The Orphan Pearl Page 7

  “Hmm?”

  “The French are looking for an orphan girl.”

  An orphan girl. Of all the ridiculous things… Lily laughed aloud.

  And then, all of a sudden, she was wide awake.

  “That,” she snapped, pushing open the door, “was a dirty trick.”

  “Is it a code word?” he pressed.

  Lily hopped down to the pavement and twisted round to glare. “I’m afraid it will only work once.”

  He held her gaze. “I’ll keep what I learned secret. That was the bargain.”

  Lily raised her eyebrows. “No, you won’t.”

  He froze. “No?”

  “I’m not cashing in my chip yet, Mr. Ware.”

  He hadn’t expected that. Didn’t like it. Perhaps he’d had to bargain with himself, to justify the ambush. Perhaps he’d persuaded himself that he could try anything, so long as they’d be even at the end of the night.

  Perhaps he feared the damage she could do, forcing him to keep an even more valuable secret. He ought to.

  Lily smiled. “Don’t you wonder why not?”

  And then she slammed the door in his face.

  Chapter Seven

  The butler led John through the Clive townhouse and out a pair of French doors to a small, well-tended garden. A fountain burbled in front of him, flanked by a pair of empty benches. It wasn’t until the butler tipped his head toward an arbor decked with climbing roses that John spotted Clive and his wife.

  The duke and duchess sat inside the tunnel of greenery, well-screened by crisscrossing branches. John started toward them; the butler faded back into the house.

  Bees flitted among perfumed flowers in full bloom—fanning out from a wooden beehive stationed by the high stone wall enclosing the property. The heavy scent, the murmur of water, the humming bees settled a lazy, deep-summer calm over the garden.

  The couple fell silent as he approached. The duchess shook a bee from her wrist and rose before he entered the arbor. She wore a white gown, plain but well made, accented with a single ruby-red brooch. She had something of Clive’s sphinxlike quality, and it made him uneasy.

  “A pleasure to see you again, Mr. Ware.” She smiled blandly. “I can’t stay, but please be welcome.”

  Clive snatched her hand as she turned to go and pressed a kiss to her bare fingers.

  “You are incorrigible,” she chided, before gliding away.

  “Well?” Clive asked, spreading his arms along the bench back and crossing one ankle over his knee. “You have some news?”

  John nodded and sat down opposite. “I have good news and I have bad news. Take your pick.”

  “Let’s get the bad news out of the way.”

  “I’ve burned my bridges with Lady Lily.” He kept his tone matter-of-fact. This was a report, not a confession. “I doubt I’ll be on the receiving end of any further confidences from her.”

  Clive cocked one perfect blond eyebrow. “Why don’t you skip to the good news?”

  “You’re on the wrong track in your hunt for this ‘orphan girl.’ I don’t think it’s a human being at all.”

  Clive leaned into the conversation. “You’re certain?”

  “Fairly certain. I had to trick the information out of Lady Lily, but yes. Fairly.”

  “But she knew what you were talking about,” Clive pressed. “She recognized the word.”

  “More than that. When I brought up the orphan girl, she laughed.” Matter-of-fact, he reminded himself. Clive didn’t need to know about his second thoughts. Would not be sympathetic if John stopped to explain what it had cost him to take advantage of a sleeping woman. “It was a particular kind of laugh—the meaning was unmistakable.”

  “Am I to understand that you’ve sacrificed our best chance of getting an ear inside Hastings House for the sake of a laugh?” Clive winced. “And the tenuous interpretation you’ve given it?”

  “Not tenuous,” John insisted. “You’ll have heard a laugh like this yourself, a time or two, when you’ve said something so wrong it’s absurd. So wrong it’s laughable. This ‘orphan girl’ you’re looking for—I don’t think it’s a girl, and I don’t think it’s an orphan, either. At least not in any literal sense. It’s a code.”

  “So. Two dead ends, and nothing certain.” Clive pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’ll be honest, Ware. It surprises me to find your abilities so severely compromised by disuse. I expected more—and, yes, better.”

  John scowled and rubbed the back of his neck. “Lady Lily is no fool.”

  “You might be alone in that opinion,” drawled Clive.

  “She is a widow with a—a scandalous past. She is familiar with this dance, while I…” His cheeks burned. What was he supposed to say? Aside from my relatives, my experience with women does not extend beyond a few brief encounters, by and large commercial in nature. She is toying with me, and I am falling for it. He took one look at Clive, urbane and chilly, and swallowed the words. “I am not suited to this work.”

  “Should I be worried about sensitive information that you’ve revealed?” Clive asked, sharply now. “Have you put the Foreign Office—or any of its employees—at risk?”

  “No!” John swore under his breath. “No. Of course not.”

  “Then what, exactly, is the problem?”

  “Perhaps there is some other task? You can make better use of me, Clive.”

  “You’re capable, Ware. And I value your insights. But you have to understand—a man who sabotages the work he’s given so that he can do the work he wants has no place in an organization like the Foreign Office.”

  John stiffened. “I see.”

  “It might be that you’re on to something, where the ‘orphan girl’ is concerned—to date, no one else has come to me with better information.” Clive sighed. “Think about what you want, Ware. I can’t offer you a different assignment, but if you change your mind about Lady Lily, the door’s still open.”

  John nodded. “I’ll see myself out.”

  He made his way across the garden back into Clive’s townhouse and, through it, back to the street. Standing on the pavement, he felt as though he’d laid down a heavy burden. Relieved, yes. But also weightless, adrift without an anchor.

  Perhaps Clive had been right. There had been an element of self-sabotage in his behavior, the night before. Of panic, if he were honest with himself.

  He’d set a trap for Lady Lily, and she’d caught him in it.

  It ought to have spurred him on. Goaded him to fight harder, turn the tables. Instead, he had been delighted. Stupidly pleased to see her twirling victoriously in the night air. Poleaxed by the casual, offhand way she’d said, “I’d like to enjoy my time with you.” As though she were too relaxed and happy to hide the truth, and he were all the prize she needed.

  She knew that he’d been sent to spy on her, and still she greeted his every appearance like a treat to be savored. How could he defend himself against that?

  He couldn’t.

  So he had taken drastic action, and it had backfired in every way possible. He had behaved dishonorably. He had violated the trust of a woman he admired. And he’d lost any chance of returning to the work he found most satisfying.

  Still. There was a bright side. He now had all the time he needed to plan a murder.

  He proceeded to his next destination, the British Museum. He found his friend Miles Waterman, curator of Greek and Roman antiquities, in his spacious, light-filled office, chipped busts on pedestals staring out from the corners and fine marble friezes mounted on the walls.

  Waterman looked up from his desk at John’s knock, and a broad smile spread across his face. “John Tacitus Ware! Where the devil have you been?”

  “London has never been my favorite place.” John clapped his friend roughly on the back. “Though you seem to be thriving.”

  “Couldn’t ask for a better place to work.” Waterman was a short man and he’d always been very slender, though he’d developed a small, round belly si
nce Ware had last seen him. “So many exciting pieces coming to light these last years, and the museum’s making acquisitions. Whole new world for scholars.”

  “I read your last book.” John peered at a frieze. A procession of some kind. Men on horses wearing helmets, gesturing and reaching. “Impressive work.”

  “Kind of you to say so. It’s been well received,” acknowledged Waterman.

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “What brings you here? Can I give you a tour?”

  “No. I had a question, actually. Do you see much of the Earl of Kingston?”

  “Well, yes, actually. He’s a patron of the museum.” Waterman winced. “You don’t have any sisters, do you?”

  John didn’t answer.

  “Nieces?”

  “You’ve got it backward. Actually—I need to deliver a warning. I won’t say who’s after him, but everyone deserves a fair fight, don’t you think?”

  “Ordinarily I’d agree without a second thought, but Kingston puts every rule of honorable behavior to the test.” Waterman rubbed his temple and smiled thinly. “I’d hate to lose his funds, though. He’s generous. You might look for him in the Reading Room. He positively haunts it before a major auction.”

  “Any of those coming up?”

  “The Cantliffe estate will go on the block next week—sad story, that. Did you ever meet old Cantliffe?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Good man, but his son is more interested in horses than art, and he can’t afford both.”

  “Thank you, Waterman. I owe you one.”

  Chapter Eight

  Lily’s teacup clinked and shrieked as she turned it idly on its saucer. The tea inside had long since gone cold. Her toast, made from bread baked fresh that morning, lay half eaten on her plate underneath a long, spiral curl of orange peel.

  Rustem had taught her how to peel oranges in one long strip. He’d hold the fruit with one hand, knife in the other, and carry on a conversation—looking at her, at the servants, at the potted roses the courtyard—while he worked it around and around. She’d found it mesmerizing.

  One lazy morning early in their marriage, her robe had slipped open while he peeled and the sight of her bare breast had so distracted him that he’d cut his thumb. Deeply enough to leave a scar. Later on, he’d pretend to cut himself sometimes, as a joke. He’d wince and yelp and tell her she drove him to distraction.

  Lily shook the memory away. She slouched across from her father at the breakfast table, in a room that had once been bright and cheerful. But the formerly yellow-painted walls were now white, and the cheery floral-printed curtains had been replaced with stark black silk. Even the china was severe, thin porcelain cups and saucers patterned with a narrow border of acanthus leaves in silver around the rim.

  A newspaper lay open in her lap. The article that held her attention at the moment wasn’t front-page news. Just an editorial, bottom fold, about a set of sculptures in the British Museum.

  They’d been removed from their original home atop the Parthenon, in Athens. No. That sounded too gentle. They’d been prized out with chisels and pickaxes. Now they bore the name of the vandal who’d hacked them loose, Lord Elgin. The Elgin marbles, to be found in the British Museum’s Elgin Saloon.

  The article demanded that Britain return the sculptures to Greece. In the wake of a hard-won independence, the young country’s new king had set about collecting antiquities. A new Greece would rise on the foundation of its ancient glory.

  Collecting art, the article argued, was an act of nation building. By keeping the sculptures in London, Britain held Greece’s future hostage.

  “You spend too much time reading the paper, Lily,” said her father from across the table. He looked gray in the morning light, skin thin and papery over his fine bones.

  “I’d think you’d want me to be up-to-date with current affairs.”

  “In moderation,” he replied. “And with less fidgeting.”

  Lily folded the paper over her index fingers, so she could look him in the eye. “Shall I find a different occupation? I promise that whatever I choose will irritate you more than quiet reading.”

  “Don’t provoke me.”

  “Perhaps I should set up my own household,” mused Lily. “I had quite an inheritance settled on me, didn’t I?”

  “And how will you gain access to it? Dead women don’t inherit money.”

  Lily tossed the paper aside. She filled her lungs with air as a host of angry replies buzzed on her tongue, and then—miraculously—thought better of it. “I’m going out,” she said instead.

  Surprise kept her father silent long enough for Lily to collect her lady’s maid and call for the carriage.

  She tried to clear her mind as it trundled toward Bloomsbury, but rage fizzled in her blood and heated her cheeks. She was like the poor bloodied bull at a bullfight. Every poke from the toreros maddened her further, until she’d charge at the slightest flash of red.

  She had free will, didn’t she? She didn’t have to make the same mistake, over and over again. She could choose.

  Her father’s high-handedness infuriated her. Always had, always would. But she could keep her counsel. She didn’t have to rush along, barreling into problems, falling into traps.

  It couldn’t be so hard, to think ahead. Plenty of people did it every day. If she wanted her inheritance, she could be methodical about it. She’d start by consulting a solicitor instead of shouting at her father.

  She exited the carriage when it reached Montagu House. A large park fronted the museum, trimmed shrubbery ringing swaths of manicured lawn crisscrossed by gravel paths. A fountain spouted from a round, shallow pool by the street, creating around it a welcome oasis of cool, fresh air.

  She remembered her private garden in Acara with a sudden sharp pang. The little bathing pool with its lapis lazuli tiles. A square of lawn no bigger than a prayer rug. Potted roses that perfumed her bedroom on hot nights. Rustem on the thin pallet the servants unrolled every night to sleep on, reaching for her. And she’d reach back. She’d cling so close that their sweat mingled and she’d wake in the morning smelling of him.

  Lily shook herself, resettling her shawl around her shoulders. At this early hour, the museum was deserted. She passed a few visitors on the way to the Elgin Saloon, but when she arrived, she had the treasures of the Parthenon all to herself.

  Sunshine streamed through skylights into the long, narrow gallery. Lily paced the perimeter, following the frieze, before turning to the sculptures in the round.

  They’d been white once, but centuries of grit had smudged the marble gray. None of the statues from the pediment were whole. All but one of the figures had lost their heads. The tally of hands stood even lower, at zero.

  For all that, they took her breath away. The figures seemed frozen mid-motion, reaching, settling, embracing. So true to life she expected them to breathe, so perfect she knew they could not.

  She sat on a low wooden bench and folded her hands in her lap.

  The French were still looking for her.

  She ought to be angry at Ware, but she’d probably learned more from the exchange than he had. She’d traveled incognito all the way to England. Slept poorly, no matter how long the day, starting awake at every chance noise. But she had never been sure anyone cared enough to follow.

  She had underestimated the value of the pearl. Not just once, but over and over again.

  “My lady?” queried her maid. “It’s too quiet in here. If you don’t mind, I’ll wait for you by the entrance.”

  “Of course,” said Lily, watching the woman slip away.

  People had called Lord Elgin a thief and a robber. Many had protested when the government purchased the statues. Bad enough for Lord Elgin to behave dishonorably—but for England to sanction the crime? Shameful.

  And now a German ruled in Athens as king, and he thought that Greece, struggling and newly independent, could rise again. He’d begun by collecting art. As t
hough a few chunks of stone could make the difference between success and failure.

  How would her own actions compare? Was she a thief and a robber?

  Yes. Yes she was.

  But whose future did she hold hostage?

  “Lady Lily,” came a rich, steady voice from behind her. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

  Lily turned to find John Tacitus Ware standing at the entrance to the Saloon. He hovered in the doorway, tall and lithe, his black hair glossy with pomade. She didn’t know what to make of his expression—pleased but wary, hesitant and hungry at once.

  “Mr. Ware.” She smiled warmly and held out her hand.

  He advanced. Took the offered hand but paused before he made his bow. “Aren’t you angry with me?”

  “I still think I had the advantage at the end of the night, and I’d hate to be ungracious.” She patted the bench at her side, inviting him to sit. “Tell me. Was my information worth as much as you’d hoped?”

  “No.” He obeyed, laughing ruefully as he settled beside her. “It wasn’t.”

  Lily coated her voice with enough syrup to start a toothache. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  “Mockery? I’m not complaining, mind you. I’ve earned it.”

  “A bit of friendly ribbing.” She leaned away, so she could examine him better. He seemed different today. Grave, some of his swagger gone. “I think there must be something you want very badly.”

  His mobile mouth twisted, one corner turning down.

  “No?” she prompted.

  “I shouldn’t want it,” he admitted. “I know better.”

  “And yet…” Lily nodded. “I understand that quite well.”

  Twin divots appeared in his cheeks. Not dimples—more like score lines, signs of weariness or stress. “Lady Lily, why do people think so little of you?”

  “Do they?”

  “There are rumors…”

  She waited, but he didn’t volunteer any specifics. “And?”

  “I’m wondering if they’re true.”

  “Without knowing what you’ve heard, it’s difficult to correct you. But I’ll do my best. It’s very simple.” She leaned closer to him as she spoke, until she could smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating off of his body on her lips. He didn’t move, didn’t seem to react at all. Like an inert substance, solid stone, while she itched with uncontrollable energy.