“I don’t know,” Emily replied. “But wherever he is, Charlotte isn’t worried about him.”
“Are you sure?” he asked anxiously. “She wouldn’t show it if she were.”
“Of course I’m sure,” Emily said with an elegant shrug of exasperation. “She’s my sister. I’d know if she was pretending.”
He looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “You haven’t read her very well over the last few weeks.”
She flushed. “I know, and I’m sorry about it. I thought she was being very self-important.” She took a deep breath. “I was.” She did not add that she had been afraid that Jack was out of his depth with his promotion to Tregarron’s assistant. That was something he might guess, but she would rather that he did not know it for certain. “Charlotte and I understand each other better now,” she added. She knew he was still looking at her, so she flashed a quick, confident smile, and saw him relax. Now she wondered how worried he had been, and decided she would prefer not to know either. It would be a good thing for them both to have the chance to deny things, and for each to be able to pretend to believe the other.
She tucked her arm in his. “Let’s go and be polite to the duchess of whatever it is. She’s a fearful bore. It will take some concentration.”
“All you need to do is listen,” he replied. He placed his hand momentarily over hers in a quick, gentle gesture, then removed it again instantly and walked forward with her beside him.
“That’s not enough,” she whispered, leaning closer. “You have to smile, and nod in all the right places, and try not to fidget, or let your eyes wander to other people …”
Almost under the great chandelier Narraway was standing next to Vespasia. For a moment or two they were not engaged in conversation with anyone else.
“Where is Pitt?” he asked quietly. “Charlotte doesn’t look worried, but he should be here with Duke Alois. I’ve seen Stoker, dressed like a footman, but that isn’t enough.”
She looked at him closely. “You think something could happen here, in the palace?”
“It’s unlikely,” he replied, almost under his breath. “But it isn’t impossible.”
She was alarmed. She turned to face him, studying his eyes, his mouth, trying to read whether it was fear or merely caution that moved him. His eyes were shadowed, nearly black, the lines around his mouth scored deep.
“Such a scandal, here?” she whispered.
He put his hand on hers, his fingers warm and strong. “Oh, nothing so melodramatic, my dear. Far more likely to be a quick scuffle in the shadows of a corridor, and then a body behind the curtains to be found in the morning.”
She searched his eyes and saw no laughter at all, nothing beyond the wry, gentle irony that softened his words.
“I don’t know where Thomas is,” she answered his first question. “I think something might have happened that we are not yet aware of. Duke Alois looks as if he is mastering his emotions with some difficulty, and I have not seen Lord Tregarron. Have you?”
“No. Please don’t … inquire for him …” He stopped, uncertain how to continue.
“I won’t,” she promised. “At least not yet.”
This time he did laugh, so quietly it was almost soundless. “Of course you will,” he said ruefully. “But please be careful. I have an awful feeling that this threat is not over yet.”
“My dear Victor, our concern with threats will never be over. At least, I hope not. And so do you. You would rather go out in a blaze of glory than die of boredom. As would I.”
“But I am not ready to do so yet!” He took a deep breath. “And I am not ready for you to, either.”
She felt a distinct warmth of pleasure. “Then I shall endeavor to see that my next blaze of glory is not an exit line.”
Pitt arrived at Kensington Palace just under two hours after the reception had begun. He had been home to Keppel Street and washed, shaved, and changed into his evening suit. Leaving Tregarron’s rifle locked in the wardrobe, he had then eaten a cold beef sandwich and drunk a cup of tea. Then, with his revolver in his pocket, which felt lumpy and conspicuous, he had caught a hansom cab, paying extra to the driver to take him with the greatest speed possible. He remembered the jolt of the train stopping, and then the shot, the splintered glass, and the blood as the Duke’s man fell. The devil’s luck, or a brilliant shot? He thought the latter. Had the victim been chosen to accompany Duke Alois because he looked so much like him? Had he known that, and still been prepared to take that risk?
Had Pitt made the right decision in turning Tregarron, rather than arresting him for Hans’s murder? He might never have proved it, and even if he had, what would have been the result? A major scandal, a foreign policy embarrassment of considerable proportions, possibly the loss of his own position, for political clumsiness …
Or alternatively, it would never have come to court anyway. That would have left an impossible situation.
Yet it galled Pitt that the man had attempted to murder Duke Alois, had instead murdered the duke’s friend, and would now walk away from it with neither injury nor blame.
He entered the glittering reception hall feeling absurdly out of place. And yet, he did not look outwardly different from the scores of men standing around talking, to each other and to the gorgeously gowned women in their brilliant colors, their jewels sparkling like fire in the light of the huge chandeliers pendent from elaborate ceilings.
His eyes searched the crowd for Charlotte. He saw Emily. He recognized her fair hair with its diamond tiara, and the pale, liquid shade of green that suited her so well. She looked happy.
He also saw Vespasia, but then she was usually easy to see in any crowd. She was beside Narraway and they were talking to each other, heads bent a little.
What could Charlotte be wearing? Blue, burgundy, some warmer color that flattered the rich tones of her skin and hair; lots of women were wearing such shades. All the skirts were enormous, the sleeves high and almost winged at the shoulder-it was the fashion.
He saw Duke Alois briefly, laughing at some joke or other and smiling at a duchess. He looked exactly the pleasant, absentminded sort of academic he affected to be. The serious and idealistic man who was willing to risk his life, to carry a dangerous burden of secret office, the man who had seen his friend shot to death only this afternoon, seemed like something Pitt had dreamed.
It was small wonder Tregarron had tried to kill Duke Alois. What man would not want to rid himself of such mastery by another, such power to manipulate, or destroy? What he had done, he had done to protect his father’s name, and his mother’s feelings. Not a bad motive. Most people would understand it.
Pitt still could not see Charlotte; he gave up trying from this vantage. He went down the steps slowly and into the crowd. Hardly anyone knew him, so he had no need to stop and acknowledge people.
How had Alois known of Tregarron’s vulnerability? That was something that could not have come from Serafina Montserrat. She had been active long before Duke Alois’s time, and he had not been to London before.
Yet Pitt could not rid himself of the belief that it was Serafina’s crumbling memory that had fired this whole complex series of events. It was Serafina’s memory of Lazar Dragovic’s death that had driven Blantyre to kill her, and then to kill Adriana.
Blantyre also knew about Tregarron. He had said as much. So had Blantyre told Duke Alois about it?
That made no sense at all. Blantyre might have cooperated with Duke Alois, within limits, but he would never have given him, or anyone else, control of his own means of power, the secret knowledge that enabled him to manipulate Tregarron.
Then, like the sun rising on a hideous landscape, the whole picture became clear in his mind. Blantyre would want Duke Alois dead now. As long as he was alive, he could also control Tregarron. With Duke Alois dead, no one but Pitt knew the secrets, and Blantyre discounted Pitt’s courage to act.
Perhaps he also believed that if Duke Alois was murdered while under Pitt’s protection in London, Pitt might be disposed of. Surely it would not be too difficult a task. Pitt was now the head of Special Branch, but he had not proven himself yet. He was still something of an experiment: a man risen from the ranks of the police, rather than a gentleman from the military or diplomatic services. Kill Alois and blame Pitt’s incompetence, and Blantyre would be
