“A spy?” Vespasia said. “Or I suppose an agent provocateur would be more correct. Poor Saville-set up to be betrayed again.” She drew in a very long, slow breath and let it out in a sigh. “How fragile we are.” She started to rise to her feet. “How infinitely easy to hurt.”

Charlotte stood up quickly and offered her arm.

“Thank you,” Vespasia said dryly. “I weep inside for the pain of a man I have liked, but I am perfectly capable of standing up on my own-and I have no blisters. Perhaps you would care for my arm… to assist you as far as my carriage? I should be happy to take you back to Keppel Street… if that is where you are going?”

Charlotte bit back her smile, at least half back. “That is very good of you,” she accepted, taking Vespasia’s arm but leaning no weight upon it. “Yes, I am going home. Perhaps you would care for a cup of tea when we get there?”

“Thank you, I should,” Vespasia accepted with barely a flicker of amusement in her gray eyes. “No doubt the excellent Gracie would make it for us, and at the same time tell me more about this missing valet?”

VESPASIA ENJOYED her tea. She insisted upon taking it in the kitchen, a room she never visited in her own house. When her cook had recovered from her astonishment, she would have been affronted. They met daily in Vespasia’s morning room, where the cook came to receive her instructions, and counter with her own suggestions, and in due course a compromise was reached. The cook did not come into the withdrawing room. Vespasia did not invade the kitchen. It was a mutually agreed arrangement.

But Charlotte’s kitchen was the heart of the family, where food was not only prepared but also eaten. Gas lamps reflected on the polished copper of pans, the smell of clean linen drifted from the airing rack winched up to the ceiling, and the wooden table and floor were pale from being scrubbed every day.

At first Gracie was quiet, in spite of all her good intentions to the contrary, overawed by the presence of real aristocracy in her kitchen, sitting at her table, as if she were just anyone. And of course even now, Vespasia was the most beautiful woman Gracie had ever seen, with her silver hair, hooded eyes, high fragile bones and porcelain skin.

But gradually Gracie’s passion in her cause had won, and she had told Vespasia exactly what she believed, and feared, and Vespasia had eventually left with as much information on the problem as Charlotte and Gracie had themselves.

That was why at a little after half past seven that evening Vespasia stood in the foyer of the Royal Opera House, the diamonds in her tiara blazing, the lavender smoke satin of her gown a column of stillness in the rattle and rustle of pinks and golds.

She regarded the crowd as it passed her, looking for the vaguely familiar figure of Ferdinand Garrick. It had taken her most of the afternoon to discern, with the utmost discretion, where he planned to be this evening, and then to cajole a friend who owed her a favor into parting with her own tickets for the event.

Lastly had come a call to Judge Theloneus Quade, inviting him to accompany her, a request she knew he would not refuse, which caused her a sharp pang of guilt. She knew his feelings for her, and since the return of Mario Corena, honor had compelled that she did not mislead anyone, nor seem to use someone else’s affections of which she was more than aware. Also the depth of that fierce love of her most vital years had come back with a tenderness now, a reality that dimmed all other possibilities, and she was not yet ready even to try to let it go. Mario was dead, but what she felt was woven into her inner self forever.

But it was the peril to Martin Garvie that must occupy her attention now, and she did believe it was real. She had not allowed Gracie, or even Charlotte, to see how much it concerned her. She knew a little of Ferdinand Garrick, and she did not care for him. She could not have explained why, it was instinctive, but because there were no conscious reasons for it, it was also impossible to argue it away.

Of course she had confided in Theloneus, not only because she owed him at the very least an explanation for such unseemly haste in attending an opera she knew he liked no better than she did, but also because she valued both his friendship and his discretion too much not to avail herself of his assistance in a cause which might prove far from easy.

She saw Garrick at the same moment that Theloneus did.

“Forward?” he said gently; it was only half a question.

“I’m afraid so,” she replied, and taking his arm she started to urge her way through the crowd.

However, by the time they reached Garrick he was very obviously engaged in a conversation with an extremely conservative bishop for whom Vespasia could not even pretend to have a warmth of regard. Three times she drew breath to enter the conversation, and then found the comment dead on her tongue. There were degrees of hypocrisy she could not achieve, even in the best of causes. She felt rather than saw Theloneus’s amusement beside her.

“There will be two intervals,” he said in little above a whisper as Garrick and the bishop moved away and it was time to take their own seats.

The opera was a baroque masterpiece full of subtlety and light, but it had not the familiar melodies, the passion and lyricism of the Verdi she loved. She occupied her mind with plans for the first interval. She could not afford to wait until the second, in case some mischance should make visiting Garrick impossible. He might become involved in an encounter she could not decently join. Some degree of subtlety was required. He was no fonder of her than she of him.

When the curtain came down to enthusiastic applause she was on her feet as if risen spontaneously.

“I didn’t know you liked it so much,” Theloneus said in surprise. “You didn’t look as if you did.”

“I don’t,” she replied, disconcerted that he had been watching her and not the stage; in honesty she had nearly forgotten how deep his feeling was for her. “I wish to visit Garrick before he leaves his box,” she explained. “And preferably before someone else dominates any discussion.”

“If the bishop is there, I shall engage him in persuading me into one of his opinions,” Theloneus offered with a wry smile, his eyes soft with laughter. He was aware of the sacrifice he was making, and that she was also.

“‘Greater love hath no man,’” she murmured. “I shall be in your debt.”

“You will,” he agreed fervently.

And his intervention proved necessary. Vespasia almost collided with the bishop outside Garrick’s box.

“Good evening, Your Grace,” she said with a freezing smile. “How pleasant to see you able to find an opera whose story does not offend your morals.”

Since the tale in question was one of incest and murder, the observation was of the utmost sarcasm, and she regretted it the minute it was past her lips, even before she heard Theloneus choke off laughter and turn it into a cough, and saw the bishop’s face turn a dull shade of purple.

“Good evening, Lady Vespasia,” he replied coldly. “It is Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould, is it not?” He knew perfectly well who she was, everyone did. It was intended as an insult.

She smiled charmingly at him, a look that in her prime had dazzled princes.

“It is,” she replied. “May I introduce you to Mr. Justice Quade?” She waved her hand delicately. “The Bishop of Putney, I believe, or some such place, renowned for his upholding of Christian virtues, most particularly purity of mind.”

“Indeed,” Theloneus murmured. “How do you do.” An expression of great interest filled his ascetic face, his blue eyes mild and bright. “How fortunate for me to have encountered you. I should dearly like your opinion, as an informed and, of course, enlightened source, on the choice of story for this very lovely music. Is watching such fearful behavior instructive, in that evil is punished in the end? Or do you fear that the beauty with which it is presented may corrupt the senses before the better judgment can perceive the moral behind it?”