"I'm afraid they were one of the first things I stole. I stumbled on them quite by accident. I'd gone into the library at a country house to get an enameled Fabergé box that was on display. When I removed it, I noticed a bundle of papers behind some books on the same shelf. They were held together with a red ribbon, and I thought they might be love letters. Being the romantic that I am, I pulled them out, hoping for a good read. So far as I know, the gentleman who owned them still has not noticed that they're missing."
"Who is it? I should return them to him."
"You wouldn't dare."
"Of course I would."
"Then I shan't tell you."
"Why didn't you take Marie Antoinette's letters from Mr. Francis when you stole the pink diamond?"
"I had no idea that he had them." He rose from the bench and stood in front of me. "This has been lovely, darling, but I'm afraid I must run."
"No, wait. What about the things you've stolen. Will you give them back?"
"Certainly not."
"Not even Cécile's earrings? For me?"
"Maybe if they were yours." He reached down and turned my head to the side, gently touching my ear. "They would look lovely on you."
"You're not planning to disappear again, are you?"
"I've no reason to stay."
"Can you at least tell me how to reach you?"
"For what? So that you can abandon the dashing Mr. Hargreaves for me? I don't think so, darling. But I'll always come if you need me."
"I don't like being followed, Sebastian."
"You can reach me through the Times." He bowed and walked away. I didn't bother to call after him but sighed and looked down at where he had sat next to me. There, on the bench, he had left my notebook.
31
The moment I returned home, I pulled out the letter I'd received from Colin the previous week, the first he had sent from France. He'd written it on the ferry and posted it as soon as he'd arrived in Calais, even before boarding the train for Paris. I smiled as I read it; he always managed to make letters sound like his half of a conversation, and I could almost hear him saying the words, picture him sitting across from me, running a hand through his tousled hair, his long legs stretched out in front of him. I did not, however, let this entrancing image distract me from my purpose. I skimmed the rest of the page until I found the sentence for which I was looking.
We've tickets for the opera on the third, seats in the first row of the balcony.
I composed a cable for him, a clumsy-sounding message, but it would convey its intended meaning when he read the first letter of every third word. This would provide him a brief but incisive update on the situation in London, particularly as it pertained to Charles Berry.
"Did you see that another letter arrived from Paris today, madam?" Davis asked as he took the cable from me, looking not at me, but at the pile of unopened mail on my desk.
"No, I haven't had a chance." I skimmed through the letters until I found one addressed in Colin's familiar handwriting.
"Would you like me to send this cable at once, or shall I wait until after you've read what Mr. Hargreaves has to say?"
"Send it now, Davis. It's quite urgent. If I need to add anything, I can always send another."
Davis bowed and left me to my reading. I was glad for the privacy the moment I opened the envelope. This letter was, if I may be so bold, the most exquisitely written, lyrical declaration of love that had ever been put to paper. It sang from the page. I read it three times through before noticing that my skin had grown hot, and my hands were trembling. So beautiful was it that I longed to read it aloud, to hear its melody spoken, until I remembered Colin's suggestion that in a London town house, one is never truly alone.
And then, all at once, I realized that I'd missed the point entirely. With a sigh, I pulled out a blank piece of paper and copied out the first letter of every third word. His news complemented mine perfectly: Lady Elinor's fortune had been spent funding Garnier and his would-be revolutionaries. That was why there was no money left for Isabelle's dowry. She wouldn't need one if her mother were in the position to arrange for her marriage to a future king. And surely, financing the enterprise gave Lady Elinor the power to choose a queen for Charles Berry.
It was a risky proposition, however. Without a dowry, Isabelle would be in dire straits should the restoration fail. But it was nearly a reasonable gamble. The republic in France was staggeringly unpopular. Monsieur Garnier was loved by all and was too savvy a politician to fall victim to the weaknesses that had caused Boulanger's coup to fail.
Did Lady Elinor know that Berry was a fraud? Had she been willing to risk so much only because she believed he truly had descended from Louis XVI? The knowledge that her family had helped refugees fleeing from the terror nagged at me. Would they have known what became of the dauphin?
I am not particularly proud of what I did next, but my options were limited. I sent a note to Isabelle, inviting her to come with me to the British Museum. I received her reply at breakfast the next morning and went round to collect her at Meadowdown as soon as I'd finished eating.
We walked through two Greco-Roman galleries before, in the Archaic Room, I summoned the courage to turn the conversation in the direction I knew it must go.
"Do you miss Mr. Berry?" I asked as we stood in front of the Strangford Apollo, a marble statue said to be from the Cyclades. Looking at it made me long for Santorini.
"I find that I can bear his absence rather well," Isabelle said.
"I've learned about your family's involvement in assisting refugees from the French Revolution. It seems some sort of poetic justice that you should wind up engaged to the heir of the House of Bourbon."
"That's precisely how my mother views it." She stared blankly at Apollo.
"I understand that the Torringtons helped a most important person," I said. "It must be quite a wonderful story."
This, to my surprise, made Isabelle smile. "I always did like it, especially the bit about the pink diamond. So romantic."
"I don't think I know that part," I said.
"The dauphin offered my family a pink diamond to repay them for their help, but my great-great-grandfather refused to accept it. It was one of the few things the boy had that belonged to his mother, and the Torringtons felt strongly that he should keep it as a memento of her." She laughed. "A lovely gesture but foolish in the end. He obviously had to sell it at some point, probably to pay for his passage to America. If he hadn't, it never would have wound up being stolen by that dreadful thief here in England, would it?"
"No, I suppose not," I said, and realized that I'd been holding my breath while she spoke. Apollo's smile seemed to reproach me.
We walked through the rest of the museum. Isabelle found the mummies most diverting. As for me, I hardly took notice of anything that we saw. I did not for a moment believe that Louis Charles had sold the pink diamond. When the newspapers reported its theft, Lady Elinor must have immediately identified the stone's owner as the one person who could, without fail, bring her plan to ruin.
Did she confront him? Confirm in some way that he was Louis Charles's heir? I felt sick once again, certain that, had I not convinced Mr. Francis to report the theft, he would still be alive. My thoughts turned at once to little Edward. Was there any possibility that Lady Elinor knew about the boy? Sebastian was not the only person who had been following me; could I have unwittingly led her to Edward? And what about Mrs. White? Did she know of her son's royal blood?
I invented a headache and took Isabelle home, then directed Waters to drive me to the Whites' house. The housekeeper admitted me at once but glowered as she brought me to her mistress. I would not have thought it possible, but Mrs. White was even thinner than when I had last seen her.