Chapter Three

  Lady Grizelda Tizsa was Azalea’s youngest, most recently married sister. In fact, she had only returned from her wedding trip a fortnight since.

  After playing with the children in the park for a little, an activity that did much to restore her confidence, Azalea took them by the hand and walked round to the Tizsas’ home off Half Moon Street.

  This was a charming house reached by a lane and a stone path. It was small by the standards they had grown up with, but then Griz had not married into wealth. Her husband was a heroic but penniless refugee from the recent conflict in Hungary, where he had been on the losing—revolutionary—side. Exactly how Griz had persuaded His Grace, their father, to agree to the match, Azalea had never found out. Though she was aware their brother Horace had thrown some kind of government post Mr. Tizsa’s way.

  As she climbed the path to the front door, the children ran ahead of her, eager to see Aunt Griz. Music drifted to Azalea’s ears, a quartet, perhaps. Was Griz entertaining? Certainly, it was an odd thing to do so early in the day, but if it was so, Azalea’s chances of a private word with her sister were somewhat reduced.

  The front door was opened by a familiar maid who smiled and curtseyed as she threw the door wide. “My lady! And the little master and mistress, looking very grown-up.”

  “Good morning, Emmie.” The girl had once been her mother’s maid but had clearly followed Griz to her new abode. “I gather my sister is at home. Is it a bad time to disturb her?”

  “Oh, no, my lady, I shouldn’t think so. It’s just one of her musical mornings. They usually all go home about this time.” Emmie took her shawl and bonnet and the children’s coats and pointed to a closed door across the asymmetrical hall. “They’re just in there in the music room, but if you’d rather wait upstairs in the drawing room…?”

  “No, thanks. Michael, wait…” Impelled by curiosity, she took the excited children’s hands and walked across to the music room, where she released Michael’s hand in order to open the door.

  The pianoforte had been a wedding gift from her parents, but a young, bespectacled man was playing it. Griz was playing the harp. An unknown young lady was swaying over a violin, and another young man was playing the clarinet.

  Azalea, quite a connoisseur of music, paused to listen. Clearly, they were nearing the end of the piece, one she did not recognize, but they were really rather good. Griz had always been musical, of course, although she had hated to perform her accomplishment in public. She had no qualms here. No one even noticed Azalea or the children until the piece finished with a flourish and the musicians all grinned at each other with satisfaction.

  Azalea clapped, and the children joined in, causing all the other heads to jerk around in surprise.

  “Zalea!” Griz sprang up for her stool, beaming as she opened her arms to the children. “Mikey! Lizzie!”

  “Auntie Griz!”

  Laughing, Griz hugged them and turned to embrace Azalea. Marriage had been good for Griz. Her affection was more natural and open than for several years. And she looked well, glowing with contentment.

  Briefly, Azalea wondered if she had looked like that eight years ago when she had returned from her honeymoon. Before life had become so complicated. Griz introduced her friends, who seemed both awed and embarrassed as they hastily packed away their instruments and music and effaced themselves. Griz followed them into the hall, making plans for another meeting.

  Then she turned to Azalea. “We can go to the drawing room, if you like? Tea? Luncheon?”

  “I’m having luncheon with Eric, but tea would be lovely. And I daresay the children would enjoy raiding your kitchen—if your cook is good-natured?”

  “Oh yes. Emmie, will you take them down and send up some tea? And scones?”

  While Emmie obliged, Griz led the way up to the bright drawing room. “Her Grace insists it is a parlor, not a drawing room,” Griz observed. “Just because it is smaller than all her massive rooms.”

  “I don’t see that it matters what you call it,” Azalea observed. “I think it is a charming room.” Her gaze was caught by a framed pencil drawing above a side table. “Why, it’s you! Did Dragan do it?”

  Griz blushed endearingly. “It flatters me. And shows his talent. Otherwise, I could not bear to confront my own face so often!”

  “It is a beautiful face,” Azalea insisted. “And he has caught you exactly.” He had, too, the upward tilt of her chin, the curve of her mobile mouth, and the observant yet humorous glint in her fearless eyes.

  “Now you are flattering me,” Griz said wryly. “Why?”

  “Don’t be silly. Why would I trouble? Oh, do you have that odd boy in your kitchen now? Or did you leave him in Their Graces’?”

  Griz had inflicted a street urchin upon her parents’ kitchen, one of her charitable projects, no doubt.

  “Young Nick? Oh, no, he’s at the Sussex estate now. He loves horses and other animals, and he’s going to school, too.”

  Azalea sat in one of the armchairs while another servant brought in a tray of tea and scones.

  “How is Dragan?” Azalea asked. “Is he home?”

  “No.” Griz wrinkled her nose. “He has gone to some office in Whitehall—not Horace’s—every day for a fortnight now. He found a flaw in some accounts, so they asked him to look at more, but I think he is bored.”

  “I suppose it is money,” Azalea said with sympathy. “But what of his medical career?”

  “He is studying for the examinations.”

  “He sounds a very busy man. Don’t let him be too busy.” Before her sister could respond to that, Azalea hurried on. “What of you, Griz? Are you happily settled?”

  “Oh, yes.” Grizelda’s lips twitched. “Though I wouldn’t mind a little more excitement.” As the door closed behind the maid, she said, “I had Dragan to myself for six weeks and now…” The expression in her eyes changed. “Is something wrong, Azalea?”

  “Oh, no! I—” Azalea broke off, staring helplessly at Griz. “What am I saying? Of course, there is something wrong, and I came especially to ask for your help. Yet every instinct prompts me to hide it. Griz, I need your confidence more than anything.”

  “Well, of course, you have that,” Griz said, pushing a cup of tea across the small table to her. “And I only have two house servants who have no time to listen at doors. What is wrong?”

  Where to start? As the most immediate problem. Azalea drew the anonymous letter from her bag and passed it over the cups to Griz. Having done so, she wanted to look away, ashamed, but her gaze remained fixed on her sister’s face, searching for signs of disgust.

  Grizelda’s eyes widened, then her lips curled, and she threw the letter down. “What a vile thing to send anyone! Where did it come from? Who received it?”

  “I did. This morning.”

  Grizelda’s jaw dropped. “You?”

  “Yes, I. What can I do, Griz?”

  “Ignore it. Burn it or give it to the police. What does Eric say?”

  Azalea stared at her. “Why would I let Eric see such a thing?”

  “Well, if you don’t, you’re playing right into this blackmailer’s hands. Like me, Eric will know it is nasty lies. Why would—”

  “How can he know that?” Azalea interrupted intensely, “when I do not?”

  Griz closed her mouth and swallowed. “You are telling me you actually wrote such letters? I thought you loved Eric.”

  Azalea closed her eyes. She hadn’t expected it to be so hard to be judged by her little sister. “I did,” she whispered. “I do.” With determination, she snapped her eyes open again and met Grizelda’s curious stare. “But my trouble is, things have happened that I don’t remember. People I apparently met, conversations I apparently had, events that apparently occurred, and I do not recall them. There are blank spaces, Griz. In those, who knows what I did? If I were sure they were lies, I would do exactly as you suggest. I would not even need to trouble you.”

  Grizelda’s eyes were stricken. “Oh, Zalea, you need to see a doctor.”

  “I know. And I will. Foolishly, I have been putting it off because I didn’t want to admit it was happening. I thought it was mere nerves and would go away. But now it is threatening everything, and I—” She drew in a shaky breath. “I will see a doctor. But whatever he can do for me is worth nothing if Eric is given proof of my faithlessness.”

  Griz swallowed. “Do you really believe you were unfaithful?”

  “In my right mind, I would never be. But the mind can be tricky, Griz. After Lizzie was born, I was so low I felt quite mad. And Eric…”

  “Eric?” Griz prompted.

  “Eric has been growing away from me,” she said with difficulty. “It troubled me. I have even tried to make him jealous. What if I went too far? What if those letters are the result?”

  Griz nodded slowly. “I see your dilemma.”

  “I want to get the letters back, find out who sent them, and then I shall tell Eric everything. If I have not truly been unfaithful.” She pressed the back of her hand to her lips. “If I have, I do not know what I will do.”

  Griz shoved aside her cup and reached for Azalea’s hand, squeezing it. “I cannot believe you have been unfaithful, and you should not either. It is not in your nature. Should we not make Eric part of our inquiries?”

  Azalea shook her head. “Yesterday, I had…another such incident. Some man I had apparently encouraged to come to the house for more than tea. I barely knew him. Eric walked in on us as I emptied the teapot over this fool, and he not only understood but… We talked, Griz. Just for a few hours, I felt us growing closer again, as it used to be. And now this!” She waved her hand at the letter in revulsion.

  Griz was gazing at her. “I didn’t know. I always thought your life so perfect.”

  “Nothing is perfect,” Azalea said tiredly. “If it were, we would stop trying to make it better. Maybe that’s what I did.”

  “No,” Griz said finally. “That isn’t you either. Very well, we shan’t tell Eric yet, but what are we going to do?”

  Azalea drank her tea. It was strange, peculiarly painful confiding in Griz, but her hand and her heart felt steadier. “I want the letters back without giving myself over to a lifetime of blackmail. So, I imagine the first step is to find out who sent that.” She pointed at the offending note.

  Grizelda’s eyes began to sparkle. “Well, we can trick him—or her. You obey, leave money in the theatre box, while I secretly watch who picks it up.”

  “Can it be as simple as that?” Azalea marveled. “But who would stop him if it was a strong man?”

  “Dragan.”

  Azalea regarded her doubtfully. “You would tell Dragan?”

  “You chose me to help you because of Nancy Barrow, didn’t you?”

  Nancy Barrow had been their mother’s maid until she had been murdered in a back lane near Covent Garden. Griz had found the body, and the killer, too, in the end.

  Azalea inclined her head. “You worried at it, against everyone’s advice and disapproval, and you found her murderer, uncomfortable as it was.”

  “Yes, but I did not do it alone. Dragan and I worked together.”

  At least Dragan did not live in Eric’s pocket. And besides, she could not let Griz put herself in danger.

  Danger. “It might be dangerous for Dragan to confront this person,” she warned.

  “Perhaps that is a decision we should make when we see who it is.” Griz picked up the letter and read it through again, frowning. “The writer is educated,” she observed. “He knows who you are and who your family is. That you and Eric maintain a box at the Theatre Royal.”

  “You think it is a friend?”

  Griz flicked one contemptuous finger against the letter. “An acquaintance, perhaps. But equally, these things are not hard to discover. You are all over the society pages of all the newspapers, and Their Graces are not unknown in the world.” She raised her eyes to Azalea’s. “Does five hundred pounds seem a lot of money to you?”

  “It could change a poor man’s life.”

  “But not that of a man of your world. Who would also know it is a mere drop in the ocean of Lord Trench’s wealth.”

  “I thought of that,” Azalea admitted. “Which is why I think it could be the first of many demands which will only get higher.”

  “You are probably right,” Griz said with distaste. “But…it could also be less to do with the money than with hurting you. Who have you offended? Besides the man you tipped the teapot over—which, I have to say, was very well done of you.”

  “Thank you,” Azalea said, touched. “He did look quite ridiculous. Eric did not quite manage to keep a straight face.”

  “And the very next day, you receive this.”

  Sudden, unexpected hope caught at Azalea’s breath. “You mean this could just be Gunning’s spite? That there are no letters to reclaim?”

  “It’s possible. I certainly cannot imagine you writing such letters as he describes.”

  Azalea sat back, frowning. “Then how could he imagine I would believe such nonsense?”

  “Have you told anyone else about your memory lapses? Your maid? Mama?”

  Azalea shuddered. “God, no.”

  “At any rate, we cannot rely on there being no letters. We must find out who wrote this, what he has, and what he wants. Then we can find a way to bring him down.”

  Azalea regarded her with fascination. “You believe we can?”

  “There is always a way,” Griz assured her. “We just have to find it.” She frowned, thoughtfully for some time, then took a deep breath. “This is what I think we should do. Follow the instructions, only do not give him five hundred. Give him one hundred, along with a note that to receive any more, he must return the letters.”

  Azalea felt the blood drain from her face. “But what if he publishes them? Or gives them to Eric?”

  “Why would he do that? It might give him satisfaction, but it would mean he gets a mere hundred pounds for his valuable letters when he must know they are worth thousands to you.”

  “You just said he might only be trying to hurt me! In which case, publicizing them is the quickest way!”

  “Yes, but if his aim were immediate hurt, and he had the letters, he would already have sent them to Eric or the newspapers. He must want to string this out, to hurt you for longer. Or milk you for longer. Either way, we need to know who he is and what his next move will be.”

  Azalea nodded slowly but said, “By the same reasoning, if he has them, he would not give me the letters for a mere hundred pounds.”

  “No, but he might give you proof that they exist. A page, or even a scrap of incriminating writing. If such things don’t exist, he cannot send you proof, and the chances are you’ll hear no more of him. If you receive proof, then at least we’ll know where we stand.”

  “So, you will come to the theatre tomorrow evening and watch?”

  “You must watch, too,” Griz warned. “Everyone who enters your box, especially those who sit near where you have left the money.”

  “And if no one has taken it by the time we leave and the theatre closes?”

  “Dragan and I will still watch.”

  “Griz, you are mad,” Azalea said with a laugh that caught in her throat.

  Griz only grinned at her. Then, as the smile died, she said, “But you must see a doctor, Zalea. Now. Not after we have dealt with this. Go now, this afternoon, or write and summon him.”

  “As soon as I have a moment,” Azalea promised. This very situation proved she could hide from the problem no longer. But she would not sacrifice her luncheon with Eric.

  “Let me know,” Griz said as the children erupted into the room, refueled and ready to let off steam. Fending them off, Azalea did not miss the anxiety in her sister’s eyes and felt both gratitude and guilt.

  Chapter Four

  Eric Danvers, fifth Viscount Trench, having conducted his necessary business successfully and in good time, strolled into one of his lesser clubs off Pall Mall. He chose it deliberately over White’s or his preferred Reform Club because he remembered seeing Gunning there one evening.

  Trench had no intention of allowing yesterday’s incident to assume any importance in Gunning’s imagination. But nor was he prepared to overlook it. He imagined his parting shot—that Gunning should be careful not to catch a cold from the incident—had been understood, but he meant to leave no room for doubt. He would not have Azalea upset.

  Fortune favored him. No sooner had he settled into his armchair with a newspaper and a steaming cup of strong, black coffee than his quarry walked in.

  Gunning was scowling in company with another man who, Trench recalled with difficulty, was called Roberts.

  Roberts smiled respectfully at Trench and inclined his head, murmuring, “My lord.”

  Gunning turned his head in vague annoyance and, seeing Trench, colored to the roots of his hair.

  Trench lowered his newspaper. “Good morning, gentlemen. Won’t you join me?”

  Flustered and clearly flattered, Roberts immediately swerved into the second chair in Trench’s group of three. Gunning hesitated, but Trench did not even glance at him, merely summoned the waiter back.

  “Tea, here, if you please,” he said blandly and glanced at Roberts. “And for you, sir?”

  “Coffee,” came the quick reply.

  “Excellent choice,” Trench murmured, smiling at Gunning.

  Anger deepened the flush in Gunning’s face. “Actually, I would prefer coffee, too,” he threw at the waiter who was already bowing and backing away.

  “Tired of tea?” Trench mocked. “I do hope so. It can do terrible things to a man.”

  “Don’t you like the brew, my lord?” Roberts asked, as though sensing a joke he was eager to understand.

  “Oh, I daresay it has its uses,” Trench mused. “The ladies prefer it to something rougher, don’t they?”

  “But you do not, sir?” Gunning flung at him, somewhat foolishly deciding to play him at his own game.

  Trench smiled. “Whatever comes to hand. But tea stains so, don’t you find?”

 

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