Bedford Square (27 page)

He nodded. No more words were necessary.

Vespasia alighted from her carriage on the pavement outside the house of Leo and Theodosia Cadell. It was a trifle early to call, except for the most formal of visits, which was the last thing she intended, but she had no inclination to wait. Theodosia could leave a message with the footman that she was not at home should anyone else come. She could select any reason she chose. An elderly relative was unwell. That was hardly true—Vespasia was in excellent health—but it would satisfy. She was certainly distressed.

She told her driver to take the carriage around to the mews, out of sight. She would send for him when she was ready to leave. She permitted him to pull the doorbell for her before moving to obey.

She was admitted by the parlormaid and was shown to the large, old withdrawing room with its burgundy curtains and Chinese vases she had always disliked. They were a wedding gift from an aunt whose feelings they had never wished to offend. Theodosia joined her within moments.

“Good afternoon, my dear.” Vespasia surveyed the younger woman carefully. There were thirty-five years between them, but just at the moment that was less than usually apparent. Theodosia also had been remarkably beautiful, perhaps not in the unique way Vespasia had, but sufficient to turn a great
many heads—and not a few hearts. Her blue-black hair was touched with silver now, not only at the temples but across the front of the brow. Her dark eyes were magnificent, her high cheekbones just as clear, but there were shadows in her skin and a lack of color that spoke of poor sleep. There was a tightness in her movements and a loss of her usual grace.

“Aunt Vespasia!” No weariness or fear could mar the real pleasure in her greeting. “What a delightful surprise! If I had known you were coming I should have instructed the staff that I am not at home to anyone else. How are you? You look wonderful.”

“I am very well, thank you,” Vespasia answered. “A good dressmaker can achieve a great deal. However, even the best cannot work miracles. A corset can hold together your body and provide the best posture on earth, but there is nothing that can do the same for the face.”

“There is nothing wrong with your face.” Theodosia looked surprised and half amused.

“I hope not, except a certain passage of time,” Vespasia agreed wryly. “But I cannot be so kind to you, my dear, and do so with the remotest honesty. You look worried sick.”

What little color there was blanched from Theodosia’s cheeks. She sat down suddenly in the chair opposite Vespasia, who naturally had not risen.

“Oh, dear. Is it so apparent? I thought I had disguised it rather better than that.”

Vespasia relented. “From most people, I daresay. But I have known you since you were born. Also,” she added, “I have fashioned a few repairs to the appearance myself, well enough to know how they are done.”

“I am afraid I have not been sleeping very well,” Theodosia said, looking at Vespasia, then away again. “Silly, but perhaps I am coming to the time of life when late nights are not as easy to accommodate as they used to be. I hate to admit that.”

“My dear,” Vespasia said very gently, “late nights are usually followed by late mornings, and you are in an excellent position to sleep until noon, if you so wish. If you do not
sleep well, it is because you are ill, or something is worrying you too profoundly to allow you to forget it, even in your bed. I rather think it is the latter.”

It was clear in Theodosia’s face that she meant to deny it; it was so plain she might almost have spoken. Then she met Vespasia’s unwavering gaze. Her resistance crumpled, but nevertheless she did not explain.

“May I tell you something about a friend of mine?” Vespasia enquired.

“Of course.” Theodosia relaxed a little. The immediate pressure had been removed from her. She sat back in the chair, preparing to listen, her skirts in an elegant swirl around her, her eyes on Vespasia’s face.

“I shall not tell you a great deal about his history or circumstances,” Vespasia began. “Because for reasons which will become apparent, I prefer to keep you from guessing his name. He might not mind in the slightest your knowing his predicament, but that is not my decision to make.”

Theodosia nodded. “I understand. Tell me only what you wish.”

“He is a military man of distinguished service,” Vespasia began, never taking her eyes from Theodosia’s face. “He has now retired, but his career was long and honorable. He had great courage and qualities of leadership. He was held in high esteem, both by friends and by those who liked him less, for whatever reason.”

Theodosia was attending closely, but with no more than polite interest. It was a great deal easier than being questioned as to her own anxieties. The hands in her lap were loosely folded, the pearl-and-emerald ring catching the light.

“He has had his share of personal grief,” Vespasia continued. “As most of us do. However, lately something quite new has happened, without the slightest warning.”

“I’m sorry,” Theodosia sympathized. It was clear in her wide eyes that she expected some domestic discord, or possibly financial reverse, the sort of misfortune which can afflict most people.

Vespasia’s voice did not alter. “He received a letter, anonymous
of course, cut from words in the
Times
newspaper ….” She saw Theodosia stiffen and her hands lock, but she affected not to have noticed. “It was very plainly and articulately phrased, accusing him of cowardice in the face of the enemy, a great many years previously, during one of our lesser foreign campaigns.”

Theodosia swallowed, her breath rapid, as if she were struggling to gain sufficient air and this warm and pleasant room were actually suffocating her. She started to say something and then changed her mind.

Vespasia hated going on, but if she stopped now she would have served no purpose and helped no one.

“The threat to disclose the details of this incident, entirely false, was quite plain,” she said. “As was the ruin it would bring, not only to my friend but of course to his family. He is quite innocent of the charge, but it is all so long ago, and happened in a foreign land with which we now have little connection, so it will be well-nigh impossible to verify it. It is always harder to prove that something did not happen than that it did.”

Theodosia was very white, her body so stiff beneath her smoky-blue dress that the fabric seemed strained.

“The curious thing,” Vespasia went on in the silence, “is that the writer of the letter did not ask for anything, no money, no favor, nothing at all. He has now written at least twice that I am aware of.”

“That is … terrible,” Theodosia whispered. “What is your friend going to do?”

“There is very little he can do.” Vespasia watched her closely. “I am not sure if he is aware that he is not the only person so victimized.”

Theodosia was startled. “What? I mean … you think there are others?”

“There are four others that I know of. I think there may be five. Don’t you, my dear?”

Theodosia licked her lips. She hesitated for several long, silent minutes. The clock in the hall struck the quarter hour.
In the garden, outside the long windows, a bird sang. Somewhere, beyond the wall, children were calling out in a game.

“I promised Leo I would tell no one,” Theodosia said at last, but the anguish in her face made it desperately clear how she longed to share the burden.

Vespasia waited.

Outside the bird was still singing, the same liquid call over and over—a blackbird, high in a tree in the sun.

“I suppose you already know,” Theodosia said at last. “I don’t know why I hesitate, except that the nature of the accusation is … oh, it’s all so stupid, and yet so real … so … almost … not true … but …” She signed. “What am I making excuses for? It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t alter anything.” She looked steadily at Vespasia. “Leo has received two of these letters as well, making the charges but not yet asking for anything, just pointing out how if it became public it would ruin him … ruin us both … and Sir Richard Aston as well.”

Vespasia was puzzled. She could imagine no charge that could possibly include Leo and Theodosia and Aston. Aston was Leo’s superior in the Foreign Office, a man of highly distinguished career and very great influence. His wife was connected to several of the great aristocratic families in the land. He was a charming man, possessed of both wit and intelligence.

Theodosia laughed, but it was a hollow sound, amusement without pleasure.

“I see you had not even thought of it,” she observed. “It was Sir Richard who was responsible for Leo’s promotion.”

“It was entirely merited,” Vespasia replied. “He has amply proved that. But even had it not been, it is a mistake to promote someone beyond their ability, but it is not an offense, and certainly not Leo’s offense, or yours.”

“Your trust in me is making you naive,” Theodosia said with an edge of bitterness. “The suggestion was that Leo paid for his promotion.”

“That’s balderdash,” Vespasia dismissed it, but without conviction or relief. It was so foolish it could be only part of
the story. “Aston has all the money he could need, and Leo hasn’t sufficient to pay an amount that would make any difference. And you mentioned that you were involved, or at least you implied you had some part in it greater than simply that his ruin would accomplish yours as well.” Then even as she spoke a glimmering of another idea came to her; it was repellently ugly, because she cared for Theodosia, but not unbelievable of someone for whom she had no regard. Others would believe it.

“I can see it in your face,” Theodosia said gently. “You understand at last. You are right; the letter said that Sir Richard had admired me far more than as a friend, and Leo had sold me to him, as a lover, in return for his promotion, and Sir Richard had accepted.” She winced as she gave it words, and her hands were twisting in her lap. “The only part of it that bears any relation to fact is that I was aware that Sir Richard did … desire me. But he never made any improper suggestion, let alone advance. I was simply … a trifle uncomfortable because of his position regarding my husband.” Her jaw set. “Why should I have to apologize for that? I was beautiful. I could name a score of other women, two score, who were the same.”

“You do not have to explain,” Vespasia pointed out with a flash of humor. “I do understand.”

Theodosia blushed. “I’m sorry. Of course you do, better than I. You must have faced envy and discomfort on that account all your life, the little remarks and suggestions.”

Vespasia lifted her chin a trifle. “It is not quite in the past, my dear. The body may become a little stiff, and tire more easily, the appetites of the flesh become controlled, the hair may fade and the face betray the years and all that one has made of them, but the passion and the need to be loved do not die. Nor, I am afraid, do the jealousies or the fears.”

“Good,” Theodosia said after only a moment. “For all its pain, I think I like the way we are. But what can I do to help Leo?”

“Keep silent,” Vespasia responded immediately. “If you make the slightest attempt to deny it, you will raise thoughts
in people’s minds which had never entered them before. Sir Richard will hardly thank you for that, nor will Lady Aston. She is not an easy creature, rather overbearing, and the kindest thing that can be said of her appearance would be to liken her to a well-bred dog, one of those ones that has difficulty breathing. Most unfortunate.”

Theodosia tried to laugh, and failed. “She is actually quite pleasant, you know, and even if it was a dynastic marriage to begin with, I believe he is very fond of her. She has humor and imagination, both of which last longer than beauty.”

“Of course they do,” Vespasia agreed. “And they are a great deal easier and more rewarding to live with. But too few people realize it. And beauty has such an immediate impact. Ask any girl of twenty whether she would rather be beautiful or amusing, and I will be surprised if you find one in a score who will choose humor. And Lucy Aston is undoubtedly one of the nineteen.”

“I know. Is that all I can do, Aunt Vespasia, nothing?”

“It is all I can think of, for the moment,” Vespasia insisted. “But if Leo should receive a letter which asks him to do something under duress, if you have any love for him, or for yourself, do all you can to dissuade him from it. Whatever the cost of scandal precipitated by his making this charge public, it will be small compared with the ruin agreeing to it will bring. It is no guarantee the blackmailer will keep silent—Guy Stanley is witness of that—and you will add the real dishonor of whatever he would have you do. He may damage your reputation, but only you can damage your honor. Don’t let it happen.” She leaned forward a little, looking intently at the younger woman. “Assure him you can withstand anything that is said of you wrongly, and all that may come because of it, but not that he should allow this man to turn him into the kind of creature he is, or to become a tool in his evil.”

“I will,” Theodosia promised. In a quick gesture she reached forward and took Vespasia’s hands in her own, gripping them warmly. “Thank you for coming. I should not have had the courage to come to you, but I feel stronger, and quite certain of what I must do now. I shall be able to help Leo.”

Vespasia nodded. “We shall stand together,” she promised. “There are several of us, and we shall not stop fighting.”

Tellman was meanwhile busy tracking the last few days in the life of Josiah Slingsby. Someone had murdered him, either with deliberate intent or accidentally in a fight which had gone too far. That was one of the few things in this whole affair of which he was certain. Whether it had any connection with the blackmail attempt or not, it must be solved. It was the original case, and must not be lost sight of in whatever else was occupying most of Pitt’s time. Tellman fully expected the trail he was following to cross General Balantyne’s path, and it might be easier to come at it from this angle than from pursuing Balantyne directly, although that, too, would have to be done.

He began by discovering where Slingsby had lived. It was tedious and time-consuming, but not difficult for someone who was used to the mixture of threat, trickery and small bribes necessary to deal with fencers of stolen goods, prostitutes and keepers of “netherskens,” as cheap rooming houses were called, where those who wished to keep well out of the way of the police could rent a space to sleep in for a few pence a night. The owners asked nothing about their patrons and simply took the money. None were friends of the law, and whatever business they were involved in was best not discussed.