A murmur of interest rippled through the pub-lick room. Mr. Whitpeace’s eyes narrowed.

“And did your partner satisfy the Princess’s needs?”

“He was loath to do so. Mr. Tilson is a most circumspect man. He lends money only when he is certain of securing its repayment.”

“—He regarded the Princess as uncertain, then?”

“You may say so, if you like,” my brother cautiously replied. “He placed the matter in my hands for determination.”

“And what did you then, Mr. Austen?”

“I sent round my card to Hans Place, and was summoned to wait upon the Princess on the morning of Friday, the nineteenth of April. — I did not like to ask a lady to condescend to my place of business in Henrietta Street.”

“Quite. How did the Princess seem to you?”

“Having no knowledge of her person or character prior to our meeting,” my brother said, “I may only speak to the lady’s manner that particular hour. She was greatly agitated, naturally — and seemed a prey to the worst kind of anxiety. She confessed to a considerable embarrassment of circumstances. I collect that the lady has — had — a taste for deep play. She disclosed that her debts were most pressing — and that she required a loan, of some seven thousand pounds, to satisfy her creditors.”

“Seven thousand pounds!” exclaimed Mr. Whitpeace. “And did you make over such a sum?”

“I did not,” Henry answered. “I could not immediately command so much, and was obliged to disappoint the lady. I offered her half the amount, but she told me flatly that nothing less than the full sum would do. I may say that my refusal appeared to appall her.”

“Indeed?”

“Her countenance lost all colour, but she stopped me when I would have summoned her maid. I clearly recall her words as I took my leave: Then all hope is ended. I shall have to steel myself to it.”

“Have you an idea of what she meant, Mr. Austen?”

“When I heard of her death … ” Henry paused. “I will say that I have carried a most terrible weight of responsibility. I feel myself to be culpable.”

“—Believing that your failure to relieve her debts drove her to self-murder?”

Henry offered no reply but an inclination of the head.

Eliza’s own dear apothecary and surgeon, Mr. Haden, was then called to say that the Princess had sought his help on several occasions, owing to sleeplessness and general agitation of nerves; that he had given laudanum in the case, and advised rest; and that upon viewing the body once it was returned to Hans Place Tuesday morning, he had found the arteries of the neck raggedly severed — as befit a halfhearted attempt to cut oneself with a broken bit of porcelain. He judged this consistent with self-murder. A determined killer should have employed a more potent weapon, and succeeded at the first blow, he avowed.

This final testimony all but sealed the panel’s conclusion. The foreman, Samuel Hays, looked the sort of man to consider any woman — particularly a Russian princess — subject to fits of dejection and hystericks; I did not doubt he should persuade his men to a swift judgement of self-murder.

And so it proved: the panel quitted the publick room for an interval of perhaps twenty minutes, during which time they were happily supplied with ale; and returned forthwith to state what was expected. The foreign woman had killed herself. The question only remained of where and how she should be interred.

Lord Castlereagh did not stay to receive the well-wishes of the exquisites who had assembled to observe his martyrdom; neither did he offer George Canning the slightest notice. He strode from the room with an expression of injured fury on his countenance, and I had an idea of the targets at Manton’s being riddled with balls at a later hour in the day.

“There is old d’Entraigues,” Henry observed as we submitted to the crush surging about the door. “What interest can bring him here?”

“A secret he refuses to tell, no doubt.” I glanced at my brother. “You are very sly, Henry. You have been labouring under strong emotion ever since Tuesday morning, and have sought no one’s comfort. I shall never call your soul transparent again!”

“I am relieved to be done with the business,” he admitted. “Guilt is an ugly master, Jane.”

“But who now suffers under its whip, Henry?”

He frowned at me, the turbulent room suddenly receding. “What do you mean?”

“The business is hardly concluded — no matter what Mr. Whitpeace says. Where was Castlereagh that night, and why does he refuse to be explicit?”

“Because he is a gentleman,” Henry said reasonably, “and can have no cause to satisfy the curiosity of the vulgar.”

“The same compunction may be said to seal the lips of Mr. Charles Malverley — whom I cannot credit with answering correspondence at the dead of night, in evening dress! There is a want of openness there that must perplex the interested observer.”

“Only when the observer believes the very worst of all mankind,” my brother retorted. “Malverley seemed a frank and pleasant enough young fellow to me.”

“Who owned the carriage pulled up in the mews of No. 43, Berkeley Square — and did the pair within, or their coachman, observe any violence in the street beyond?”

“You shall never learn the answer to that, my dear. From the description of the watchman, that pair were in no case to observe anything — and should never admit to their presence in such a circumstance, at any hour!”

“Where was Princess Tscholikova between the hours of midnight — when she left her card with Castlereagh’s porter — and five o’clock in the morning, when her body was discovered at his door?”

“Wandering the streets of London alone, steeling herself to it.” Henry’s tone bordered on contempt.

“Did she then dismiss her equipage at quitting Castlereagh’s house, and proceed on foot? She certainly did not return to Hans Place — or Druschka would have informed the panel.”

“That is singular,” Henry agreed, his brows knit, “for she was discovered in evening dress. It seems a most unusual costume for a lady to employ in walking.”

“And most singular of all: Why did the Princess carry the lid of a porcelain box about for some five hours prior to her death?”

“So that she might cut her throat with the fragments, Jane!” my brother retorted impatiently.

“Good God! She might as well have employed a knife! Are you so blind, Henry?”

“I simply chuse to be satisfied with what all the world accepts,” he said. “You cannot seriously mean to question Bow Street — magistrate, coroner, and all.”

The faces of Bill Skroggs and Clem Black leered at me in memory. It was possible that a verdict of self-murder should satisfy Lord Castlereagh — and that he would call off his hired dogs; but a something in his lordship’s aspect taught me otherwise. He would regard himself as slandered, and Castlereagh was not the sort of man to rest under such an indignity.

But I said nothing of all this to Henry. I, too, may play the dark horse when I chuse.