution, and that it had turned Adriana’s mind, although she did not know who was behind the betrayal.” He kept the disbelief from his tone, but barely. “And then Adriana later pieced together the truth, also from Mrs. Montserrat’s ramblings, and lost her mind so completely that she murdered her, using the laudanum whose whereabouts she happened to know. But you did not think to mention this to anyone when Mrs. Montserrat was killed. You are a brilliant, complex,
