I resisted the urge to snort. Count Salviati looked like the sort ofman who might enjoy a flutter or two, but less likely gamblers than Stoker, Merry, Timothy Gresham, and Sir James were hard to imagine.
“How very concerning,” I replied.
He fixed me with a piercing look. “Yes, it is. So concerning, in fact, that I was wakeful long after I retired. I thought I heard voices coming from your room, Veronica. Is there anything you would like to share withme?”
I widened my eyes. “Why, no, Tiberius. Nothing at all.”
•••
With the thrill of the hunt rising in my blood, I hurried to begin my surveillance of the houseguests. A brisk walk of a few minutes’ duration brought me to the top of the hill crowned with the folly shaped like a pineapple. Inside, a narrow staircase spiraled up into the crown, providing a perfect crow’s nest at the top. From that vantage point, I could—with the aid of a spyglass taken from my lepidoptery kit—ascertain the whereabouts of Tiberius’ guests. They had divided up, I soon discovered. Sir James and the count were ambling gently towards the coast path, seemingly relaxed in their attitudes. The count was swinging a walking stick, using it to rustle the tall grasses on either side of the path, while Sir James told a story, sketching broad gestures with his hands. Whatever their reactions had been to Tiberius’ revelations about the threats against him, they were clearly unconcerned.
From this amiable duo, I swivelled the spyglass, finding a lone figure dressed in elegant white making its way to the bower of the rose alley. It was Beatrice, her face shielded by a wide hat tied with a soft blue ribbon. She settled herself comfortably in the shade of the bower before drawing a book from her pocket. If she was distressed about the quarrel with her lord and master the previous night, she showed no sign of it. The brilliant sunshine, the glittering sea, the rosebushesheavy with blossom and fragrance—all seemed to conspire to bring out the holiday spirits of the houseguests.
Still, the web of intrigue had given me plenty of threads to pluck, and I meant to question them all. I decided to begin with the countess.
I tucked the spyglass away and descended, taking up my butterfly net from where I had left it at the bottom of the stairs. There is no more useful tool than a butterfly net for lending purpose to one’s presence out of doors. No matter the country, no matter the season, the pretence of lepidoptery is a perfect ruse. I slowed my steps to a casual amble as I approached Beatrice, hoping to give the impression I had come upon her by happenstance.
At the sound of my footsteps, she looked up, letting the book in her hand fall closed. It was a slender volume, bound in blue kid and stamped with a tiny gilded bee that shone dully. The edges of the pages were heavily foxed and the cover was spotted with mould. Poetry, no doubt, or a popular novel, and a much-loved one judging from the condition. Beatrice was an engaging person, but she did not strike me as the sort of woman who would wrestle with Aristotelian philosophy on a glorious summer’s morn.
“Veronica!” she said, greeting me with real warmth. “How have you been spending this lovely day?”
I held up my net. “A-hunting I shall go.”
“In this weather! You are a lady of unusual vigour, Veronica. I envy your stamina,” she said, her smile only lightly tinged with something more. Envy? Wistfulness? It seemed wrong that so young and lovely a creature could suffer from serious ailment, but I recalled how quickly she had faltered the previous evening, and how sober Timothy Gresham’s expression had been after he had examined her.
I decided to approach the matter obliquely. “I am happy to see you looking so much better than last evening. I hope you are feeling recovered?”
“Recovered is not possible,” she said simply. She paused, as if making up her mind, then forged on, stating the facts quite plainly and without undue emotion. “I am afraid my heart is not sound, Veronica. I was given the news shortly after I came out into society. All those balls and dances! I used to faint so often, my poor aunt used to carry feathers to burn under my nose to every party. When it finally occurred to her that I wasn’t trying to be genteel, she took me to the best doctors in New York. Cardiac troubles, they said. And they prescribed rest, lots and lots of rest. So I spent the next year in a place called Vermont, reading and admiring the views.”
“It sounds lovely,” I offered.
“It was dull beyond belief,” she confided. “But it did seem to help. The doctors finally said I could return to the city and take up some sort of social life again.” She paused. “You know, during that time away, I had the chance to think, quite deeply. And I decided it wouldn’t be fair to marry—to my husband, I mean. I made up my mind that I would remain a spinster.”
“What happened?” I enquired.
Her smile was wry. “Pietro. How can a girl from Manhattan possibly resist a European gentleman with that profile who can make love in three languages? I discouraged every suitor who tried, and yet I was powerless against Pietro. I tried to talk him out of it—the first time he proposed, I mean. I explained about my heart. That I wouldn’t make old bones and shouldn’t have children. But he said he would rather have a year with me alone than a lifetime with anyone else and her houseful of children. Isn’t that the most romantic thing you’ve ever heard?”
Stoker’s declarations were so eloquent as to be unmatchable, but I would not argue the point. “Terribly romantic,” I murmured encouragingly.
“Anyway, I found I couldn’t resist him in the end. I married him,against everyone’s good advice, and we have been blissfully happy,” she finished with a contented sigh.
Some flicker of doubt must have kindled in my expression, for she laughed suddenly. “You heard our quarrel last night, didn’t you? I told Pietro we should have been more discreet.”
“I heard only raised voices,” I said, pausing for effect. “And then a word. ‘Morto.’ ”
She laughed again. “My poor Pietro! He worries constantly that I will overtax myself. He began by lecturing me very sternly on allowing myself to be too excitable. He said I had had too much stimulation with the travel and meeting new people, and I should be more restful or I should find myself dead.” She rolled her eyes. “The Italianate temperament is so emotional! I wonder how they ever managed to conquer the world under the Caesars.”
Her tone was light but she was watching me closely, as if trying to decide if I believed her explanation for the raised voices. I smiled blandly.
“I am so glad to know that is all it was.”
Before she could form a suitable reply, Augusta appeared. Like Beatrice, she had protected her pale skin from the sun, but she had chosen a pretty Chinese parasol instead of a wide-brimmed hat. She wore a light gown of biscuit silk and gave a sigh as she fanned herself with a hand. Tiny pearls of perspiration beaded her hairline.
“A spectacular day but a trifle hot after Scotland,” she proclaimed as she joined us. Her eyes fell on Beatrice’s book and she paused. “My dear, do not tell me you are wasting this glorious weather on reading! Or are you still suffering a malaise from last evening’s turn?”
Beatrice gave her a gentle smile. “I am quite recovered, thank you. Today is one of my better days, although I promised Pietro I wouldn’t exert myself.”
“What are you reading?” Augusta enquired, peering at the book.“Have you found something scandalous in Tiberius’ library? I confess, I looked for a novel and was mightily disappointed in how little light reading was to be found. Has ever there been so much Suetonius in one collection!”
