“You interest me exceedingly, Miss Austen. I had not observed Mr. Conyngham at the Earl’s entrance.”

“Naturally not. Your gaze was fixed upon the lady.”

Lord Harold seemed about to speak; hesitated; and fell back upon the gesture of snapping at the reins.

So he did not contemplate Maria Conyngham with tranquillity. To my extreme surprise and displeasure, the slightest finger of jealousy stirred along my spine.

“I profited from the moment to enquire whether Hugh Conyngham had observed any to enter the ante — room in the midst of his speech, and from his dreadful reaction, I may assume that he did so — but finer arts than mine must be deployed, before he leaves off denial. But tell me, I beg, of the manager’s office — how went your researches there?”

“It was as I assumed,” Lord Harold replied with satisfaction. “The magistrate has no more considered of its existence than he has been to the moon. I cannot claim to have been the first to venture within its walls — but I may congratulate myself upon having carried with me those little props so requisite to the occasion.”

“I do not understand you, my lord.”

“I would guess that some part of the theatre’s company has already sorted out Mr. Portal’s personal belongings. It should be astonishing, indeed, did they not give way to the temptation. Some few have been at the cash box, which bears the marks of decided ingenuity about its locks, unhappily to little purpose — it is a fearsome thing, and quite impregnable — while others have tumbled his books and what papers he left to hand. I wanted leisure for a thorough perusal of the damage, and leisure I did not have; and so I bent my efforts to an assault upon Mr. Portal’s cunning little desk.”

“His desk! But had not others been there before you?”

“Possibly they had. But I alone possess the means to open it.”

Lord Harold thrust the reins into his left hand, and with his right, fumbled in the pocket of his greatcoat. A slim iron ring was deposited in my lap.

“A quantity of picks, my dear Miss Austen,” he said exultantly. “One should never travel without them. Occasions invariably arise in which this single device will prove as gold. As it has certainly done this evening.”

“Your resources must astonish me, my lord,” I replied with conscious irony. “Is any claim of privacy impervious to your seeking mind?”

“Where it springs from virtue, perhaps,” he conceded. “But I would counsel you never to attempt a conscious deceit, my dear Miss Austen — for from my confederates I demand the most ardent truth.”

Something in his tone — a harsher tenor than I had experienced of late — brought my gaze to his face. In the faint glow of a moon beset with clouds, the narrow features were utterly unreadable, as fixed as a mask of death.

“And so you opened the desk?”

“It bore an admirable lock — French, I should think — and required no less than five attempts with my picks; but in the end, it surrendered to my hand.”

“Then make haste to share your discovery, my lord! We are nearly come to Green Park Buildings!”

Lord Harold permitted himself a snort of amusement — for, in truth, we had barely achieved Cheap Street, with the lights of the White Hart aglow around us. “I was so fortunate as to find a packet, Miss Austen, bound up with ribbon and innocent to the naked eye. A swift perusal of its contents, however, revealed it to contain copies of Mr. Portal’s correspondence. I had only moments to shift the papers, but saw any number addressed to at least one gentleman among our acquaintance.”

“Do not keep me in suspense, I beg.”

“The Earl of Swithin.”

“—whom we know to be most anxious on the subject of letters. And what was the nature of Mr. Portal’s discourse?”

“I cannot undertake to say, without a more concerted study of the documents. I may presume, however, from the tenor of Portal’s words, that they present one overriding aim — the extortion of funds in return for silence.”

“A blackmailer, as you supposed.”

“Could you doubt it would be otherwise?”

“But how despicable!”

“Say commonplace, rather, and I shall be entirely in agreement.”

“Then we have found our man!” I declared with sudden hope. “It is the Earl who must have schemed for Portal’s death — and now labours under the most acute anxiety, for fear of the letters’ discovery! This, then, is the meaning of his injunction to Hugh Conyngham, overheard by myself in the Pump Room yesterday.”

“Not so hasty, if you please, my dear,” Lord Harold cautioned. “There were others consigned to infamy among the packet’s pages. My nephew, Lord Kinsfell, is one.”

“But what possible ill could Mr. Portal have known of your nephew?” I cried — and too late bit back the incautious words. “Forgive me, Lord Harold. The Marquis’s affairs can form no concern of mine.”

In the darkness beside me, he inclined his silver head. “I greatly fear, however, that they must command all my attention. If Simon has sadly involved himself, I shall never be easy until I comprehend the whole. But perhaps he has considered of his silence, and I shall learn something to advantage before the inquest tomorrow.”

I lapsed into silence, in contemplation of inquests, and of the rakish Mr. Portal; his cheerful air, his fondness for wine, his general conviviality. That such hearty good looks might disguise an extortionate heart! It was gravely troubling, and confirmed my general observation of mankind — that they who appear too plausible by half, are generally consumed with iniquity.

“The packet of letters might be deemed treasure enough, but I was so fortunate as to locate another item of interest,” Lord Harold continued, with a glance in my direction. He eased the curricle around the corner of Charles Street into Seymour, and I espied the bulk of Green Park Buildings looming to the fore. “A small, leather-bound volume, which a hasty survey suggests is Mr. Portal’s account book.”

“In which he records the fruits of his correspondence, no doubt.”

“I have learned to hope for it — yes.”

“And you bore all away?”

Lord Harold patted the breast of his greatcoat. “I did. The better part of the small hours shall be spent deep in the manager’s accounts.” He slowed the team to a walk, and drew up before my door.

“I could wish, sir, that your activity might profit you more than the unfortunate manager,” I said lightly, as I gave him my hand. He eased me down from the curricle’s step, his aspect suddenly grave.

“Wish me more of courage, Miss Austen. I dread what I may find. For once we risk Pandora’s box, we cannot shut it up again.”

Friday,

14 December 1804

I SPENT THE FIRST PART OF THIS MORNING — THE MORNING of Lord Kinsfell’s inquest — in composing my account of last evening at the Theatre Royal, and inscribing it here in my little book. I had determined, however, to spend a few hours after breakfast in the society of my sister Cassandra, embroidering a flannel waistcoat that should serve as my father’s Christmas gift. I am a decided proficient in the satin stitch, and may offer my work to the most discerning without hesitation or blush; and though I detest flannel in general, the damps of Bath in January are so penetrating — and the Reverend’s health so very indifferent — that no other cloth would do. And so I took up my workbasket and sought my dear sister in the little dressing-room that adjoins our bedchambers.

Cassandra’s head was bent over a muslin cap of her own design, intended for my mother.

“So you did not think well of Lovers’ Vows,” my sister enquired, “though the Conynghams were quite in form last evening?”