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"Nearly all of it is in our country house. I do have a lovely bust of Apollo in the drawing room."

"Oh, yes, the Praxiteles. We saw mine in the British Museum, didn't we? A very difficult piece to complete," he said, clearly proud of himself. "Not many could have pulled it off. Do you know who did yours?"

"Praxiteles, actually," I said, raising an eyebrow. "It's a bit embarrassing, I'm afraid."

"My dear lady, I assure you that I do not hold it against you at all. I was already aware of that"-he paused, searching for a word-"habit of the viscount's. I can guarantee you not only my absolute discretion but also of my respect for any man who has such a profound appreciation for beauty. A great man with a fortune at his disposal can hardly be blamed for wanting to own the original of such a thing."

"I do not blame him for wanting it. Accepting that he went through with the purchase has been somewhat more difficult for me."

"Had he not, my own work would not be so prominently placed in the museum for the pleasure of thousands," Mr. Attewater replied. I almost pitied him, knowing how much it must bother him that he received no credit for his work by the viewing public.

"Please do not think that I consider your work unremarkable. It is the deception that troubles me."

"I understand completely, Lady Ashton. It is the same concern that keeps my involvement a step away from where I would have to be if I wanted to become really well-off from selling my works."

"That, Mr. Attewater, brings me back to the subject of my friend, the one who I believe is a customer of yours. Mr. Colin Hargreaves."

"Why do you mention him, Lady Ashton?" he asked, looking rather concerned. "I have never told you that he is a patron of mine."

"But he is, isn't he?" I asked, trying to sound lighthearted.

"I'm afraid that I must stay true to my policy of not discussing clients."

"So you admit that he is one?"

"I have said no such thing," he stated, mopping his brow with his handkerchief. "Suffice it to say that he is a man who has a significant effect on my business."

"How is that, Mr. Attewater?"

"Please, Lady Ashton, you will make things terribly difficult for me if you press the issue. I can neither confirm nor deny the name of anyone I work with. Should I start making exceptions, it would undermine my position greatly."

"But you told me that Lord Ashton never contacted you," I said.

"I did that, Lady Ashton, against my better judgment, because I could see the pain in your eyes. Do not ask more of me."

"Did you ever contact Lord Ashton?"

"What makes you think I would?" he replied.

"I have found two notes that warned of grave danger. Both were written on heavy paper-like that on which you sketched your plan for my sculpture," I said, walking over to the desk. I unlocked the drawer, pulled out the notes, and handed them to Mr. Attewater, who turned slightly pale.

"I had heard rumors. Nothing specific, mind you. Although I had no direct dealings with Lord Ashton, I knew of his reputation as an excellent patron and thought that he deserved to be warned."

"What were these rumors?" I cried emphatically.

"People said he had angered a powerful person and was in danger. It had something to do with antiquities he had purchased, but I really know nothing else." Although I pressed him, Mr. Attewater insisted that he was ignorant of further details, leaving me to wonder whom my husband had angered and why.

7 NOVEMBER 1887

DARNLEY HOUSE, KENT

Lord Bromley hosted a magnificent foxhunt to mark the opening of the season. K rode but did not follow the hounds, instead choosing to tear about the grounds with her friend Miss Ivy Cavendish. Told me she hoped the fox would escape-but the spark in her eyes suggested she was teasing me.

I managed to evade our chaperone in the garden for a mere five minutes. Not enough time, but-at last-I have kissed my bride.

23

Ivy left me alone the following afternoon while she called on friends. We had agreed to tell none of our acquaintances of Philip's letter, not wanting to make the news public until we were more certain of its truth. While she was gone, I took stock of my wardrobe and, unsatisfied with it, dashed off a note to Mr. Worth, ordering two more gowns in fabrics decidedly unsuitable for mourning. I say "dashed off," but after signing it, I glanced at the clock and realized that I had spent nearly an hour writing precise descriptions and drawing sketches of what I wanted. I turned my attentions to Philip's dressing room, lamented at having so recently purged his clothing, and wondered if I should order some clothes from his tailor. This led me to wonder if it would be possible to rehire his valet, who had taken another position some months after Philip's death. Not death, disappearance, I corrected myself.

The only bookshelf in our master bedroom was rather small, and I quickly set myself to the task of filling it with the same titles Philip had in his room in the country. Happily, both of his libraries contained copies of Troilus and Cressida, and I added my own catalog from the British Museum as well as the copy of Lady Audley's Secret I'd read on our honeymoon. I had lent A Study in Scarlet to Ivy but had Davis send one of the footmen out for Conan Doyle's new Sherlock Holmes book, The Sign of Four, which I thought would be a pleasant surprise for my husband should he, in fact, return home. The only volumes I did not search for were those on hunting; I rather hoped that his latest experience in Africa would have soured Philip on the subject.

I sat on the edge of our bed and smiled to myself. Perhaps I would not be forced to sleep alone for much longer. Never had I imagined that I would so look forward to the intimacies shared by husband and wife, but here I was, craving Philip's gentle touch, his warm breath on my cheek, and the feel of his strong body on top of mine. I sighed and collapsed into a supine position on the bed, quickly realizing that the pins Meg used to such stunning effect to hold my hair in place dug into my head and made lying on my back wholly uncomfortable. My tightly laced corset made returning upright difficult, and eventually I rolled onto my side and off the bed. These logistical problems quickly broke the spell of my thoughts of Philip, and I became aware of the sound of Ivy's voice calling to me from the hall. The stairway carpet muffled the tap of her heels, but I could tell that she was racing up the stairs, all the time shouting my name. I pulled myself to my feet and met her at the top of the steps.

"Good heavens, Ivy! What is the matter? You look as if you had run through all of London."

"Emily, I have just had the most extraordinary afternoon." She sat on the top step. "Have you met Cyril Elliott?"

"No, the name is not familiar," I answered, my curiosity piqued.

"I saw Arabella and Mr. Palmer at Lady Fielding's. Arthur was rather severe with me for having left you alone. Clearly he has no concept of the strength of your character." Ivy laughed. "But it is kind of him to be concerned, I suppose."

"Yes, Ivy, but that can hardly be the extraordinary part of your afternoon?" I asked.

"No, of course not, merely an interesting aside," my friend said with a wicked smile. "Later, when I was at Victoria Lindley's-" Ivy stopped and interrupted herself. "Have you been to her house since her marriage?"

"No, I haven't," I answered, wishing Ivy would regain her focus.

"Horrid place," she said. "At any rate, while there, I was introduced to Mr. Cyril Elliott. And before you ask, no, he is not related to the dreaded Lady Elliott."

"Good," I said.

"Mr. Elliott, it seems, has only just returned from Africa, where he and a small party of friends were hunting. In the course of recounting his adventures to myself, Victoria, and Jane Barring, who, I must tell you, looks terrible-"