A Crimson Warning (5 page)

“What?”

“You’ll agree, I’m sure, it wouldn’t have been appropriate to mention this in front of Mrs. Sanders.” She twirled the handle of her lacy parasol as we walked.

“I can’t agree if you don’t tell me,” I said, knowing my friend sometimes needed coaxing, especially when she had something important to say.

“Right.” She took my arm and guided me along the pavement in the direction of the park. “Red paint has been found on another doorstep.” She spoke with a measured but deliberately dramatic flair.

“Whose?” I asked.

“The Mertons’,” Ivy said. “Lady Merton’s laughing about it. I saw her earlier on Rotten Row. But everyone’s already speculating.”

Lady Merton, one of the most celebrated hostesses in London, lived, so far as I could tell, a blameless life.

“What are they saying?”

“It must be something her husband’s done. She’s as harmless as they come. But it’s all very strange, don’t you think?” She tilted her head closer to me. “And rather a bit exciting, in a terrible way.”

“Not exciting for the victims,” I said.

“I didn’t mean to be cruel.”

“Of course you didn’t, darling,” I said. “You don’t have a cruel bone in your body. I understand what you’re trying to say. It’s unsettling and exciting all at once. But we must not forget it’s damaging as well. Lives have been ruined and we don’t know what will happen next.”

“It makes me half afraid to look at my own doorstep every morning.”

“You can’t be worried, Ivy. You’ve nothing to hide.”

“Everyone has secrets, Emily.”

*   *   *

The Sanders family may have found a measure of relief in the attention given to the Mertons over the following days. Polly’s birth was no longer a mystery and the story had grown tiresome. Society was now focused on speculating what secret scandal might have inspired this new splash of red paint. Theories had been circulating for nearly a week when I came down to breakfast and found Colin waiting for me, the London
Daily Post
spread out on the table at my place.

“I thought you’d want to see this right away,” he said.

I put aside my copy of
The Aeneid,
to which I’d been glued for weeks. After nearly a year of constant study with my friend, Margaret, who was currently holed up in Oxford with her new husband, I’d become invigorated with my newfound competence in Latin. While Greek would always be my passion, it was a pleasure, sometimes, to be free of the challenges posed by a different alphabet. Virgil’s epic was particularly satisfying to me because I liked to see something good happen to a Trojan. Lots of bad happened, too, of course—this was mythology. But if I couldn’t have the Trojans victorious over the Greeks, I was happy to see one of them become so culturally significant to the Romans. What would Julius Caesar, who claimed Aeneas as an ancestor, have done without the legitimacy provided by the mythical hero?

I bent over the newspaper. A paid advertisement took up an entire page but it was not there to suggest one should buy a certain type of bonnet or shoes. Nor did it beg the reader to visit an attraction or show. Instead, it contained the text—almost lurid text—of a series of love letters. Bold type highlighted a dozen characters:

T E R C N O M L K A E R.

“I don’t understand,” I said.

“The letters are signed only with initials—
M
or
C
,” Colin said. “Now study the bold bits.”

I stared at the letters again. “Merton.”

“You’re quick,” he said.

“Not really,” I said. “It’s dead easy given I already knew their house had been splashed with paint. What about the rest? C L K A E R.”

“Clarke. Samuel, I imagine.”

“Samuel Clarke? The cabinet minister?”

“Precisely,” he said. “The devoted family man and much-admired politician.”

“But Lady Merton? His lover? I can’t believe it. She’s as prim and proper as they come.”

“On the surface,” Colin said. “She’d hardly be the first to seek out love once her duty was done.”

“Heir and a spare and change. Doesn’t she have eleven children?”

“I stopped counting after four.”

I sighed and read aloud.
“My soul has awakened at finding you, my darling love, and there can be no happiness when we are apart. I want a home with you, a life, us together. I know all this to be impossible, so will content myself with our stolen moments—and rejoice in those times when we find ourselves with days rather than hours. Am breathlessly awaiting your husband’s trip to France.”

“Damning stuff,” Colin said. “Merton will be spitting nails if it’s true.”

“I bet it is true,” I said. “The rumor about Polly Sanders was.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you.” He scrunched his eyebrows together. “Even a paper as unscrupulous as the
Post
wouldn’t print such a thing if they had concerns about claims of libel.”

“Mr. Clarke must be the target here, don’t you think?” I asked. “The victim of a political rival, perhaps.”

“But the Mertons’ house was the one painted.”

“So, are we to believe our villain was more concerned with tormenting Lady Merton than Mr. Clarke?”

“It would appear so,” Colin said. “But why?”

“Lady Merton is by far the less likely object of attention,” I said. “But isn’t Polly Sanders as well?”

“An excellent point.”

A footman entered the room with the morning mail on a silver tray. “This was just hand-delivered, sir,” he said, giving my husband a separate letter. Colin sliced it open and read silently before passing it to me.

“Paint on two more houses and I’ve been summoned to Scotland Yard,” he said. “I’ll be home as soon as I can.”

10 June 1893

Belgrave Square, London

My heart is absolutely broken on Lady Merton’s behalf. Her husband swears he’ll never speak to her again, and I do believe he has the will to carry it off. It was hardly Lady Merton’s intention to be so exposed, but no gentleman can tolerate public humiliation well, deliberate or not. Some say she should have been more careful, but I don’t know anyone more discreet. Whoever is behind this revelation is clever and must be connected in some way to her household.

To heap misery upon misery, red paint has marked the edifices of two more houses—those belonging to the Musgraves and the Riddingtons. Both are honorable families, but I know all too well we never can be sure who may be hiding something dark.

All this scandal has made me feel on edge, in ways I haven’t for years. I’d hoped this dreadful business of mine was behind me, that I might never again be concerned by it, but it’s not so easy to free oneself from sins this ghastly. I was half inclined to confide everything in Emily. She’s so sharp and competent. I’ve no doubt she’d take care of it all in a matter of hours. But I’m ashamed, so very ashamed. I can’t bear for her to know what I’ve done. Instead, I tried to make light of what’s happening around me, as if it’s making the season more exciting. I hope I was glib enough but not too glib. I don’t want to make her suspicious.

Colin could help me, but I could never ask him to hide something from his wife and my dearest friend. He’d understand better than anyone what I’ve done. I’m sure he’s seen far worse. Yet Robert, my darling Robert, the sweetest husband England has ever known—what would he think should he ever learn I turned to another gentleman for assistance? It would do no good to work my way out from under all this by burdening myself with yet another secret.

That would only leave me more vulnerable to exposure. Just like Polly Sanders and Lady Merton. And Mr. Dillman.

The thought of what happened to him terrifies me. I’ll do anything to avoid a similar fate. I wonder if the Musgraves and Riddingtons feel the same way.

5

Hating to sit around and feel useless while Colin was working, I decided to call on Lady Glover. As a society outsider, Lady Glover was bound to have an interesting perspective on this spate of vandalism, and it was entirely possible she’d have an insight that could prove useful to our investigation. Once finished with breakfast, I sent a note to Jeremy Sheffield, the Duke of Bainbridge, begging him to accompany me on my visit that afternoon. He acquiesced at once, which came as no surprise. I knew that long ago, he and Lady Glover had been quite close. So far as I could tell, they had remained friends in the following years.

Jeremy had been one of my closest friends from the time we were children, and it was this fact that had kept me immune to his dashing good looks and occasionally irresistible charms. We’d grown up on neighboring estates, and spent many a fine morning playing together when we were young. More often than not he was chasing me with frogs, or we were climbing trees or pretending to lay siege to castles, always having a grand time. Our friendship had remained close into adulthood, the only bump coming when, after I was engaged to Colin, Jeremy confessed to being in love with me. We bungled our way through the ensuing awkwardness, and eventually returned to our old easiness with each other.

Protest the observation though he might, Jeremy had never really been in love with anyone. Pretending to be enamored of me provided him an excuse for being unable to commit to marrying any among the slew of debutantes desperate to win his affections.

As one would expect on a brilliant summer day, the pavement was a crush of people when Jeremy collected me. Fashions had gone more radical. Some ladies had taken to wearing fuller skirts again, and we all feared a return to the days of the crinoline, although what alarmed me more were the wide sleeves one saw everywhere. They made me feel as if I were walking through an ocean of bright-colored balloons.

“So, have you and your much-esteemed husband learned anything interesting in your quest for answers about our overzealous painter?” my friend asked as we walked along Park Lane the short distance to the Glovers’ house.

“Not so far,” I said.

“It’s a delicious business,” Jeremy said. “I can hardly wait to see what madness descends upon me when I awaken to paint on my house. I’ve so many dark secrets. How could anyone limit himself to exposing only one?”

“You’re not half so bad as you like to think. And you’re hardly subtle in your wantonness—your goal of being the most useless man in England is far from a well-kept secret. If society were going to be scandalized by you, it would have happened years ago.”

“That’s beyond disappointing. I’m wholly disheartened.”

“You torment the mother of every debutante in London by refusing to marry,” I said. “Can’t you take comfort in that?”

“I could if I weren’t so greedy.” We’d reached the Glovers’ house, and were admitted without delay to a plush drawing room, full of bright sunlight bouncing off the hefty silver vases, candlesticks, and ornaments that adorned the chamber. Lady Glover did not rise upon our entrance, but gestured for us to sit across from her and poured us tea without asking if we wanted any.

“I prefer China tea. You’ll find it’s much better without milk,” she said, handing us each a cup. “I must say I’m surprised to see you, Lady Emily. I’m not much used to grand ladies of society calling on me.”

“Do I get no kudos for my devotion?” Jeremy asked.

“None at all,” she said. “You, Jeremy, are here far too often to be interesting, and, anyway, gentlemen are an entirely different matter. They have a tendency to forgiveness while we ladies are more prone to jealousy, don’t you think?”

“You’re hard on your sex,” I said.

“You style yourself something of an outlier,” she said. “Yet you’ve never faced being ostracized on an ongoing basis. That makes little rebellions, like calling on me, much easier.”

“I’m fortunate that by accident of birth I’m in a position to pursue my own interests without too much interference,” I said. “That does not mean I don’t sometimes face the unkind judgments of others. You’d be hard-pressed to find anyone in the
ton
who approves of ladies studying Greek.”

“True, true,” Lady Glover said. “But the accident of my own birth left me in a much different state. I had to earn my living—and you are, no doubt, aware of the limited options for us women in such circumstances. My good fortune came from having a beautiful face. It won me my husband and the admiration of his friends and colleagues.”

“Yet not their wives,” I said, knowing how brutally she’d been cut by the ladies of decent society. “You intimidate them.”

“They don’t pause for a moment before choosing each other’s husbands as lovers, yet they worry their husbands might choose me. Simply because I was not born one of them.”

A young maid entered the room with a tray of beautifully decorated tea cakes and set them down on the table in front of her mistress. She bobbed a curtsy and silently headed to the door.

“Not so fast,” Lady Glover said, calling her back. “Has your young friend proposed to you?”

“No, madam.”

“I’ll have a word with him tomorrow,” Lady Glover said. “This is the right marriage for both of you.” The maid nodded, and continued out of the room. “I feel such a responsibility for all of them, you know. My staff suffers from my reputation. It’s difficult for them to find other posts should they ever leave my employ. I like to make sure their lives are well organized.”

“I suppose I should think that’s generous,” I said.

“You don’t approve?” Lady Glover asked.

“Not entirely,” I said. “I admire both your concern for her well-being and the fact that you don’t treat your staff as furniture. That’s an affectation I find reprehensible. But the girl should decide who to marry.”

“Girls, my dear, are not always inclined to act in their own self-interest.” Lady Glover fingered the heavy ropes of pearls around her neck. “I help them as much as I’m able. But enough of this. What brings you to me today, other than wanting an excuse to have our divine duke escort you?”

“Merely the desire to form a closer acquaintance,” I said. “I’m rather fond of your zebras.”

“Should I be suspect of your motives?” she asked.