Amelia was struck with a sudden pity for a young girl growing up in what must be a terribly confusing situation, no father, and a mother who claimed to be her aunt. But she didn’t have the opportunity to speak. Margaret was going on.

“Oh, she’s a terror, that one,” she said darkly. “She murdered ’er poor ’usband, too. ’Ad ’im pushed under the Irish Mail at Chester Station, she did. All because ’e wouldn’t give ’er a divorce.”

At this sensational revelation, Amelia was moved from pity to something like horror. She drew in her breath. “But I thought she got a divorce. In America, it was. Leastwise, that’s what I read in the newspaper.”

Margaret made an impatient noise. “That’s America, ye silly goose. An American divorce ain’t worth the paper it’s writ on ’ere. If Mr. Langtry wouldn’t give ’is wife a proper English divorce, she couldn’t marry an Englishman, now, could she? And that would spoil ’er scheme to marry Lord de Bathe, or wotever lord she ’appens to fancy.”

“Oh, my,” Amelia said helplessly. Perhaps she shouldn’t tell any of this to Lady Charles, because it was not the sort of thing her ladyship could write in her article. On the other hand, Lady Charles had said quite explicitly that she wanted to understand Mrs. Langtry’s true nature, and-

From downstairs, the sound of a slammed door reverberated in the silence, followed by the crash of falling china. Margaret gathered her skirts.

“That’s enough talk fer now,” she said. “We’d best get to work.” Nervously, she eyed Amelia. “You won’t tell wot I said, will ye?”

Amelia gave her a warm smile and a pat on the arm. “Tell? ’Oo would I tell? We’re friends, and yer secret is safe with me.” She made a little sign over her right breast. “Cross my ’eart.”

Back in her suite after another tour of the garden, Kate glanced at the ormolu clock on the mantle and saw that it was nearly four. Amelia came in just then to say that her bath was ready.

“There’s oceans of ’ot water, m’lady,” she said appreciatively, her arms full of fluffy towels. “And nobody ’ad to carry it up the stairs, neither. It’s all owin’ to that little gas ’eater beside the bathtub.”

“I shall have to mention it to his lordship,” Kate said, following Amelia into the bathroom and beginning to undress. Charles was always doing something to modernize Bishop’s Keep, but the kitchen and laundry were the only rooms with hot water heaters. Kate stripped off her chemise and underthings and stepped into the steaming water with a grateful sigh. No matter that the heater was hissing loudly, or that there was a distinct odor of gas in the room.

She leaned back in the tub and closed her eyes. “And what have you been doing with yourself this afternoon, Amelia?” she asked, after a moment’s relaxation in the soothing water.

There was a rustle of skirts. “Shall I tell you now, m’lady,” Amelia asked, “or would you rather wait until after your bath?”

Kate opened her eyes. Amelia’s face wore an expression of excitement and disapproval, oddly mixed.

“Tell me now,” Kate replied, thinking there might be something interesting to hear. She wasn’t disappointed.

“My goodness,” she said, when Amelia had finished her lengthy recital. “Mrs. Langtry’s maid told you all of that?”

“Margaret’s a bit free with ’er tongue,” Amelia said, with a disapproving shake of her head that suggested that she would never tell tales out of school. “Anyway, she isn’t really Mrs. Langtry’s maid, only temp’rary. She’s the upstairs maid, which is a diff’rent thing altogether.”

Kate nodded, understanding the distinction in rank and importance-and in loyalty. “Thank you for letting me know what you’ve heard,” she said.

“Well, I don’t s’pose it’s the kind of thing you can write in your piece fer The Strand,” Amelia replied doubtfully. “And some of it might not be true. You know ’ow servants love to talk.” She gathered up her mistress’s clothes. “But where there’s smoke there’s usually fire, I allus say.” And with that sage remark, she left the room, closing the door behind her.

Kate soaped a sponge with the lavender soap that lay in a crystal dish beside the tub, thinking about Amelia’s report. She was not troubled by the morality of Lillie’s relationship with the Prince or even that she had borne a child by him. If one spent one’s time and energy passing moral judgments on members of the Marlborough Set, there would be little left for more creative or productive pursuits! It was widely known that the Prince could never bring himself to finally put out the flame of a royal romance, and if there were a daughter (even one passed off as Lillie’s niece), the actress might have her own reasons for keeping the embers burning. And Kate couldn’t judge Lillie harshly for attempting to run her household on nothing, when most of the gentry were doing exactly the same thing.

No, what concerned Kate was Margaret’s more troubling allegation-that her employer had been involved in the murder of her husband. Kate would have dismissed this charge as the wild talk of a malicious servant if she hadn’t overheard a reference to the same deed in the bitter exchange between Lillie and her male visitor that afternoon. Was it possible that the charge was true? Was the world-famous actress the kind of woman who could consent to the murder of a troublesome husband who refused to give his wife a British divorce?

But the moment Kate framed the question, she instinctively felt she knew the answer. While she could not say whether the charge was true or false, she knew it was possible that Lillie had done this thing, and it was this possibility that was beginning to intrigue her. The more she understood about the woman, the more she realized that her acting career might not be limited to her appearances on the stage. Every moment of her life might be a performance, every gesture carefully theatrical, every encounter a dramatic scene-all of it counterfeit, none of it real. In one of her real-life dramas, Lillie might well have played the role of an accomplice to murder, with as little thought to the real-life consequences as she would have given to roles she played on stage. Perhaps she had imagined a reality in which this action was absolutely essential to her life and well-being, and therefore justified. Perhaps she had performed for so long, for so many different admiring audiences, that she had lost all sense of what was true and real.

But while this was an intriguing idea, especially for Beryl Bardwell’s novelistic interests, Kate told herself that surely she must be wrong. Surely no one could be onstage every moment. There had to be a real person behind the scenes, some core that was fundamentally and essentially Lillie-not the actress, not the courtesan, but the woman. What was it? Where was it? In what corner of Lillie’s life was there one true thing? If Kate could find that reality, that truth, it would be worth writing about!

Kate’s thoughts were interrupted by a polite knock at the outer door of the suite. Amelia went to answer it and returned in a moment with an envelope on a silver tray. “A message for you, m’lady. The footman brought it up.”

Kate dropped the soapy sponge into the water and reached for a towel. “For me? Open it, Amelia.”

Amelia opened the envelope, took out a folded sheet of paper, and handed it to her mistress. The note was from Charles. There were only three short sentences, but they made Kate forget all that she had been pondering:

I’ve located Patrick, my dear, well and happy, or as happy as boys may be who must work for their living. I’ll send a cab for you at ten this evening. If you can get away, you shall see him for yourself.