The Seven Dials Affair, page 13
She set down the milk jug and drew a breath. Because, like Mélanie, she must know it was terrible and also perhaps significant.
Livia Davenport adjusted the vase of winter violets on the console table. "Do you think Justine will like them?"
"I'm sure she will, darling," Cordelia said. The girls were very excited to be readying the guest bedroom for Justine Lambton's visit. As Cordelia was herself. However adept she'd become at investigations, she wouldn't have been much help watching for assassins as Harry was currently doing. No sense in wasting time feeling sidelined. She had called on Christopher Rowley this morning only to find he was in the country.
"I think she'll like my picture." Drusilla tugged the paperboard pastel she'd drawn to a more central spot on the night table. "It's a statue of the Roman Drusilla."
"One of the Roman Drusillas," Livia said.
Drusilla shrugged with the assurance that she was the most important Drusilla of all. At four and a half she had a strong sense of herself. She tugged the picture again, then spun round and ran to the door. "I hear a carriage. Maybe it's Justine!"
It was early for Justine, but one never knew. Cordelia followed her daughters onto the landing to hear Alec, the footman, in the hall below. It was not Justine. As the girls ran to the stairhead, Alec came hurrying up the stairs. "A Mrs. Esquivel has called, madam."
Alec had shown Felicia Esquivel into the sitting room on the first floor where Cordelia usually received callers. Normally she'd have brought the girls in with her, but she'd explained to them that this wasn't that sort of call.
Felicia Esquivel stood by the windows, back straight, the light behind her. She had smooth, dark blonde hair, a fine-boned face, and clear blue eyes. She was not overly tall, but she carried herself with the assurance. A young woman who still looked little past her first season, with the command of a dowager. "I'm sorry, Lady Cordelia," she said. "I know we haven't been introduced, but I grew up with Martin and Christopher Rowley. Christopher has mentioned you. And this did not seem the time to stand on ceremony."
"I quite agree." Cordelia gestured to the cherry-striped chairs by the fire.
"I know you investigate cases with the Rannochs. I heard they'd taken an interest in the woman who was killed last night." Felicia sank into a chair, back ramrod straight. "My husband's mistress."
"Yes," Cordelia said.
"I don't come to London often." Felicia folded her hands in her lap, her lilac kid gloves in relief against the glossy blue gros-de-Naples of her gown. "There's so much to see to in the country, and I prefer it there. But though Marco is under the impression there is a great deal I do not know, that's not at all the case. I often think he doesn't know me at all."
"You've been apart a great deal, as I understand it."
"Oh yes. We were young when we married. He was the first boy I danced with. He was kind to me, in a way brothers aren't. And of course he had all the allure of being foreign and different from dull English boys. While at the same time being safe, because he'd grown up next door with the Rowleys and was practically one of the family. When Marco proposed, it seemed inevitable." She looked at Cordelia. "You've been married for some years."
"And I made a shocking mull of it at first, and caused a scandal you're too kind to allude to. But we're still together somehow. I love Harry quite desperately." Odd to say that. She wouldn't use those words to most of their friends, or even to Harry. Perhaps especially not to Harry. "I'd be lying if I said it wasn't challenging at times. And it helped that neither of us had expectations when we went into the marriage."
"When I married Marco, I couldn't imagine that we wouldn't live happily ever after. But then it's difficult to imagine anything else at eighteen, isn't it?"
"I imagine it depends on circumstances," Cordelia said. "But I do think life tends to seem simpler at eighteen." Of course, at eighteen she'd been in love with someone else and unable to imagine ever loving another man.
"It did to me. But then Marco went off to fight in Spain, and when he came back to England he was with the Lodge of the Rational Knights and his mind was on the Argentine. And he never seemed to want to talk to me about it. I was curious, actually, but it was as though he'd decided we lived in different worlds. In fact, he was gone so much, I'm not sure we even spent a year living together, if one adds up all the bits and pieces. It dawned on me slowly that this wasn't the fairy tale I'd thought I was getting. At least, not unless the prince was always going off on quests, leaving the princess to raise babies and run the castle. It's not so much that I had a great disillusionment as it slowly fell apart, one bit at a time. Until I realized I had the rather prosaic arrangement one hears about growing up. Except that my husband wasn't just going off to his club, or the races, or fishing in Scotland. When he went to the Argentine, I knew I wouldn't see him for years. But I saw him so little, the separation didn't seem as drastic. And it was easier, in a way, not always wondering when he'd come home. I set about seeing to the property, redoing the house, tending the children. I built a life. I was quite happy. I wasn't naive enough not to realize there must be other women, with him gone for so long. But later, after his visit home after Waterloo, I heard rumors of one woman. Who was central to his life. I hadn't expected that." She folded her arms over her chest and gripped her elbows. "I won't pretend I didn't feel pique. One of the ladies who wrote to me from the Argentine said at least I needn't fear being publicly embarrassed. But the thing was, I knew. That he shared himself with her as he never had with me. As perhaps I never even understood enough to want him to share himself with me, not when we were first married. I'm not sure I ever even knew Marco. But I wish I'd had the chance to. When I was the angriest with her, I thought I deserved the chance to. Instead, I was left raising his children and running a house that was supposed to have been ours. Having quite a nice life. But not the life I envisioned." She paused. "I suppose a lot of people at thirty don't have the life they envisioned at eighteen."
"I certainly don't. Sometimes what one has is better. At least for the person one's become. It is, in my case. But that doesn't mean one doesn't regret what one's lost."
"It's more an idea I regret. We were little more than children when we married. It's what we might have become if we'd grown together instead of separately. He's my husband. Whatever life I can build on my own, I'll remain tied to him. Truth to tell, I'm not sure what I'd say if he came to me and said he wanted to start again, to be a proper family. At times I feel we had a lucky escape. But at other times I feel cheated that we didn't have a chance to try."
"And you blamed Allegra Roth."
"I didn't even know her name. In my mind she was That Woman. But yes." Felicia met Cordelia's gaze directly. "In my mind I've called her appalling things. Words I'd never utter in polite company. In any company." She lifted her chin, her gaze steady. "I've imagined doing appalling things to her."
"Many people do, when they're angry at someone."
"Yes. But of course in my case the person in question ended up murdered. I'm hardly the expert you are at murder investigations, but I understand enough to know that makes me a suspect."
"It takes more than that to make someone a suspect."
"Is Marco—he must be devastated."
"I haven't seen him. But I know people who were there when he learned of it."
"Does he have friends with him?"
"I'm not sure about now, but I understand he was with friends at the theatre last night. Including Martin Rowley and William Beardsley."
"They all went to Cambridge together. I'm glad he was with them. I hate to think of his being alone through something like this."
"You hadn't seen him since he's been in England?"
"No. That's why I came to London. I heard he was here and I was determined to speak with him. I saw no reason to simply wait for him to deign to show up. I got to town yesterday. Only to realize that my fantasies of confronting my husband and his mistress were far simpler in Devon than when I actually faced the opportunity to do so. I didn't want a vulgar scene. I even walked by Mivart's, where I thought he was staying, in the hopes of seeing them. Foolish."
"Did you see them?" Cordelia asked.
Felicia Esquivel hesitated a moment. "I saw a woman I thought might be Alejandra Vargas. I saw a print of her once. I said I saw her as The Woman, didn't I? That was true at first. But I learnt her name."
"A natural impulse. What did you do after you saw her outside Mivart's?"
Felicia twisted her hands together. "I followed her. That sounds horrid. But she walked down the street and I found myself moving through the crowd after. She went a few blocks, then went into a coffeehouse."
"Alone?"
"No." Felicia's pale brows drew together. "That is, she went in alone, but I walked by and looked through the windows. She met a gentleman at the back of the coffeehouse. Not anyone I recognized. He looked older than we were—more our parents' generation. Not tall and he wore spectacles. Graying hair. They appeared to be on familiar terms." She paused. "I confess I was pleased. I was wondering if Marco knew and if there was a way I could let him know if not. And yet—I can't precisely say I want Marco back, whatever that means. I'm not even sure what it would look like."
"Did you see more?" Cordelia asked. "Of Allegra Roth and this gentleman?"
"No. Some people left the coffeehouse and seemed to notice me staring and I realized I couldn't stay. I went back to the friends I'm staying with and tried without success to write a letter to Marco."
"What time was it? That you saw Allegra go into the coffeehouse?"
Felicia frowned. "A bit past three, I think." Her blue eyes widened. "What time was Allegra killed?"
"We're not sure precisely, but not long after. What was Allegra wearing?"
"A gray dress. Levantine silk, I think, with black chenille trim on the skirt. And a black cloak with a slate lining. I couldn't help noting she had excellent taste in clothes." Her eyes widened. "You think she went right from the coffeehouse to wherever she was killed?"
"I think it's possible," Cordelia said.
CHAPTER 17
Philip Ledgwood was staying at the Pulteney in Piccadilly. As fashionable as Mivart's. Rumored to be the most expensive hotel in London. Tsar Alexander and his sister had stayed there during the peace celebrations after Napoleon had been sent to Elba. The concierge was surprised at an unaccompanied lady's calling, but a card embossed with "Countess Carfax" could work wonders. The card was taken up by one of the team of footmen efficient at everything from carrying shopping parcels to ordering carriages to securing theatre boxes, and shortly after, Kitty was shown into Philip Ledgwood's suite.
Warned by the footman, her former lover faced her, with a steady, contained expression. His face was leaner than she remembered, his hair was cropped closer, his brows had less of an ironic tilt. His mouth seemed set in firmer lines. He was dressed fashionably as always, but with an almost studied carelessness, his cravat slightly askew, his coat seemingly carelessly shrugged on.
Questions shimmered in his gaze, but he came forwards, his hand extended. "It's good to see you again. Though difficult to remember to address you as Lady Carfax."
His hand felt the same, firm and steady, though a handshake was much less personal than the touches they had once exchanged. "Please don't. I'm still not used to it myself. I doubt I ever will be. You always called me Kitty."
At which time they had been far more intimate than now. His gaze said he recognized it, but he merely said, "Kitty then. I haven't had the chance to felicitate you on your marriage."
"Thank you. We're very happy." Odd that something so trite could be so true. "It's remarkable how one's life can change so much."
"So it is." He held out a hand to two figured cream satin armchairs by the fire. "I married over a year ago. I doubt you'd have heard. Isabel Fuentes. Her father was made Barao Fuentes by the regent."
Which probably meant her father was a native Brazilian. Of the many titles given out by the then regent, now King João VI, after the Portuguese court moved to Brazil, by far the majority had gone to those who had come from Portugal with the court. Or to others who had fought against the French and later made their way to Brazil. Those few Brazilians who had been ennobled had been given the lowest-level title of barao.
"I hadn't heard," Kitty said. "My felicitations."
"Thank you." He gave a faint smile. "It came as something of a surprise. Not the wedding, the impulse to marry. I know you will not be offended when I say I had avoided it. In truth, I'd avoided young unmarried girls since I was at university. Far too many risks, to them and to me. I don't know why it was different with Isabel. She's remarkable, of course." The words might be commonplace, but the smile in his eyes was not.
"And perhaps you were at a point in your life when you were ready to get married."
"Perhaps. I hadn't thought of it that way."
"I think it was that way for my husband," Kitty said. "I'm fortunate we were together when he got to that point. I think we might have stayed together regardless, but it wouldn't have been nearly so comfortable."
Philip shook his head. "You never were like other women, Kitty."
"I hope not." Kitty tugged off her gray doeskin gloves. "I hope I'm not like other people. Everyone is unique."
"But some to a greater degree." He smiled for a moment, memories drifting through his gaze, then moved to a pier table and poured two glasses of Madeira. "Isabel and I have a daughter."
"How lovely." Kitty accepted the glass he was holding out. "Children are wonderful."
"I remember how important yours were to you. I confess I didn't fully understand it until our little Bella was born." Philip sat across from her.
"And you came to England to show her to your family?"
"In part." He took a drink of Madeira and settled back against the fringed cushions, covered in a gold that expertly set off the cream without creating too much distraction. "Isabel and Bella are with my parents now. I'm going down to join them as soon as I can wrap up business here. But I'm also in London to meet with Castlereagh. The situation in Portugal is challenging."
A few years ago, a rebellion had broken out in Portugal led by a combination of Liberals and those opposed to British occupation in the wake of the French defeat. Marshall Beresford, head of the British military authority in Portugal, had put down the rebellion and executed the ringleaders. Which had only, as Kitty could have warned him, intensified anti-British sentiments among the Portuguese. Beresford had then gone to Brazil to request more powers from the king in the face of what he saw as Jacobinism among the Portuguese populace. While he was gone, a revolution had broken out, and on his return to Lisbon last year, he'd been forbidden to disembark. The country now teetered precariously, leaving a number of alarming or exciting possibilities, depending on one's perspective. Kitty was inclined to be excited.
"Are the royal family going to return?" she asked Philip.
"It's being discussed." Philip took a drink of Madeira and settled back in a corner of the sofa. Indeed, Kitty knew, the king's return from Brazil was a demand of the revolutionaries, who also wanted a constitutional monarchy. "A great deal has changed in the past fifteen years. Brazil has become an international power. Open trade with the Continent, rather than just with Portugal, has helped that."
Kitty took a sip of Madeira. It took her back to her own time in Lisbon. "And hugely benefited Britain."
"I won't deny that."
Kitty set her glass down. "The British can't run Portugal indefinitely. Or rather, they shouldn't. And I doubt any South American colonies will be content to remain colonies much longer."
"I might have known you'd say that. And I can't disagree." Philip took another drink of Madeira and regarded her. "You didn't come here to debate politics, Kitty. Or to ask after my family. Why are you here?"
Kitty reached for her glass, took a fortifying sip, and set it down again. "It's Alejandra Vargas."
Philip set his own glass down with a clunk. A few drops of Madeira sloshed on the satinwood table. "I'd heard rumors Esquivel was in England. She came with him?"
"She did. And she was murdered yesterday."
It was perhaps a cruel way to deliver the news, but shock could reveal motives. Malcolm had taught her that.
Philip's eyes went wide. "Good god. Brigands?"
"I don't think so. She was at a tavern." No sense in going into where, just now. "When did you last hear from her?"
Philip passed a hand over his face. "Over a year ago. Before my marriage. I haven't been back to Buenos Aires since. And naturally, once I was married it was not a connection I thought it appropriate to pursue."
"But you knew her. Well."
"At one time."
"What enemies did she have?"
"Enemies? You mean someone who would commit murder? Esquivel has enemies, but I can't imagine any of them turning on Alejandra."
"Did she ever talk to you about her past? Before she came to the Argentine?"
"Why should she have talked to me?"
"There's no need to pretend, Philip. It was before you married your Isabel. Given our relationship, you can't imagine it would shock me."
Philip gave a wry smile. "You always said things others wouldn't." He reached for his glass and took a drink, more like a draught of ale than sip of Madeira, as though to steady himself. "Alejandra was fascinated by Brazil. By what was happening there. By the contrast to the Argentine, I think. That's what we talked of—when we weren't engaged in other activities. And the new opera house in Rio, where I think she'd have liked to perform. She didn't talk about her past, except the occasional comment about her childhood—Christmas memories and that sort of thing. I did know she was British. She never really tried to hide that. Is that why she came back here?"
