# Prince Of Secrets

Paula Marshall

What was he keeping from her?Cobie Grant made a quixotic marriage to save Lady Dinah Freville from her unkind relatives. Now he thinks he can enjoy the benefits of married life without involving his feelings. But somehow he's finding it harder and harder to hold Dinah at arm's length–especially since she has become a beautiful, assured woman.Dinah, loving Cobie deeply, fully intends to do whatever is necessary to win his love. A task made even more difficult when she discovers he is leading a secret life…

## He had a strong desire to be with his wife.

Not to make love to her, not to talk to her, but to enjoy her stillness. Cobie went looking for her in the grounds.

He found her at last, seated in the shadow of a stand of cedars, quite alone. Dinah was half dozing over a book.

Cobie stood and watched her for a few moments. Her face was tranquil, but something told him she was dreaming. He bent forward to kiss her gently on the cheek. He was beginning to worry even more about his feelings for her. They were like nothing he had ever experienced before.

Dear Reader

What’s more natural for the grandson of Tom Dilhorne, the founder of the Dilhorne Dynasty, than to come to London, then the rich hub of the largest Empire the world had yet seen, and find excitement there? So Cobie Grant, freebooter and financial pirate, becomes the latest rich American to take his place in London society, where he meets Lady Dinah Freville. This brings about an adventure which started in THE DOLLAR PRINCE’S WIFE and reaches its climax in THE PRINCE OF SECRETS, each of which is a complete story in its own right.

I trust you’ll enjoy Cobie Grant’s adventures, and his marriage into a noble family, secure in the knowledge that his exploits have a strong foundation in fact. I hope they entertain you.

Paula Marshall

## Prince of Secrets. Paula Marshall


www.millsandboon.co.uk

Paula Marshall, married with three children,

has had a varied life. She began her career in a large

library, and ended it as a senior academic in charge of

History in a polytechnic. She has traveled widely and has

been a swimming coach. She has always wanted to write,

and likes her novels to be full of adventure and humor.

## Contents

Introductory Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

## Introductory Prologue

‘Appearances often deceive.’ Cobie Grant

T he young, handsome, and clever American financier, Cobie Grant, arrives in London high society in early 1892. Because of his immense wealth he is nicknamed The Dollar Prince. Haunted by his own secret illegitimacy, he tries to protect the helpless. By chance he saves two young girls from misery and ruin. The first, the aristocratic Lady Dinah Freville, ill-treated by her family, he tricks into marriage. He tells her that he cannot love her but will look after her. In doing so, he transforms her from an ugly duckling into a swan. From fearing him, she comes to love him, particularly after he initiates her into passion.

The second, Lizzie Steele, is a little girl who has been sold to a nighthouse and he secretly rescues her before she can be sexually abused by Sir Ratcliffe Heneage, an apparently respectable MP and Cabinet Minister. With the help of the Salvation Army, Cobie places her into a home he funds for other similar waifs and strays. He also pursues Sir Ratcliffe in order to see him punished for his wickedness. Using a false name, he bribes the police to raid the nighthouse. They arrest the madame and her accomplices, but Sir Ratcliffe and his sidekick, Hoskyns, have been privately warned to stay away that night.

However, Cobie continues to watch and pursue Sir Ratcliffe and, in doing so, he is himself pursued by the honest Inspector Walker, who (wrongly) suspects him and his motives, particularly when he thinks that he has discovered that Cobie, as a young man, had a criminal past as a gunman in the American West.

Meanwhile, Sir Ratcliffe, through Hoskyns, has Lizzie Steele traced and kidnapped, after which he abuses and kills her. In turn, Cobie tracks down and disposes of Hoskyns, setting fire to the house which he was running—but is still unable to implicate Sir Ratcliffe who remains at large and whom he meets in society. In his crusade he has the help of his friend from his Western adventures, Hendrick Van Deusen. Like Cobie, he is now outwardly respectable, and both are active participants in the social scene around the Prince of Wales.

Dinah has become the season’s latest success. She is unaware of her husband’s secret life, but, being a clever girl, is suspicious that there is more to him than meets the eye. She has embarked on a campaign to persuade him to love her as passionately as she loves him. Indirectly, she helps him to evade the police at the time of Hoskyns’s death and the fire. Cobie, who has always previously refused to involve himself emotionally with anyone—even his parents—has already begun to feel the pull of her many attractions, and is trying to resist them.

This part of their story ends with them having become the favourites of the Prince of Wales and they are about to visit Sandringham, his Norfolk home—together with Sir Ratcliffe, who is still at large and is beginning to suspect that Cobie is after him. Will Cobie corner him? Will Inspector Walker corner Cobie first? Will Dinah’s campaign succeed? Now read on…

## Chapter One

August 1892, Sandringham

A fterwards, Lady Dinah Grant was to think—no, to be sure—that all of the events of that eventful autumn and winter were set in motion during the week that she and her husband, Cobie, spent at the Prince of Wales’s Norfolk home of Sandringham. After that, nothing was ever going to be the same.

At the time, though, they—or perhaps it might be more true to say that only of herself rather than of Cobie—were simply under the impression that they were going to take part in an ordinary country-house party. If, of course, any house party at the home of a member of the Royal Family could ever be called ordinary!

‘We are going there to enjoy ourselves,’ Cobie told her in the train on their way there.

‘Really?’ said Dinah, in her best teasing mode. ‘Really, Cobie, just to enjoy ourselves? From all that I have experienced so far, pleasure seems to be something one has to work at. It could scarcely have been more difficult to have gone to Oxford and studied under my father than to survive the London Season successfully!’

‘True,’ he conceded. ‘But better to succeed than to fail, do admit.’

‘Oh,’ she told him airily, in exactly the manner in which he usually spoke to her, ‘I certainly intend to succeed—for your sake, if for no one else’s. It would hardly do for our marriage to be seen as a failure since you went to such pains to get me to the altar.’

This sly reference to the way in which he had tricked her half-brother, Rainey, into allowing him to marry her, amused, rather than annoyed, her husband. It was proof, if proof were needed, of how far she had travelled since she had married him. The shy, defeated child he had rescued no longer existed. Instead he was the husband of a charming young woman with a delicate wit, which she exercised on him as well as others.

He might have been proud of his handiwork in transforming her, if he didn’t also think that a lot of the credit was due to her own sterling character.

‘I noticed that Giles packed your guitar,’ she said, looking at him over her cup of tea—they were travelling in luxury in the special coach provided by the Prince for his guests. ‘Was that done for me—or for HRH?’

‘Both,’ said Cobie, giving her his best smile. ‘Someone apparently told the Prince that I am a reasonably proficient player on it, so I am to give a Royal Command performance—whenever, or if, he cares to command, that is. I gather from Beauchamp, who was the go-between in all the arrangements for this visit, that the Prince does not like to see any of his guests being idle. If they are, he thinks up occupations for them.’

‘Well, I dare say he won’t need to do that for you, Cobie. A less idle man I have never seen. Rainey told me recently that your industry made him feel quite faint.’

‘Oh,’ said Cobie, giving his wife his best grin, ‘anyone’s industry would make Rainey feel faint.’ He had no illusions about his brother-in-law, even if Rainey had been trying to live a more sensible life since the setting up of the Trust to run what had been his estate before he lost it to Cobie at cards.

Dinah nodded amused agreement to this, settled back in her seat and decided to admire her husband rather than the scenery which seemed to grow flatter with each succeeding mile.

He was eminently worth admiring. His nickname in society was Apollo, and he certainly lived up to it. From the crown of his golden head to the tips of his well-polished shoes he was the model of a Greek god come down to earth, dressed in everything which the taste of the times dictated for a man who wished to be seen as a leading member of London society in the 1890s.

Like his looks, his athleticism was extraordinary—but not to Dinah, who had had the privilege of seeing him naked, and therefore of learning that he was a double of the nude Greek heroes whose statues filled the sculpture galleries of the British Museum.

Violet, Dinah’s half-sister, once her tormentor but now her grudging admirer, was seated opposite to her. Her husband, Lord Kenilworth, had wandered up the coach to take his tea with Rainey, whose first visit this was. She was remarking acidly, ‘I heard that Cobie’s hanger-on, Mr Van Deusen, is also a guest—he doesn’t seem to be on this train.’

‘No,’ said Cobie, ignoring Violet’s slighting comment on his friend. ‘I understand that he had some urgent business to take care of today and will be arriving after tea.’

‘Hmm!’ said Violet: a remark which Dinah thought could mean anything—or nothing.

Cobie smiled to himself and wondered what Violet would think if she knew the truth about his friendship with Hendrick Van Deusen: that, ten years ago, under other names, they had been outlaws and gunmen in the American South West. Each of them owed their life to the other.

Now they were respectable businessmen, those days long behind them. Except that recently their old outlaw relationship had been renewed in London, Mr Van Deusen successfully playing back-up once more to his younger, wilder, friend.

Wolferton Station, when they reached it, was rather larger than most, and, instead of the dogcart which had greeted Dinah there, a fleet of horse-drawn carriages was waiting to take the Prince’s guests to Sandringham House, which stood some little distance away. Behind the carriages was another fleet of carts and carriages, there to transport the servants and the possessions of their masters.

Dinah wondered—with some amusement—what Cobie thought of the House itself—it was such a mixture of architectural styles both inside and out. She was to wonder even more when they were shown into an oak-panelled entrance hall where they found a stuffed baboon waiting for them, holding out a silver salver for the cards of visitors. She thought of the perfect taste of the Marquise’s Paris mansion which was reflected in her own Park Lane home where every piece of furniture, every ornament and every picture had been chosen by its owner for its beauty.

On the other hand, there was a charming informality in the very clutter which filled each room. Sandringham was a home, not a museum, and its owner’s cheerful enjoyment of some of the more simple pleasures of his world meant that his guests found it easy to relax.

Their suite of rooms was cosy rather than grand, and Dinah began to think that this visit might not be an ordeal after all—except that, as she later discovered, she had to change her clothes several times each day. If she found this a bore she discovered that Hortense and Pearson, her two maids, were absolutely delighted.

Her first change was into a lilac and pale green crêpe de chine tea gown with matching green and lilac slippers; when she was ready, and Cobie reverently outfitted in a tweed suit useful for the country, they made their way down to the drawing room for five o’clock tea.

To her dismay, the first person she saw was Sir Ratcliffe Heneage, who was busy complaining to all and sundry that his wife, as usual, was late coming down. The sundry included Susanna Winthrop, his current mistress and Cobie’s foster sister, who gave only a slightly defiant nod in the Grants’ direction to acknowledge their arrival. She was looking particularly beautiful, Cobie noted, but had a strange wild air about her, quite different from her usual serene calm: Sir Ratcliffe’s influence, he thought dismally.

Sir Ratcliffe, who was bending over her hand, appeared to be happy to see them. Perhaps it was pleasing him to demonstrate to that damned Yankee his hold over Susanna.

‘Heard you were coming, Grant. Pity it’s too early for shooting—you could have engaged in some useful practice.’

Cobie remembered with some amusement that he had, wrongly, disclaimed any ability as a shot, and adopted a suitably mournful expression.

‘Tum Tum’ll probably invite you when the closed season’s over, eh, Lady Dinah? You’re one of his favourites these days, I hear.’ Sir Ratcliffe’s smile for Dinah was an unctuous one, something which did not please Susanna.

She said to Cobie, ‘You are looking well, I see. Marriage suits you, I suppose.’

Then in a voice which Cobie had never heard from her before, the kind of voice which Violet constantly used to cut down her rivals, she added, ‘It certainly seems to suit you, Lady Dinah!’

The tone prevented the words from being the compliment which they superficially sounded. Cobie remembered something which his mother had once said to him when he had been speaking of a friend whom he had lost for good after he had the beating of him at chess—or any other game he cared to play with him—‘Jealousy is as cruel as the grave, Cobie.’

After that he had always hidden his powers, so much so that he had almost come to forget that he possessed them, until he had need of them in Arizona Territory. He was aware that Dinah was speaking, telling Susanna and Sir Ratcliffe how kind her husband was, and how strange it seemed that she was the mistress of the house.

‘It is almost as though I were still playing with dolls,’ she added, ‘which is naïve of me, I know.’

Sir Ratcliffe jammed his monocle in his eye, and stared at her. She was looking radiantly young in her beautiful tea gown which was cut with the utmost simplicity. Her hair was dressed simply, too, and he felt a dreadful spasm of desire—for Grant’s wife, of all people!

Well, he had taken Susanna Winthrop away from the Yankee brute, and now the sight of Dinah’s youthful beauty had him wishing that he had been the one to initiate her, to enjoy her, to teach her to please him…

Cobie, visited by the intuition which had plagued him—and blessed him—all his life, read the man before him. Something in his stance, the set of his mouth, in the answer he made to Dinah, innocent in itself, ‘You hardly look old enough to have left dolls behind, Lady Dinah, so not surprising, hey?’ told him that he had been right to believe that the murdering swine was lusting after his innocent young wife.

He knew, which few did, that Sir Ratcliffe’s taste for young girls had led him into perversion and murder, and he also knew that for some reason the authorities were protecting him, which was why he had made it his business to try to trap him and see that he was punished for what he had done.

He controlled himself with difficulty, and took Dinah’s arm gently, saying, ‘We must move on, my dear,’ and led her away. He could hardly keep his hands off the man who had raped and killed poor Lizzie Steele and who was now laughing and talking with Susanna. He must try to warn her against him again, although he didn’t think that the man was fool enough to treat her as he had treated his child-victims.

‘You don’t like him, do you?’ asked Dinah, smiling and bowing at those whom she knew as they moved through the press of people.

‘Who?’ he asked, although he knew whom she meant, and was surprised by her acute understanding. He thought that, like himself, she probably possessed the uncomfortable gift of reading people accurately.

‘Sir Ratcliffe. I don’t like him. I didn’t like the way he looked at me.’

‘I didn’t like the way he looked at you, either,’ he told her frankly. ‘A man to avoid, my dear.’

Dinah was equally frank. ‘He gives me goose-pimples. Oh, hello, Violet. How odd and time-wasting that we have to go through all this polite palaver with people with whom we have already spent the day, just as though we were meeting them for the first time after years apart.’

Violet said briskly and nastily, ‘Don’t waste your clever remarks on me, Dinah. Save them for others. Not the Prince, he doesn’t like clever women.’

‘Fortunately I like clever women,’ Cobie murmured in Dinah’s ear, in case she was overset, which she wasn’t. He was bowing to Violet now, and saying all the right things. Reluctantly, Violet approved of him. He seemed to have an instinct which allowed him to be as exactly proper as the occasion demanded.

Kenilworth had once said that Grant was almost too good to be true. No one, and particularly no American, ought to be so civilised, so well seen, so athletic, so exactly everything a man ought to be. It was perhaps as well, Violet thought, that he couldn’t know what a tiger Cobie Grant was in bed—and now Dinah was getting the benefit of that. But she didn’t look particularly mauled, so perhaps she wasn’t.

Then, as they moved away from her, to do their duty to the other guests, before sitting down before one of the tea trolleys, Violet saw Cobie bend his head to say something to his wife. She saw Dinah turn to look up at him and give him such a smile that sexual jealousy had Violet in its thrall. Oh, yes, Dinah was getting the benefit, all right—and the parlour maid’s language which Violet used to herself was symbolic of the shock she was feeling.

Cobie had earlier told Dinah that she would have few rivals among the women present. She had teased him gently, saying that he thought so because she was his wife, and must therefore automatically be a nonpareil—as he was. Had she known of both Susanna’s and Violet’s reaction to her appearance and her manner, she would have known that he was speaking the truth.

They had barely sat down before the Prince and his wife arrived, and they all jumped to their feet to acknowledge the Royal presence.

Dinah was to discover that this strange mixture of Royal protocol and informality was typical of their Sandringham visit.

Later, after they had spent a leisurely hour over tea, she and Cobie retired to their rooms.

‘Now what do we do?’ she asked him comically, once they were alone together.

‘Well,’ he told her gravely, ‘I understand that if you are to be absolutely comme il faut in the drawing room by half past eight, you must immediately send for Hortense and Pearson and set them to dressing you. Whilst Giles and I must attend to the business of making me look suitable to honour the Prince’s dinner table.’

Dinah stared at him in disbelief. ‘Who told you that? It can’t possibly take us the next two hours—that must be nonsense.’

‘Violet did me the honour of putting me in the know, as she called it. She and Kenilworth come to Sandringham at least twice each autumn and winter for the shooting. We are a little early for that, so we must find other means of entertainment. The Prince, as you know, occasionally takes his with Violet. At the court of eighteenth-century France she would probably have been known as “la maitresse en titre”.’

Dinah smiled. ‘I suppose that translates as the King’s Prime Mistress, rather along the lines of a female Prime Minister. Do you really wish to live this idle life, Cobie?’

Her question was a serious one this time, and he answered her equally seriously. ‘Not really as a permanent thing, but, for the moment, it is a new experience. I have other major interests, and in time you will share them with me. But, for the moment, we are engaged in experiencing high society and Royal favour. Oh, and by the by, I ought to warn you that the Prince’s dinner-party usually consists of twelve courses, so don’t eat too much of the earlier ones.’

‘Violet being your informant again, I suppose. I must say, she does have her uses.’

‘True, and the dining table is arranged strictly according to precedence so I am hoping that you and I don’t end up having to eat our meal in the kitchen, seeing that we are an American peasant and his wife.’

He said this gravely, but, as usual, she took his comic meaning.

Later he came into her room where Hortense and Pearson had just finished dressing her. He was already immaculately turned out—a tribute to Giles’s art. He had difficulty in not laughing out aloud when he saw her evening gown. It was a dream of a thing in white, cut with artful simplicity to improve her figure and decorated only—in a saucy reference to her nickname as The English Snowdrop—with tiny silk flowers. The largest bunch of them was on the green sash which circled her narrow waist.

She had ordered it in secret and Cobie had not seen it until he had walked in a few minutes ago. Her reward was to be favoured with one of his wicked grins, rarely offered to anyone.

‘If you are trying to make Violet jealous, you could hardly have done better,’ was his comment. This, plus a careful kiss on the cheek, designed not to disturb her fashionable splendour, was sufficient reward for her. After that, once she had entered the drawing room, the admiration on the faces of the men, and the annoyance on the women’s, were merely icing on her cake. To have pleased and surprised her unflappable husband was, she considered, an achievement in itself!

They sat apart at dinner, but he could see her down the table smiling and talking to her companions, and thought what a long way she had come in such a short time. She was obviously enjoying herself, and had taken his hint about not eating too much to begin with.

He watched her again, when she left with the ladies, and then his attention was drawn by the Prince, who, having lighted his cigar, was demanding that when they returned to the ladies, Cobie would play for them on his guitar.

‘You have brought it with you, eh, Grant?’

It was remarkable how charming this fat and middle-aged man could be when he chose. He was neither clever, nor learned, but he understood men and women. He knew what motivated them, he liked the things they liked, and his popularity stemmed from that. The crowds who gathered round his carriage shouting ‘Good old Teddy’ did so because they could see that he shared a common humanity with them. Cobie felt himself responding to it.

‘Sir, you commanded, and I had but to obey.’

The Prince’s glance at him was sharp and shrewd. ‘I should make you one of my courtiers, Grant. You are so much the master of the done thing.’

Cobie smiled, ‘My pleasure, sir.’

He could see his unacknowledged uncle, Sir Alan Dilhorne, smiling at him, and Van Deusen, well fed and rubicund, was winking at him over his cigar.

‘Don’t smoke, do you, Grant? These cigars are excellent. You should try one.’

‘Smoking spoils the voice, sir. I wish to do you—and myself—justice, later, so you will excuse me, I hope.’

Later turned out to be some time later. By the time they joined the women, who were sitting like so many swans, their arms so long and lovely, their heads so proud, many of the men had already over-indulged, Sir Ratcliffe among them.

Cobie called to him the hovering footman who was holding his guitar and retrieved it. The Prince was standing, so everyone else stood. He waved a hand, said, ‘Sit, sit,’ and then sat himself, so that everyone else could.

‘Mr Grant is to entertain us,’ he announced. ‘A Royal Command Performance, you understand. No gossiping.’

Violet made a moue, and Sir Ratcliffe looked displeased as the damned mountebank opened the case in which his guitar was kept and began to tune it.

‘Do you have any particular piece in mind, sir?’ Cobie asked, playing a series of quiet chords.

The Prince shook his head. ‘Nothing dismal, that’s all. I’m in no mind to be bored.’

‘Mmm.’

He thought a moment, then began to play, gently at first as his total recall brought back both words and music, the Lord High Executioner’s song from The Mikado.

I’ve got a little list, I’ve got a little list

Of society offenders who might well be underground,

And who never would be missed—who never would be missed!

The bored expressions on everyone’s faces vanished as his pleasant baritone wound its way to the end of the song. He finished with a flourish, bowing his head over his guitar. The Prince immediately began to applaud his virtuosity.

‘Oh, bravo, Grant, bravo. Better than all that stuff I have to endure with a straight face at the opera. Where did you learn to play and sing like that?’

Cobie bowed, amused that his talent with the guitar, although quite differently expressed, was entertaining the massed ranks of the British aristocracy and gentry as it had amused the outlaws at San Miguel so long ago.

‘At the Yale Glee Club, sir.’

‘It is to be congratulated—as are you. More, please.’

Cobie decided to offer something different.

He said, ‘This has to be done standing up,’ and began to play a Mexican love song, ‘La Paloma’, his guitar high on his shoulder. It was full of wild riffs, and he sang it first in Spanish, rolling the vowels liquidly on his tongue, and then in English.

The applause which followed was genuine. The Prince led it, then spoke to his wife, before turning to Cobie to say, ‘The Princess asks if you have a love song you would care to sing.’

He considered and, moved by something—perhaps it was Susanna’s face, sad in repose, reproaching him for having deserted her—said, ‘Yes, I think you would like this.’

So saying he sat down again and began to sing ‘Plaisir d’amour’, one of the most haunting and sad of ballads telling of love’s pleasures being short, but its pains, alas, being long and lasting a lifetime. His voice had changed again to match the music, and he sang it with all the feeling he could muster. It was almost as though he could feel Susanna’s pain, as though she had laid it on his back as a burden to be carried.

Perhaps, also, he thought, he was trying to tell Dinah something. He looked up once, to see her face, rapt, her eyes only for him. Slowly, slowly, as the song reached its sad end, he was suddenly in another room, far away in space and time, a room which knew nothing of kings and princes and nobility. In that room he had thought that in playing yet another elegiac tune he had finally said farewell to Susanna, but he might have known that their star-crossed love was not so easily renounced, and that Susanna’s pain still being with her, he was to be compelled to share it, even to the end.

The last notes died on the air. There was silence for a brief moment, before the Princess said, ‘Thank you, Mr Grant, that was beautiful,’ and began to clap, the rest of the audience following suit.

‘And that,’ said the Prince, ‘must be that. We thank the singer for his song,’

Only, a little later, he came up to Cobie, winked and smiled, murmuring, ‘When we go to the smoking room, shortly, bring your guitar with you. I have a bet that you have other songs to sing, even more entertaining.’

Which was a royal command. Sir Ratcliffe came up, flushed with drink, Susanna by him, and a few of his boon companions at his elbow.

‘Eh, well, Grant,’ he said, winking at his friends, ‘if all else fails, and the Stock Market falls through the floor, you can always earn a living on the pier at Brighton, what!’

‘I can think of worse ways of earning one,’ said Cobie coolly, refusing to return the insult, although Susanna’s mocking smile of pleasure at it cut him to the heart. He thought that drink was making Sir Ratcliffe unwary, besides ruining his complexion.

Susanna stayed behind for a moment, to whisper reproachfully, “‘Plaisir d’amour” was a most suitable song for you to sing, Cobie—except for one thing. You are highly qualified to speak of the shortness of love’s pleasure. The pains, however, you hardly seem to be acquainted with. You should leave singing of them to others.’

Cobie had a brief flash of total recall. He saw a lovely face, the face of a girl long dead, half-Yankee, half-Mexican, and thought that the pains of that lost love might be with him always. He said, quickly and urgently, ‘Susanna, I would like to speak to you about a serious matter.’

She looked at him, her face stone. ‘If it is about Sir Ratcliffe and me, you may spare yourself. Once and for all, we have done with one another. Let that be it. I want no sermons from the cheat and womaniser which you have become.’

It was useless. He bowed to her before she swept away. He saw Dinah coming, and thought bitterly, What damage am I doing to her, that she will end up by either reproaching me or hating me? I never thought that Susanna and I would come to this.

Dinah, her intuition working again, knew at once that, although his face was impassive, he was distressed. She said, ‘You sang beautifully, Cobie, but are you sure you wouldn’t like to leave early?’

He replied, almost roughly for him, ‘No, Dinah. And I have yet another royal command to obey. I am not ill.’

‘No,’ she answered him quietly. ‘And you don’t look ill. But remember what you once told me, “Appearances often deceive.” I think yours deceive me and everyone else tonight.’

‘Not you,’ he said, still rough. ‘You are learning from the book of life so rapidly, Dinah, that you will shortly be leaving me behind. For tonight accept that however I feel, I must do what I have to do, and that is obey the Prince’s orders. Something tells me that I have not finished this night’s work yet.’

Nor had he.

Some time later, walking into the smoking room, full of tobacco fumes, where the Prince, seated among his little court, was drawing gratefully on his cigar, after half an evening’s abstinence, he was greeted by men who were demanding to be entertained without the restraining presence of women.

Sir Ratcliffe, by now almost unbuttoned—Susanna and her husband had already retired—sprawled in a great armchair, a tot of whiskey in his hand while he watched Cobie play and sing ‘The Old Chisholm Trail’—in the half-expurgated version.

‘Bravo,’ he said languidly. ‘It seems I underrated you. The Music Hall in Brixton is your proper métier, my friend. Why not take yourself there?’

Before anyone could expostulate at such gross discourtesy, the red rage had Cobie by the throat. Not the complete thing, but something near. Regardless of whether Sir Ratcliffe might know of his secret plans to bring him to justice, he said rapidly, ‘I don’t underrate you, sir, and it occurs to me that I could sing a song about your spiritual home, your métier, which the company might enjoy.’

Without a pause he segued into ‘The House of the Rising Sun’, that notable folk ballad of a very young girl ruined in a brothel.

He sang it in the throaty, broken voice of the black American singer which he had heard on his one visit to the South, and which Dinah would have recognized because he had often used it when singing to her before or after lovemaking.

There was dead silence when he ended. Everyone present, including the Prince, knew of Sir Ratcliffe’s reputation with women; some even knew of his relationship with Madame Louise and Hoskyns, and his proclivity for girl children.

His face black with rage, he rose and, regardless of the presence of the Prince, exclaimed, ‘Damn you, Grant, I’ll not be insulted by upstart Yankees who have only their money to recommend them…’

His voice ran out as the man he was threatening, for he had raised his fist, remained impassive, eyes hooded, staring coldly at him.

Worse, he saw the expression of disapproval on the face of his master, his social arbiter, who ruled the world in which he lived and breathed, and which to be banished from meant in his present position not only social, but financial, ruin, for only Sir Ratcliffe’s friendship with the Prince kept the moneylenders at bay. If that went…if he strained the hold he had on him too far…everything would go…

The Prince was saying, in a freezing voice, ‘Be quiet, sir. You put an insult on Mr Grant. It is true that he returned the favour, but you were the provoker, he the provoked. We all thank Mr Grant for his playing tonight, and regret the discourtesy offered to him. Sir Ratcliffe, you will join me in this, I trust, and you, Mr Grant, we will forgive. We cannot rebuke the provider of such innocent pleasure.’

Sir Ratcliffe said sullenly—in the face of ruin he could do no else—‘I had not meant to annoy, a joke merely, sir.’

The Prince was severe. ‘In poor taste, your joke. You accept the apology, Mr Grant?’

Cobie said lightly, bowing his head. ‘Oh, I always accept apologies, sir. One of my few good habits.’ Which drew, as he had hoped and intended, a relieved general laugh.

The Prince spoke to him for a few moments about his singing and playing. Cobie told him, truthfully, that his best instrument was the piano. The Prince, his prominent blue eyes hard on him, said, ‘It seems that you are a man of many talents, Grant. Lady Kenilworth tells me that you sketch well. I know for myself that you are superb on a horse and, to cap it all, you have a gift for making money. You should come and instruct some of my subjects—we seem to be losing the talent.’

Cobie saw jealousy written plain on some of the faces around the Prince. He bowed, and murmured in his best and most innocent manner, ‘You know what they say, sir, Jack of all trades, master of none.’

The Prince’s gaze on him remained hard and shrewd, ‘Oh, I doubt that, Grant, I really doubt that. No matter. You have provided enough entertainment for one night. When we are at Markendale you must play the piano for us, and Lady Kenilworth will sing—her voice is lovely.’

It was his dismissal for the evening; pondering on the number of times Violet had walked into the conversation, he decided that the Prince probably knew of their brief liaison—and did not resent it.

His guitar in his hand, he wandered out of the smoking room and down a long corridor lined with the portraits of the great and mighty from a forgotten past. For some reason he did not want company—something which came over him at times. He wished to be alone, even if only for a little while, but his wish was not to be granted.

A voice behind him said in the drawl of the upper-class Englishman, ‘Your performance tonight was a polished one on both occasions, Mr Grant. I am not surprised that the Prince praised you for it. A man of many talents, he called you. I don’t think that he is aware of them all, do you?’

The speaker was the grey man, Hervey Beauchamp, who always stood at the Prince’s elbow. His tone to Cobie had a subtle ring of familiarity in it, as though he were speaking of things which they knew, and no one else did.

Cobie put on his most charmingly innocent face, and said, with no double meaning in his voice, ‘I thank you for the compliment, sir—but for the rest…’ and he raised his eyebrows slightly ‘…you have the better of me. I don’t think we’ve ever been formally introduced…although you once waited on my wife…’ He let his voice trail off.

‘Masterly, sir, masterly,’ said the other approvingly—but did not say what was masterly. They were standing before a portrait of Prince Rupert of the Rhine, painted by some unknown artist.

‘My name—not that it is of the slightest importance—is, as you know, Beauchamp. One of my ancestors came over with the Conqueror and ever since we like to think that we serve our sovereign as faithfully as he did.’

He waved a hand at the portrait so that Cobie wasn’t sure whether he meant Prince Rupert, the loyal supporter of two Stuart Kings, or his own distant progenitor.

Since something seemed expected of him, he offered, again with all the naïve charm he could muster, ‘I cannot repay you by offering a similar remarkable ancestry—my own being remarkable only in that, like many Americans, I have none. I am newly invented.’

The grey man laughed. ‘Well said, and I should have expected such an answer. Come, Mr Jacobus Grant, who possesses the face of the Hattons, but denies any connection with them, what moves a man like yourself to action? The philosophers whom I read tell me that newly invented men make their own laws since those which already exist mean nothing to them, being the work of men invented long ago. Do you make your own laws, Mr Grant, and in consequence carry out trial and sentence according to them—even in London?’

Cobie lifted his guitar. San Miguel and its outlaws would have recognised his expression. He began to play the song from The Mikado again. He let the words run out softly, keeping his guitar at the ready.

‘Like that?’ he queried sweetly. ‘What a romantic notion, Mr Beauchamp, sir. You should write novels.’

The grey man smiled. ‘Instead of living them,’ he said. ‘I must inform you that the Prince likes you, Mr Grant, genuinely likes you. Not just because you’re an American—he likes them all, you know. They do things. He was formed to do things, but was never allowed to. He will be an old man before he reaches the throne, which is a pity. The old woman who sits on it now has had her day but will not acknowledge it. Since he is a man who likes action, and is denied it, he becomes bored, and bored people make mistakes… It would be a pity if because of one of them he were to be passed over, reviled by a too-powerful Press.’

Cobie said nothing, played a few soft chords on the guitar. The tune was one he thought Mr Beauchamp might not know. It sang of passion and death—but in a frontier society, not this civilised one.

The grey man said, ‘As I am sure you are aware, His Royal Highness is quite unlike Sir Ratcliffe and his kind. His pleasures hurt no one. He takes them where he knows they will not offend. For him to have been indiscreet for once, does not mean that he deserves to be pilloried—only pitied because he may not act as other men do.’

Cobie’s hands were busy on the guitar. His brain was busier. Where was all this double-talk leading? What did this faceless man want with Cobie Grant? How much did the man know of Sir Ratcliffe and himself? He could not believe that the mention of Sir Ratcliffe’s name was innocent, after Beauchamp’s earlier hints of his possible lawless acts in London.

‘Come to the point,’ he said negligently. ‘I’m sure there is a point. Americans like to get to it quickly. We are blunt, sir, blunt.’

‘I have never seen anyone less blunt than your good self,’ answered the grey man, his voice dry.

‘That is because you don’t know me,’ and Cobie played a few bars of a Negro spiritual.

‘Oh, I know you, Mr Grant, and of your doings—both here and in the States. No matter, I will be plain. The Prince wrote some letters to a lady, whose husband suddenly became jealous, and took her from London, and into the country. Being a fool, he thought that might keep her chaste. She, also being a fool, kept the Prince’s letters, and took another lover—and showed him the Prince’s letters for him to laugh at.

‘He did more than laugh at them. He stole them, and now he blackmails the Prince with them, to keep himself in society, save himself from ruin. His Royal Highness has been generous…you understand me? But the thief grows careless, and behaves after a fashion which would have caused the Prince to—banish him, as it were. But he may not, because of the letters…

‘Now the man has become so indiscreet that he grows dangerous. Were his secret activities known he, being a friend of the Prince, would prove dangerous to the Prince, might even shake the throne. Cornered, he might try to use the letters to save himself—or even publish them, out of spite.’ He paused.

Cobie played a few slow bars of ‘God Save the Queen’, and said, as drily and anonymously as the man before him, ‘What has all this to do with me, sir?’

But he knew, he knew.

‘Why, I think you know the thief very well, Mr Grant. You have already dealt with one of his minions—and have plans for him, too.’ He began to hum the song from The Mikado which Cobie had treated him to earlier.

‘Need I say,’ he continued smoothly when he had finished humming, ‘that not only would you be satisfying yourself, and saving yourself from trouble, but you would also be doing the state some service if the Prince’s letters were…somehow…to be recovered…’

Cobie thought rapidly again. No one had disturbed them. He swung his head and looked down the corridor. Since the grey man had appeared the double doors at the far end had been closed—were probably locked, he thought. He had been tracked as carefully as though he were in the desert in Arizona, being followed by the law. He was, in effect, a kind of prisoner.

He laughed.

He murmured, his voice reproving, ‘The more things change, the more they remain the same. That’s the most delicate attempt to blackmail me into doing something that I have ever suffered. Tell me, does your master know of this—or of Sir Ratcliffe’s vicious life?’

The grey man smiled ironically. ‘It all depends which master you mean. If you are referring to the Prince, then my answer is, No.’

‘I thought not.’ Cobie shook his head. ‘You have read Francis Bacon, sir? I am sure you have. He said a number of things worthy of remembrance. He is particularly good on revenge, Mr Beauchamp, sir…’ The last phrase came out in his most insolent Western drawl.

‘He said that revenge is a kind of wild justice, and also that it is a dish best eaten cold. When I was very young, I agreed with him… When I was a little older—I was not so sure. Sometimes the best revenge is no revenge at all. What we do, Mr Beauchamp, sir, has consequences for us, as well as those to whom we do it. I will think your proposition over.’

The grey man hesitated. ‘That is your considered answer?’

‘I have no master but myself,’ replied Cobie negligently, ‘and therefore the only duty I owe is to myself, and to none other. No fear of demotion, no hope of promotion can move me, you understand, no threat to blast my reputation, either. I think that what you have found out about me is hearsay.

‘If I do what you want me to do, it will be because I want to do it, not because you are trying to blackmail me into stealing back the Prince of Wales’s letters—as Sir Ratcliffe is blackmailing the Prince. I don’t like blackmailers, Mr Beauchamp, sir, not even in a just cause. You must live in hope.

‘Now had you asked me, pat, as the Bard says, you might have gained a different answer.’

His smile was as provoking as he could make it.

The grey man said slowly. ‘I see that I have underestimated you.’ He paused, before asking, ‘Tell me one thing—out of curiosity, you understand, not to use against you. Is it true that you possess total recall? I have heard of such a talent, but I have never met anyone who genuinely possessed it.’

Cobie began to laugh. ‘Of course, if I told you the truth you would use it against me after some fashion. I know that because were the situation reversed I would use such a thing against you! Live in hope, Mr Beauchamp, sir, that you might one day find out. I have no intention of satisfying your curiosity at present.’

The grey man laughed with him, and for once his mirth was real. ‘I shall leave you now, Mr Grant. I hope that you will give me the answer I want, but I see that I must wait. Give me a few moments before you follow me.’

He turned away without waiting for a reply—and then turned back again.

‘By the by,’ he said, his smile shark-like, ‘I believe that we are cousins—distant, it’s true, but cousins. The Sir Beauchamp Hatton whom you and your uncle, Sir Alan Dilhorne, so greatly resemble, was named after my great-great-grandfather, his first cousin. Interesting, Mr Grant, sir, interesting?’

He was gone, leaving Cobie to reflect that Machiavelli’s Chance had been brought along, once again, like a horse ready for him to ride.

## Chapter Two

‘E xactly like the other one, Lizzie Steele. But not thrown in the river this time, just dumped in an alley.’

Inspector Will Walker thought that there were some things in his line of work which he would never get used to, and examining the sexually mutilated bodies of murdered girl children was one of them.

He sighed. He could imagine the excited headlines in the new popular press, the criticism of the police for not being able to track the brutal murderer down. Just his luck that he should have been involved in the previous case.

‘Turns your stomach, don’t it, guv?’

Walker nodded wearily.

‘True, Bates. I shan’t rest until the beast who did this has been stopped. But it’s not going to be easy. No clues at all—other than that this one was killed and maimed exactly like the Steele girl was.’

‘So it wasn’t Hoskyns who killed Lizzie Steele?’ said Bates thoughtfully. ‘Do you think that the Ripper has come back from wherever he vanished to?’

Walker shook his head. Four years ago, in 1888, Jack the Ripper had stalked the East End, killing and mutilating prostitutes in the most gruesome manner. And then, as suddenly as they had started, the murders stopped.

‘No, Bates. This ain’t the Ripper’s handiwork. It’s a different way of going on altogether. No, this means another interview with our friend Mr Dilley. If it weren’t that he had an unbreakable alibi for the night Hoskyns was killed…’

His voice trailed off. He was a frustrated man these days. Things were not going well with him. He had walked upstairs only the day before to be told that his record of success in clearing up crimes was not good enough. He had wanted to retort that so long as he was not given proper back-up, his record would remain poor. But he held his tongue.

Now he had a multiple murderer on his patch. The similarity between this death, and that of Lizzie Steele was too great to believe that two men were involved. Dismally he had little doubt that this would not be the last body he would be called out to see…

A fortnight ago the word had come down from on high to lay off Mr Jacobus Grant, alias Mr Dilley, amateur magician and former outlaw. What a thing it was to have friends in high places, being his cynical reaction to that. On the other hand, he had to allow that, so far, he had uncovered nothing to support his belief that Grant was responsible either for the fire by the river or Hoskyns’s death.

But if Grant had thought that Hoskyns had murdered the girl, as well as procured her, what was he thinking now? Hoskyns dead, Madame Louise and the rest of her cohorts in prison—and a killer of girl children was still on the loose.

What magic trick could Mr Dilley answer that with?

Dinah sat at breakfast with Cobie. Their Sandringham excursion was safely over without any further trouble from Sir Ratcliffe or anyone else. Not that she was aware of Cobie’s session with Hervey Beauchamp.

Sir Ratcliffe had behaved himself after that first disastrous evening. The Prince had made it plain to him that he was no longer one of the favoured few around him, and he did not like that upstart Grant the more for that.

Part of him regretted the behaviour which had drawn the Royal wrath down on him because it meant that his rocky social position had become even rockier. He could only console himself with the thought that, as long as he possessed Tum Tum’s letters, the Prince could not banish him from high society by withdrawing his patronage completely.

On their last day in Norfolk the Prince had genially roared at the Grants, ‘I am looking forward to our rendezvous with you in the North, Lady Dinah. Make sure that husband of yours brings along all his musical instruments to entertain us. Lady K. tells me that he’s a devil on the banjo, too.’

Cobie had bowed agreement and Dinah had made what she thought were the kind of suitable noises which the Marquise de Cheverney, who had been her social tutor, would have approved of. She did not say, although she thought it, that she would be relieved to be in her own home again, and was not very eager to spend yet another week or so in her sister’s grand mansion with people whose interests she did not share.

Besides that, not only would she and Cobie be off to Markendale, but nothing was yet resolved between them. She had begun her campaign to win his love, but it seemed mired in the pleasant stalemate which her life had become.

Not that Cobie knew that there was anything to be resolved. He remained his own equable, charming and kind self. There were times when she almost wished that he would say or do something for which she could reproach him! She sometimes wished that his manners, like the rest of him, were less than perfect. It was hard to have nothing to criticise.

Take this morning, for example. He had eaten, sparely for him, and was now drinking coffee while he read the The Times, having excused himself for doing so, saying that he needed to be au fait with the world’s news before he went off into the City.

Finally he put the paper down, and said in what she thought of as his deceiving voice, ‘I had hoped that I might spend the day with you today, but I find that I need to go into the City. You will forgive me, my love, I will make it up to you tomorrow.’

‘Of course,’ she said. If he were the perfect husband, then she could be no less than the perfect wife. Something had disturbed him, she knew that, but had no idea how she knew it. Something in the paper. Other people might not be able to see behind the mask he wore, but she was beginning to. She wondered what it could be.

After he had gone Dinah picked up the newspaper. He had carefully refolded it. She had no idea what she was looking for. She doggedly skimmed through its pages after the fashion which her father had taught her to read documents. It was full of the usual kind of thing. Towards the end there were some discreet headlines about what the popular press were calling ‘The Dockland Vampire Murders’. The Times referred to them so delicately that Dinah could hardly make out what had occurred, other than that this was the second poor child who had been found killed and mutilated either in, or near, the Thames. The police were adjured in no uncertain terms to do their duty and find the murderer. Crime must be seen to be punished.

It was, she concluded, putting the paper down again, probably something in the financial news, which she was unable to make sense of, that had troubled him. He never talked of his money-making activities, either to her or to anyone else. She was quite certain that he had whole areas of life to which no one, including his wife, was privy—other than Mr Van Deusen, that was. And what did that tell her?

Cobie had read the short account of the child’s murder in The Times with mounting pity and horror. He had no doubt as to who was responsible. Sir Ratcliffe had, like the Grants, been back in London for a week, and doubtless had grown bored with the milk and water life of his social equals.

He contemplated going to Scotland Yard immediately with what he knew, and the devil take the Prince’s reputation—to say nothing of his own. But what hard evidence could he offer against Heneage? Simply that he had once seen him with Lizzie Steele in a house of ill fame, and that he had helped her to escape from him. His one possible witness, Hoskyns, was dead—and even if he had lived, what would his sole evidence have been worth against Sir Ratcliffe in his power and might?

Besides that, would the faceless men behind Beauchamp ever allow Sir Ratcliffe to be caught and tried, either for Lizzie’s death or that of his latest victim, while he could still hold the Prince to ransom with the stolen letters? All he could do was go to his City office and hope that Walker would visit him there, and not at Park Lane, to disturb Dinah again.

Sure enough when he arrived there, Walker, with one of his constant shadows in attendance, was waiting for him, Bates standing stolidly in his rear.

‘So, Mr Dilley,’ Walker began without preamble, ‘what do you say to that?’ He flung an assortment of newspapers, all crying out against the murderer of girl children. ‘You killed Hoskyns for nothing, didn’t you? The real murderer of Lizzie Steele is still running round among us. How do you feel about that?’

There was nothing for it but to put on his most baffled face, and lie—as usual.

‘Really, Inspector, I had thought I had done with these baseless accusations. Why should you think that Hoskyns was killed because of Lizzie Steele’s death—or that it was Hoskyns who murdered her? My own belief, for what it’s worth, is that these children are being killed by someone from a different walk of life altogether.’

‘Oh, aye,’ jeered Will Walker, turning to grin at Bates, before going on. ‘Some toff, I suppose. Well, now, Mr Dilley, the only toff I know of on the loose is your good self, and I don’t think that the Vampire killer is you—even though I might like to.’

Cobie said slowly, ‘What sort of evidence would convince you that I may be right, Inspector?’ More than ever he regretted having made an enemy of the man.

‘Hard evidence, Mr Dilley. Hard evidence. No whim-whams, no putting it on to someone of your own kind whom you happen to dislike. No confessions made by a dead man, either.’

This was a shrewd hit, if only the Inspector had known it!

Cobie said slowly, ‘Suppose I found evidence, Inspector, and passed it on to you? Would you respect it?’

Walker thrust his face forward. ‘I’ll tell you what I would respect, Mr Dilley, and that’s that you won’t go round killing anyone else because you might think they’ve done in Lizzie Steele and this latest child. We don’t know the poor creature’s name yet. I’ll have you if you do—and that’s my last word. That’s why I came. You go home to your pretty young wife, make her happy, and leave us to do our job, and you do yours, which I understand is making money. You aren’t in the U.S. of A. now, Mr Dilley.’

No, he couldn’t mention Sir Ratcliffe’s name to the disbelieving man before him. A crony of the Prince of Wales, a Cabinet minister, if a minor one, with a family name which went back fifteen generations! He could imagine Walker’s scornful laughter. As well accuse the Prince himself.

No, somehow he must find hard evidence against Sir Ratcliffe—and then decide what to do with it. A task which would be difficult for him, knowing that the wretch was being protected in order to avoid a dreadful scandal which might shake the throne and strengthen the powerful Republican movement.

In the meantime, he smiled and bowed Walker and Bates out, commiserating with them, until Walker turned at the door, leaned forward and seized Cobie by the lapels of his splendid coat. He thrust his face into his and hissed, between his teeth, ‘Mind what I say, Mr Dilley, one false step and this time I’ll see you swing, I swear I will.’

‘By God, he’s a cool one, guv,’ Bates said respectfully, when they got into a cab to take them back to Scotland Yard. ‘He never turned a hair when you warned him at the end, just laughed in your face, as usual.’

‘Well, as long as that’s all he does, Bates. But he’s a slippery devil—and we’ve not seen the last of him.’

Once the officers had gone, Cobie rang for Rogers, his secretary.

‘I want to hire an enquiry agent,’ he said abruptly, ‘an honest one. I need to find out about one of our business rivals, so I want a discreet man I can trust—and soon. Not next week, not next month, but yesterday. You understand me? Use your connections.’

Rogers used them to good effect.

Twenty-four hours later, a dour ex-police officer, as sardonic in his way as Walker was in his, sat before him.

‘I want you,’ Cobie said, ‘to investigate a man named Sir Ratcliffe Heneage. These papers—’ and he indicated a report he had written ‘—will tell you who and what he is—and what I also believe him to be.’

Jem Porter took the folder over, and asked, ‘What’s he done, then, that you want to have him investigated?’

‘He likes girl children,’ Cobie told him, eyes hooded. ‘Too much. I want evidence of where he goes for them, who finds them for him, what he does. Anything. And, besides that, anything else which you can find of his doings, good and bad.’

‘I can’t say I’ve come across him,’ mused Porter. ‘I’ve heard whispers, nothing more. He’s not the only one with strange tastes, you know.’

‘I want more evidence than whispers,’ said Cobie, curtly, ‘and the less you tell anyone else of this, the better. Be discreet, be careful, and I’ll pay you well. Report back here to me while I’m in town. When I go to Markendale next week, you may send me a written report there. Our man will be staying at Markendale, too. While he’s out of town, pursue discreet enquiries among the staff of his London home, and among the underworld in the East End.’

‘Understood,’ said Porter. The man before him was paying him enough to inspire loyalty as well as discretion. He said, drawing a bow at venture, ‘These child murders. Will Walker’s in charge of the investigation. I used to work with him. Ever come across him?’

‘Yes.’ Cobie was his laconic business self, offering nothing. ‘By chance.’

‘Good man, Walker. You can trust him. Stood by me when things went wrong. I still see him occasionally.’

‘Ah,’ Cobie said, ‘I’m glad you told me. If you do come across him while you’re working for me, don’t let him know that you are. That’s an unbreakable order. Break it, and I’ll fire you on the spot.’

‘Right.’ Porter nodded. ‘I know which side my bread’s buttered on. Trust me. Mum’s the word, sir.’

That was that. Everything was now in train, and he and Dinah could go to Markendale with that out of the way, and hope that Porter might find anything—or something—which he could use.

Dinah’s understanding of her husband had become so subtle that she knew that something was troubling him, even though to all outward appearances he was still as charmingly in control of himself as usual. She wished that he would confide in her, but was bitterly aware that he would not—because of her youth, she supposed.

It was while this was worrying her that a few days before they left for Markendale Violet arrived one afternoon, everything about her proclaiming that she was ripe for mischief. The way she eyed her sister, the dramatic fashion in which she sat down and ate her tea, almost as though she were playing a society lady on the stage, warned Dinah that something was afoot.

Violet began innocently enough. ‘Do you see much of Susanna Winthrop these days?’ she enquired casually.

Dinah shook her head. ‘No, she doesn’t visit us often, and we have only visited her on a few occasions. Recently, on her birthday, of course.’

‘Of course.’

Violet bit into a cucumber sandwich, and said carelessly, ‘I never really supposed that Apollo would be faithful to you after the first flush of marriage was over, but I didn’t think that he would go a-roving so soon, and quite so near home.’

Dinah’s hands, hovering over the silver teapot—she had been about to pour them both a second cup—stilled. She dropped them into her lap and said tonelessly, ‘I really don’t know what you are trying to tell me, Violet. It might be better if you spoke plainly, then I would not be able to misunderstand you.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t want you to misunderstand me,’ drawled Violet poisonously, ‘I thought to spare you a little, but since you wish to bite the bullet, do so by all means. The gossip—and I am astonished that you have not heard it—is that Susanna Winthrop is pregnant, that the father of the child cannot be her husband, and to put it plainly—as you wished—the father happens to be your husband.’

All that Dinah could hear was the relentless ticking of the clock, and something inside her which said, Is that what has been exercising him all this time? An affair with Susanna?

Aloud she said, pleased that the Marquise’s training appeared to be able to allow her to withstand this appalling news—supposing that it was the truth—‘Now that I do not believe, Violet. It is my understanding that she has been having an affaire with Sir Ratcliffe Heneage, and that Cobie has been troubled over it. He hinted as much to me.’

‘Oh, you poor dear innocent!’ Violet put down her cup and leaned forward commiseratingly. ‘It’s all a blind, can’t you see? I have every reason to know that Sir Ratcliffe’s interest in Susanna Winthrop has been quite innocent, and that she and Apollo have been using it to disguise their own activities. Besides, I am reliably informed that they have been lovers for years, despite the difference in their ages.’

Could this possibly be true? thought Dinah numbly. Or was it merely Violet being spiteful? Surely Cobie wouldn’t betray her with his foster-sister—and so soon? She thought of their happy days and nights together, but she also thought of what he had said to her more than once, ‘You are not to love me, Dinah.’

Was he saying that in order to allow himself to be unfaithful? She felt her throat close. She wanted to scream at Violet, to shriek at her, to…

Instead she said calmly, ‘What nonsense, Violet. I am not foolish enough to expect my husband to be permanently faithful to me. That, I have come to understand, is the way of the world. It puts a different complexion on Mother’s behaviour, doesn’t it? Besides, I don’t believe he would do this to me so soon after our marriage.’

‘But what did he marry you for?’ asked Violet triumphantly. ‘Not for love, of that I am sure. And having got you, and turned you from a timid little mouse into someone half-way presentable, what on earth is there to keep him faithful, tell me that?’

‘Could we drop this as a subject for discussion, Violet?’ Dinah was proud of the steadiness of her voice. ‘Since it is mere speculation on both our parts, it is all rather pointless.’

‘Well, if you wish, but you did say that you wanted me to speak plainly—which I have done.’

‘And I have listened to you. Now, would you like some more tea, and perhaps you could advise me on what to take to Yorkshire. I am afraid my Parisian teacher didn’t include that in her training.’

‘The Marquise de Cheverney, wasn’t it?’ Violet seemed determined to be as poisonous as she could. ‘Another of his mistresses, one supposes. Really darling, you were hardly the person to be plunged headfirst into such a galère!’

‘Perhaps you might like to describe the kind of person who would be fit for it,’ retorted Dinah glacially, ‘I doubt whether Cobie would have wished to marry her!’

Violet inclined her head graciously. ‘There is that. I suppose that naïveté would be more his style. No competition for him, no need to worry that you are erring off the straight and narrow. Not yet, any way.’

Dinah would have liked to throw her tea straight into Violet’s smiling face. Her new self-control precluded any such thing. ‘Are you suggesting that I follow your way of life, Violet? Would you care for me to compete with you for the Prince’s favours? You once hinted that he might like charming innocence. Shall I try to find out?’

This was all delivered in a tone of cool self-control, nothing shrill about it.

‘Oh, we have grown up, haven’t we?’ Violet murmured. ‘His doing, no doubt. Now I wonder how Apollo would react to an unfaithful wife? It might be rather dangerous to find out. On the other hand…’

‘On the other hand, let us discuss my wardrobe for Markendale,’ returned Dinah implacably, ‘and soon. Cobie has promised to drive me to the Park this afternoon, and it is almost time for me to go and change.’

She rose. ‘Perhaps you could write me a letter of advice about what to wear—that is, if you can find time to do so in the intervals of discussing the state of my marriage.’

Violet picked up her parasol, and said, ‘I’ll do that, my dear. I wonder if Apollo knows what a stalwart defender he has in you. He really doesn’t deserve you, you know.’

‘Not what you thought when he married me,’ Dinah muttered mutinously to herself: but she saw Violet to the door as pleasantly as though Violet had not exploded a bomb in her quiet drawing room.

She would say nothing to Cobie of this and would try to forget it. She had always found Susanna to be quiet and reserved, but pleasant: the notion that she and Cobie could be lovers made her feel a little sick. Nevertheless when they were out that night at a reception and Cobie and Susanna met and spoke to one another, rather distantly, she couldn’t help wondering if it were not all a game—like the one which Rainey played with Lord Brandon’s wife to try to persuade the world that they were not having an affaire.

There were times over the years when Susanna Winthrop bitterly regretted having rejected her foster-brother’s offer of marriage, made to her years earlier in a storm of passion. She had refused him because of the great difference in their ages, and had told herself that she would be able to live with that decision, be able to meet him and not feel the pangs of frustrated desire—after all, she was a rational person, wasn’t she?

Yet after his marriage to Dinah, when Cobie had refused to become her lover once she had discovered her husband’s true nature, and the evidence of his perversion, she had felt for Cobie something very like hate. She had taken up with Sir Ratcliffe because her foster-brother so plainly disliked him, just as she had married Arthur for the same reason. She could hardly bear to see Cobie and Dinah together.

Dinah’s patent happiness mocked her own misery, and although Sir Ratcliffe went warily with her, appearing to be both kind and gentle—bearing in mind who her foster-brother was—her heart remained where it had always been, with him, even if it were her hate she offered him, not her love.

On one of the last big events of the season, she met Dinah in the long corridor at the top of the stairs in Kenilworth House. It was soon after Violet had poured her poison into Dinah’s ear.

They bowed at one another. Some devil inside her, a devil which she did not know she possessed—or did it possess her?—made Susanna detain the girl she thought of as her rival.

‘We have not met lately,’ she said gently. It was true. Each, for their own different reasons, had been avoiding the other.

Madame’s training took over. Dinah said coolly, ‘We shall be meeting shortly, I understand, at Markendale.’

She was ready to move on, but Susanna prevented her.

‘It does not trouble you? That you will spend so much time with possible…rivals?’

What to say to that? She must mean Violet, or herself.

‘On the contrary…” and Dinah was still cool, though inwardly trembling, for she had never before realised how beautiful Susanna was, and that her as yet unacknowledged pregnancy had made her even more so ‘…I think that they have to worry about me, don’t you?’

She knew that Susanna disliked her, and saw at once that, by refusing to be ruffled, she had made an enemy. Susanna said, her voice a trifle shrill, ‘True, but he’s so attractive, isn’t he? Irresistible—as I still know, to my cost.’

Moved by the devil, Susanna had told Violet that Sir Ratcliffe’s child was Cobie’s. Sir Ratcliffe had laughed about the notion. He had, indeed, put the idea in her head. His own wife, that plain neglected woman, was present at this very reception.

She was wearing the last piece of jewellery left unsold to pay her husband’s debts, a diamond parure which had been a Heneage family heirloom for two hundred years. He was sure that she would never have the spirit to be jealous even if she learned that he was fathering a child on Susanna, but best to take no chances.

Susanna saw that her wicked dart had pierced Dinah’s heart. For a moment the true Susanna almost emerged, to say, ‘No, child, I’m lying, forgive me. Far from becoming my lover, he expressly refused—because of loyalty to you,’ but at that very moment she saw Cobie emerge from a door down the corridor. She also saw his face light up, not at the sight of her, but of his young wife—and virtue and pity fled from her together.

She said nothing to Dinah, but came out from the shadow which had been hiding her from her foster brother, and murmured sweetly, ‘So, there you are, Cobie. May I remind you that you are engaged to visit me tomorrow afternoon?’

The engagement was innocent enough. She had asked him round to pass on to him a letter from his mother in which she had enquired after him and his bride. A previous letter had gone astray.

Cobie’s answer, designed to be kind to Susanna, whom he profoundly pitied, and truly loved as a sister, was ‘No need ever to remind me, Susanna, I am always at your service,’ was so couched that it only served to add to Dinah’s misery.

She tried to forget, to persuade herself that Susanna’s words had borne an innocent meaning, but all that she could think of was how little she truly knew of her husband and his doings.

Unknown to her, or to anyone else, Cobie had gone to the Salvation Army home in Sea Coal Street which he was funding in his disguise as Mr Dilley, and there he had performed at a summer garden fête designed to raise money to help poor children.

He had paid for Mr Punch to visit the fête, and had staged his own small show of magic tricks to entertain the children but, however much they had enjoyed it, the shadow of Lizzie had been constantly before him, reminding him that her murderer still walked the earth, secure among the mighty…

But not, he hoped, for long. He had not seen Mr Beauchamp again, and he told himself savagely that whatever he did to Sir Ratcliffe would be done for Lizzie, and not for such dim creatures who avoided the daylight—whether he was truly his distant cousin, or no.

He was as relieved as Dinah when the time to visit Markendale arrived—if for quite different reasons. He thought that she looked tired, not knowing that the air of slight constraint which she wore had been put there by Violet’s wicked tongue and Susanna’s insinuations. However much she tried not to be affected by what they had said, the echoes of their conversation with her lingered on.

She had gone into his bedroom one day, when he was absent, engaged on she knew not what, drawn there by something which she couldn’t explain. The room was as tidy and beautiful as her husband always was. She had opened the wardrobe door, to see his suits hung there, row on row. She knew that two tallboys held his shirts and socks and she opened the drawers to inspect them. Never mind that Giles was responsible for this order, she knew what Rainey’s rooms looked like, and the confusion he lived in.

There was a desk in the corner at which she had often looked when she shared his great bed with him. That, too, was neat and orderly, as was the stand of books beside it. There was a large free-standing cupboard taking up one wall. Idly she tried to open it, knowing that she shouldn’t be doing this, shouldn’t be prying, but she couldn’t stop herself.

The door wouldn’t open. It was locked—and there was no key in the lock. The cupboard was like him, Dinah thought in sudden anguish. She didn’t possess the key to his lock—perhaps no one did. She gave the handle an impetuous, petulant jerk, and the door opened—the lock was old and had slipped.

Feeling like a villainess in a detective story, perhaps one by Mr Arthur Conan Doyle, Dinah looked inside. She couldn’t stop herself. The left-hand side of the cupboard was still locked; the right-hand side, with its deep shelves, stood open. She had no idea of what she had expected to find, certainly not what she did discover.

On the bottom shelf were packs of cards stacked neatly one above the other—some had been used, others had not. There were several light balls, all of different colours, and large silk handkerchiefs, the colours of which were garish: they were not at all the kind of thing Cobie would ever have used. When she timidly touched one of them, she found to her dismay that as she pulled at it gently, it was attached by one corner to another, and that was attached to yet another…and another… She tried to put them back exactly as she had found them, but it was difficult.

There were also some very light Indian clubs, painted blue and silver, which she had seen jugglers use, and a silk top hat—but again, not of the kind which her husband would ever wear; indeed, as she looked inside it, it seemed designed not to be worn. There were sticks with brightly coloured feathers on them… There were a number of wooden and metal hoops, and a small pile of paper hats.

The middle shelf held an assortment of strange boxes of different sizes and shapes—Dinah couldn’t imagine what their purpose was, even after she had examined them. One, in particular, was very beautiful.

On the top shelf was a brown bowler hat of the kind which she had seen artisans wearing when, out for the day, they wished to imitate the gentry. Beside it was neatly arranged—everything was neat, as he always was—a pile of mufflers, some of wool, some of silk, and all of them shabby. There were also a pair of carefully folded brown and yellow check woollen trousers, a short brown woollen jacket and a pair of heavy boots. Doubled up beside them was a large doll with brilliantly painted red cheeks and a wide grin. Its wooden head was on a peg which fitted into a cloth body.

Dinah felt like the lady in the story of Blubeard who had entered the forbidden room to discover strange and terrible things. There was nothing terrible about these things, but they were certainly strange. Memory teased her, until, suddenly, she knew that if she had not found the key to Cobie, she had certainly found the key to explain all these objects—they were the stock-in-trade of a stage magician.

She had sat in drawing rooms when she had been a little girl, oohing and aahing and clapping her hands while the visiting conjuror or magician performed his tricks with paraphernalia similar to that which was so neatly laid out before her. The big doll was undoubtedly a ventriloquist’s dummy.

What in the world was Cobie doing with them, hidden away as they were? She thought of him, grave, charming, always perfectly turned out, the complete patrician, remarkable for the excellence of his manners in a society where such things were highly valued. Nothing about him suggested that he would have a secret hoard of objects such as these—or be able to use them.

Why? She gave them one last stare before she shut the cupboard door and manoeuvred it so that it locked again, even though imperfectly. What else was he concealing? Who was the man who used these strange toys, for their appearance told her that they had been used, that this was no private museum. What else lay hidden behind the locked cupboard doors of his room?

And the odd clothing. What was that doing there? For the life of her she couldn’t visualise him wearing it. Then, when she shut the door of the room, a little frightened, as well as a little ashamed of having spied on him, memory struck.

Before they had married he had visited her in her dreams. Now that she was his wife, and shared at least a part of his life with him, he had ceased to do so. But the memory of that recurring dream, almost forgotten, came back to her—as well as the strange visions which she sometimes had during and after their love-making.

In the dream he had been quite unlike the civilised urbane man whom she and the world knew, the golden Apollo of the Prince of Wales’s set. He had been wild, feral, not even clean. His hair had been long, his face unshaven, and the hand he had extended to her had been grimy. She also remembered that he had never offered her his right hand in the dream, only his left. But he was right-handed, surely? Another puzzle.

What was important, though, was that she could imagine that man being a magician, a conjuror. That man could be anything. But why had she seen him in such a guise? Why, occasionally, during their love-making, when it was at its wildest—as it had lately become—had she had flashes in which she had seen the wild man again?

Could that man be carrying on a secret liaison with Susanna? She could imagine that man doing anything, anything at all. She would not like that man to know that she had been prowling curiously around his room, drawn there by the doubts that not only Violet had put in her head, but by his own conduct.

Not that, if questioned by a barrister, she could have said exactly what it was about him that disturbed her, but because she knew that she was beginning to sense that the inwardness of him was quite different from the bland image which he showed to English society.

She remembered what he had said to her before they were married. ‘Appearances often deceive, Dinah.’ All the way to Markendale, her mind worried at the problem which was Cobie Grant like a dog worrying a bone.

But she was the magician’s true pupil because nothing showed.

## Chapter Three

A fter Sandringham and the season, living at Markendale was like falling into a warm bath. Nothing was required of one, Dinah decided, but to lie back and enjoy one’s self. That this also was not enough for her was a subject for internal annoyance. Really, what do I want? she asked herself. If I were honest, a different kind of life altogether, but that would mean being no longer Lady Dinah Grant—and do I want that? Could I bear to lose Cobie—even though in no true sense can I be said to have him!

He remained an enigma. She could be sure of nothing. He might—or might not—be having an affaire with Susanna. He might—or might not—be doing a thousand other things, some of which might—or might not—involve him in using the magician’s tricks which she had found in the cupboard in his room.

For no reason at all she thought that he was in some way involved with the police—but how and why she had no idea. She also had no idea whether or not he was enjoying himself in England, and whether he intended to stay, or whether he meant to return to the United States—and if so, when?

Markendale was even bigger than Moorings. It had been built early in the eighteenth century and had little of Moorings’ airy charm. It was a barracks of a place, furnished heavily by William Kent, and looked out across the moors.

Its attraction for Lord Kenilworth and his guests was its nearness to the railway line which led to Doncaster, where the autumn race meeting was held. Dinah found racing boring, and she was pretty certain that Cobie felt the same. He had once said to her when she had asked him why he didn’t buy any horses to race that his interest in horses was confined to riding them, not watching midgets doing it for him.

‘Now that is for your ears only,’ he told her, lightly. ‘They would probably drum me out of English society forever if they found out that I thought any such thing!’

Dinah could lose herself by wandering through the corridors at Markendale, admiring the paintings on the walls, and visiting the library, which was excellent, although there was no sign that anyone in the house-party ever used it other than to read the daily papers in it, or write the occasional letter there.

By doing so she could avoid the idle chit-chat of the other women. Never mind what the Marquise had taught her, she deserved a little time to herself, and so she told her husband when he came to find her, late one afternoon, curled up on the window seat in the library, half-hidden by the curtain. She was not reading anything improving, but was deep in Mr Henry James’s novel, The Princess Casamassima.

She looked up at him, impudence written on her face. ‘I hope that you have not come to reprimand me.’

‘For what?’ He was brief. She had noticed that when they were alone this was more his style than effusiveness was.

‘For not joining in, for hiding myself away.’

He sat down opposite to her in one of William Kent’s chairs, and shrugged. ‘You deserve a little time of your own.’ He nodded his head at her book, ‘Something serious?’

Dinah knew from his tone that he was roasting her—she was reading his voice more and more easily, and knew that his subtle double-entendres were always intended, never accidental.

She decided to return the compliment, ‘You might say so.’ She showed him the title-page. ‘It is, after all, about us, I mean our society.’

He nodded agreement. ‘You should read The American—and then tell me whether you think Mr James describes us correctly.’

Her answer was oblique. ‘Most of the Americans I have met are not at all like you.’

‘Is that meant to be a compliment?’

‘If you like.’ Her smile at him was as sweet as those which he usually offered her.

Cobie laughed, rose and came over to her, to bend over her, to put his hand on her neck and kiss her tenderly.

‘You learn quickly,’ he told her, ‘and now, you must learn something else—a little patience with the inanities of this life. We are going to the races at Doncaster tomorrow, and I have said that you will accompany me. You would rather do so, would you not, than remain behind with most of the other women?’

Dinah made a little face. ‘I would rather neither, if you follow me. But, yes, I would prefer to go with you.’

‘Good, and now come with me. It is almost tea-time, and the Prince is asking for you. I see that you are dressed for it.’ He directed an approving look at her cream and pale violet silk tea-gown.

‘Dressed for everything,’ remarked Dinah irrepressibly, ‘Do you know, I calculate that I change my clothing on an average of nearly six times a day?’

‘At that rate,’ Cobie returned, ‘I believe that you surpass me, which I would have thought difficult.’

Dinah had to prevent herself from asking him if one of his many changes when they were in London was into his curious brown suit, and if so, where he went in it. Her silence he took for agreement, and companionably—for they were nothing if not that, she thought ruefully—they passed into the Great Hall, which was now used as a drawing room. It was the middle bar of an H, the two newer wings being the outside ones.

There was a huge hearth with a great fire roaring in it. Assembled there was the entire house party, including those members of it who had arrived only a few hours earlier: Sir Ratcliffe and Lady Heneage, Arthur and Susanna Winthrop and Mr Hendrick Van Deusen, who was the only member of the party to attend without a large retinue of his own.

Afterwards Dinah thought that there was something symbolic about the company, who were never all to meet under the same roof again. As though her and Cobie’s arrival was some sort of signal, Violet rang for tea to be served, while Cobie steered Dinah towards the Prince who was seated in a huge armchair, near to the fire. His Princess was a few yards away in another, her complexion shielded by a large tapestry screen mounted on a pole.

‘As you commanded, sir,’ said Cobie. Dinah, bowing gracefully, had her hand taken by the Prince.

‘None of that formal nonsense here, Lady Dinah,’ he boomed. ‘We are all friends together, no more and no less. Where do you hide yourself, these days, hey?’

‘In the library, sir.’ Dinah thought that he deserved no more and no less than the truth. She could see Violet rolling her eyes and frowning at her, could feel the eyes of half a dozen jealous women boring into her back.

‘In the library, hey! I thought as much, and what do you find to amuse yourself there? And what does your husband think about having a blue-stocking for a wife?’

Dinah was demure, ‘I think that he rather likes the idea, sir.’

‘But you’re not sure,’ he offered her shrewdly. ‘A man of action, your husband. Violet tells me that you wished to go to Oxford, to be a lady scholar. Is that true? You are too charming, I will not say pretty, to be wasted in the cloisters.’

He sat back and smiled at her scarlet face, ‘D’you mind me not calling you pretty, hey?’

‘No, sir, if that is what you think.’ But she did, a little.

‘Sensible girl, aren’t you? Not many women would have given me that answer. No, you’re not pretty, but you are becoming beautiful—which is better than pretty and will last longer. Clever man, your husband.’

This was a trifle oblique, but Dinah thought she took the Prince’s meaning—that it was Cobie who had transformed, and was still transforming, her.

‘I think so, sir.’

‘He is proud of his young wife, I am sure.’

Dinah wasn’t sure, but she said, politely, ‘Oh, yes, and I am proud of him. I wouldn’t like to do anything to distress him. He has been very kind to me, you know, sir.’

Tea had arrived while they were talking and he waved Dinah to a chair beside the Princess who made something of a fuss of her. She complimented her on not over-eating, asked her if she intended to join them at Doncaster on the morrow, and created among those assembled there more jealousy of the raw chit who had been the sensation of the season, and now looked like outdoing her own sister.

Conversation became general. The Prince rose, which had everyone else on their feet, and Dinah found herself talking to Mr Van Deusen who had been sitting quietly by the fire, diagonally from her, enjoying the delights of the most enormous spread which she had ever seen a man eat.

‘Enjoying yourself, Lady Dinah?’

‘I think that I should like notice of that question, Mr Van Deusen.’

He gave a gusty laugh. ‘You look as though you are.’

‘Appearances often deceive, Mr Van Deusen.’

He now gave her the sharpest look. He had doubtless, in the dubious past—she was sure that it was dubious—which he shared with Cobie, heard him say that. Perhaps more than once.

Before he could answer her, she added, ‘It depends, I think, on what one means by enjoy.’

A slow smile crossed his broad face, ‘Oh, yes, Lady Dinah. Do let us logic-chop. Such a change from the usual conversation at these places. You have been learning from…Jacobus.’

He had nearly said Jumping Jake, because watching her he could see how much a pupil of his she was, and how much she had learned from him.

‘Yes, from Jacobus. He has never told me where his name came from. Do you know, Mr Van Deusen?’

He shook his head sadly. ‘Alas, no.’

He did not tell her that it was not the name he had originally known Cobie by, and which it was difficult for him not to use. ‘A family name, I believe.’

‘Ah, but what family?’ retorted Dinah naughtily, and then relented. ‘I mustn’t tease you, must I. Besides, Sir Ratcliffe is coming, and I must put on my best face for him, and do nothing to encourage him in any way.’

Which was difficult, for he had taken to pursuing Dinah Grant, and she could see his wife, old before her time, standing before the tall windows, the late afternoon light cruel on her face. She had not worn as well as her husband and the twenty years of her unhappy married life were written harshly on her features.

Pity for her made Dinah a little abrupt with her husband. Mr Van Deusen had melted away on his arrival, leaving her to cope with him alone. He was sure that she could.

‘And who the devil’s he that he should be here?’ uttered Sir Ratcliffe peremptorily, staring after him. ‘Any idea, Lady Di?’

She disliked her name being shortened, and said a little frostily, ‘He’s a friend of my husband, and beside that he is known to the American Envoy and, I believe, to Lord Kenilworth. Something to do with a trade mission to the United States a few years ago. Lord Kenilworth met him then.’

‘Pity we have to deal with such upstarts,’ sighed Sir Ratcliffe, forgetting that Dinah was married to one of them.

‘Yes, isn’t it?’ agreed Dinah smartly. ‘And what a pity that they’re so rich that we’re happy to marry them—for their dollars, of course.’

Sir Ratcliffe, remembering that Dinah was reputed to have done just that, said kindly, ‘Much better if we could have their dollars without their presence, haw, haw!’

‘One must pay something for benefits received,’ Dinah sighed back at him. ‘After all, I doubt whether I should be here at all if I hadn’t married my husband. Think what I should have missed.’

Now this was all as two-faced as any of her husband’s conversations, seeing that she wasn’t at all sure that taking part in the social round was any kind of benefit at all. The real benefits of her marriage could hardly be discussed with Sir Ratcliffe.

‘Oh, indeed,’ he drawled back at her, thinking that she was wittier than Violet, and much less of a shrew into the bargain. Susanna was beginning to pall: she was too clinging, and an affaire with Grant’s wife would be one in the eye for Grant and no mistake. He was reputed to make free with other men’s wives rather than provide his own for their use.

‘I see that you take after your sister, Lady Dinah—in more ways than one, I hope,’ and he looked at her with the light of hopeful conquest in his eye.

Fortunately, Cobie, not liking to see his wife so much as speak to Sir Ratcliffe, came over to them, excused them both and led her out of the Hall down yet another long corridor. His conversation, apparently aimless, was far from being so.

‘Markendale is an architectural monstrosity,’ he said idly. ‘I have been talking to Lord Kenilworth’s land agent, and he has been showing me the plans of the building. It is like a giant jigsaw puzzle. The wing we are all housed in is comparatively new, built during the last fifty years to accommodate the last Lord Kenilworth’s guests. Like the present one he had the reputation of being a great host, and his wife a great hostess. The present pair are trying to outdo them. They would be hard put to build such a puzzle as the new wing where stairs lead anywhere but where you might expect.’

Dinah nodded. ‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘that one might get lost, and be found years later as a skeleton on some landing no one has thought to visit. Ought I to carry a cord with me, like Theseus in the Labyrinth, do you think, to keep me from such a sad fate?’

He nodded lazily, handed her through a glass door and walked with her into the gardens, turning at the end of a long alley to look back at the Hall.

He pointed to a window on the first floor. ‘I calculate that we are housed over there.’

A balcony ran the full length of the house, saved only from spoiling its lines by the presence of a flat roof below it where an orangery had been built on to its side by the present Lord Kenilworth.

‘Should you like to live here?’ Dinah queried

Cobie shook his head. ‘Not my style,’ he said decisively.

Dinah wondered what his style was. Presently they turned away to stroll down to the lake where a folly in the form of a Grecian temple stood, and where Cobie had ordered his sketch-book, pencils and water-colours, and Dinah’s canvas-work, to be left.

‘I thought that you might appreciate a little time on your own,’ he told her, beginning to draw the idyllic scene before them. ‘The next few days promise to be hectic, what with the races in the day, ceremonial dinners and equally ceremonial card-playing at night. We shall all be expected to join in.’

Dinah did appreciate a little time to herself. She took out her tapestry and began to stitch. Presently Cobie rose and picked up his sketch-book. ‘You will excuse me, I know. I have a mind to draw the house in the background,’ he said, and walked away.

She watched him until he disappeared from sight before resuming her work. He was aware of her gaze on him, but it was to escape it that he had left her. He stopped when the house lay plain before him, and he began to draw it carefully…but not because of its aesthetic interest. He took from his pocket the internal plan of the wing where all the guests were accommodated, and which he had drawn from memory after Kenilworth’s land agent had shown it to him earlier.

Sir Ratcliffe’s bedroom was there, three windows away from his own, accessible both from the ground by way of the orangery roof and the balcony, and by the balcony from his own bedroom.

Cobie began to turn plans over in his mind.

He was still turning them over that evening when, to escape from everyone, he left the vast drawing room where tables had been set out for baccarat to be played when the Prince so ordered. He wandered into a dimly lit octagonal room, known as The Cabinet which had one window looking out on the gardens. The other walls were covered with cases of dead butterflies, pinned down in all their fragile glory.

Another guest was inspecting them desultorily through her lorgnette: she was Lady Heneage.

Cobie bowed, and began to retire. ‘I had not meant to interrupt you.’

‘No matter,’ she said, almost curtly. ‘I would value your opinion on these,’ and she waved her hand at the cases.

She was beautifully dressed, and was wearing the famous Heneage diamonds, a necklace, ear rings, two rings, and a brooch. Far from enhancing her, they added in some odd way to her insignificance—the most important thing about her being them, and them only.

‘Oh, I can have no opinion on such things,’ he said coolly. ‘I am not qualified to judge.’

Her sad face broke into a watery smile, ‘Which means, I think, that you do not like them.’

Because Cobie thought that, like him, she didn’t, he murmured, truthfully for once, ‘Admiring scenes of carnage is not one of my favourite occupations, Lady Heneage.’

She took his point, and nodded slowly, saying, ‘You have a way with words, Mr Grant. I have been listening to you. Do you admire my diamonds more? I hear that you have been investing in them.’

Neither was she a fool, although many thought her so.

‘A Heneage heirloom, I understand. Always owned and worn by the current Lady Heneage. They are extremely beautiful, without a flaw. If they were to come upon the market I think that the price they would fetch would be little less than astronomical.’

She made a savage gesture with her hand. ‘That is nothing to me. They are a brand I wear, nothing more. A millstone around my neck, Mr Grant. I wish them at the bottom of the sea. Do I shock you?’

He pitied her.

There was something so forlorn and lost about her. Her husband was busy chasing someone else’s wife—perhaps his own—whilst his wife, whose fortune gossip said that he had thrown away on the gaming tables, walked alone and unhappy.

‘No,’ he said gently. ‘But I should tell you that very little does.’

‘I thought not. Look after your wife, Mr Grant. Protect her from the wolves—which you are well able to do, being one yourself. You see I am being frank with you. I was once like her, until I married. Leave me, please. I grow maudlin. I know that you will say nothing of this to my husband. He dislikes you intensely. Perhaps that is why I like you. What he dislikes must be worth knowing.’

Cobie took the hand which lay lax at her side, lifted it and kissed it. ‘To say that you have my deepest sympathy would be presumptuous, Lady Heneage. I thank you for your interest in my wife. If there is ever anything I can do for you…’

She interrupted him. ‘No one can do anything for me. I married him with, as I then thought, my eyes open. But a young woman’s knowledge of life is limited. One pays for that, Mr Grant, more bitterly than one deserves.’

Oh, yes, he knew that to be true, none better. He thought of the dreadful price which he had once paid for innocence, and pitied her the more. He said nothing further, merely bowed again, and left her staring at the holocaust of damaged beauty which gathered dust upon the walls of a little-visited room.

The Prince was one of the bankers at baccarat, Cobie found when he returned to the drawing room. He was using his own cards and counters fashioned from red leather with his Prince of Wales feathers on one side and the denomination on the other. The counters were worth from five shillings to ten pounds. The game was played as solemnly as though they were at a casino—to the shock of some of the party who were strait-laced.

Sir Ratcliffe was winning consistently. His luck was in these days, he proclaimed jovially. He had backed the favourite that afternoon and it had romped home. He helped Susanna, who sat beside him, and who had never played before. She won quite a large sum, too.

Cobie, watching him carefully, was not sure how much luck had to do with it, but never mind, he thought that Sir Ratcliffe’s luck was soon going to change for the worse in other areas of his life.

The Prince called him into the game. Lady Heneage came to sit by him, to be advised as her husband was advising Susanna. Dinah had refused to play. ‘You don’t mind, do you?’ she had asked him earlier. ‘But I find it tedious.’

Cobie found it tedious, too, but had his reasons for playing. One of them being that watching Sir Ratcliffe carefully seemed reasonable when he was part of the game. He won a little himself. Lady Heneage won more until she announced that she was tired and needed an early night—which gave the Grants the opportunity to excuse themselves as well.

They had a suite of rooms, which included a small drawing room as well as two bedrooms, and a rather stark closet of a bathroom off Cobie’s bedroom, nothing like the luxurious one in Park Lane to which Dinah had grown accustomed.

‘What a boring way of passing the time,’ she exclaimed of the baccarat game.

‘True,’ said her husband. ‘I can think of a much better way, can’t you?’

‘Oh, yes,’ she told him fervently, inviting him into her bed.

Well, at least if he were pursuing an affaire with Susanna here, at Markendale, she would soon know, since everyone knew of the amorous adventures of everyone else. It seemed as though Susanna had taken up with Sir Ratcliffe again, which was a great relief, and long might it last, she thought naughtily, before Cobie leapt into her bed, and thought disappeared altogether, and sensation was all…

Later on, in the small hours, sleepless, his wife on his arm, Cobie lay on his back and thought about Lady Heneage, Sir Ratcliffe, two dead children, and a diamond necklace which was hated by its owner—or temporary owner—for heirlooms were ambiguous things, their owner being unable to do anything but allow them to be passed on to the next Lady of the Heneage household when her husband died.

He had once read Trollope’s novel, The Eustace Diamonds. He remembered that Lizzie Eustace, who, unlike Lady Heneage, had loved her diamonds fiercely, had refused to hand them over when her husband died, and had carried them around with her in a small safe. She then stole them herself, claiming that someone else had.

Sir Ratcliffe was sure to carry the diamonds in a safe—and did he also hide the Prince of Wales’s letters in it? One might suppose so. Where else could be better? He would need to know that they were secure. How strong would the safe be? Could a man who had mastered the art of cracking safes, not only by using dynamite, but by more subtle, criminal means, crack Sir Ratcliffe’s?

Cobie had reconnoitred to some purpose that afternoon, and now knew the exact lay-out of the floor on which he was sleeping. The thing would be to arrange matters so that it looked as though an outsider was the thief—that is, if he managed to steal anything.

Chance, chance, he said to himself, be my friend again.

Dinah stirred as though she had heard him. He looked down at her fondly. After all, by chance, he had acquired a wife who pleased him in bed, unlikely though that had seemed when he had decided to marry her. He would have to be sure that she was sleeping peacefully in her own room when he carried out the plan which had taken shape in his mind. He slept at last, knowing ruefully that, for his plan to work, Sir Ratcliffe would have to be in Susanna’s bed, not his own.

For that, as well as for Lizzie and the other dead child, Sir Ratcliffe would lose more than his letters… Meantime, he would watch the swine enjoy himself, knowing the day of reckoning was coming, and soon—the next night, if all went well.

All did go well. He even enjoyed watching his intended victim win again at the races on the following afternoon and at the baccarat table at night. The grey man, Beauchamp, stopped him on the stairs on the way to dinner, ostensibly to admire a painting by Richard Wilson which hung above them, actually to say conversationally, ‘Have you thought over what we discussed at Sandringham, Mr Grant? Have you come to a conclusion yet?’

Cobie, watching Dinah talking to Lady Heneage in the hall below, said, apparently idly, ‘Oh, yes, indeed, Mr Beauchamp,’ and then fell silent. Playing cat and mouse was a game he excelled at.

There was a hint of exasperation in Beauchamp’s tone. ‘And?’

‘And?’ Cobie’s smile was as sweet as he could make it. ‘Why, as to that, Mr Beauchamp, sir, you will have to wait and see. It should add interest to your stay here. And, yes, the Richard Wilson is superb, one of his best, don’t you think.’

With that he walked lightly down to join Dinah and Lady Heneage who did not appear to be sharing her husband’s happiness at his constant winning. Indeed, the one person Sir Ratcliffe wasn’t happy with was his wife. When she went to her room that night, he caught her up, and followed her in.

‘A word with you,’ he said, his face ugly, his hand on her arm. She tried to shake it off, but couldn’t. ‘What are you doing, toadying up to that swine, Grant? I won’t have it, do you hear me? Keep away from him.’

Still trying to shake herself free she said defiantly, ‘No, indeed. I do not interfere with your pleasures, none of which is innocent. My pleasure in talking to Mr Grant is innocent. I shall do as I please.’

‘That you won’t,’ he snarled, and twisted her arm cruelly. ‘You’ll do as you are told, or it will be the worse for you.’

She tried to pull away from him, but failed again. ‘I won’t do as you bid me. You have forfeited that right.’

This time he let go of her arm only to give her a backhanded blow across the face. ‘You heard what I said, woman. You grow a deal too bold these days.’

‘My life is pure,’ she told him, still defiant. ‘Can you say as much?’

He struck her again, knocking her to the floor. He bent down and carelessly stripped her of her diamonds.

‘Damn you, woman, you don’t deserve these. Perhaps one day I might have a woman I should be proud to see wearing them. May it soon come.’

He turned and left her. She struggled to her feet. He was doubtless going to Susanna Winthrop, and she wondered whether he was as cruel to her as he was to his unconsidered wife. Not yet, perhaps.

Slowly, she prepared for the night, not ringing for her maid. She climbed into bed painfully; there were bruises on her wrist and on her arms and legs where she had fallen heavily. Pain and shame kept her from sleep, as it did on many nights.

Some time after midnight, she dozed lightly, but a slight sound woke her. It seemed to come from her husband’s room, which she had thought to be empty. Moved by curiosity, wondering who could be there, for it was not Sir Ratcliffe’s habit to return from Susanna’s room until dawn, she rose, walked to his bedroom door to fling it open and switched on the light to see—what?

A man, all in black, wearing a kind of muffler which covered his head and face except for his eyes. He had Sir Ratcliffe’s small safe open before him on the dressing table in the window to take full advantage of the moonlight and was lifting out of it the leather cases in which the Heneage diamonds were kept. The necklace had already been abstracted and glittered on a large black silk handkerchief spread out on the bed.

For some reason she wasn’t frightened, although beforehand she would have thought that she would have been paralysed by fear. The burglar, for he was a burglar, calmly continued to pull out the cases. She now saw that a pile of papers, removed from the safe, also lay half-folded in the handkerchief, ready to be taken away.

For a moment she and the burglar stared at one another. She thought of giving the alarm, and then she thought of the misery which her life with Sir Ratcliffe had brought her, how the diamonds lay like fire on her skin, burning it, and that she hated them and him.

Slowly, slowly, she turned around, switched off the light, so that now only the moon illuminated the room, and returned to her bed, leaving the intruding thief to do his work.

Lady Heneage slept well for the first time in months. The thought of her husband’s face when he found his safe pillaged brought a smile to her lips as consciousness faded.

When the door had opened Cobie’s first thought was that it might be Sir Ratcliffe returning early from Susanna’s bed. And if so, what should he do then?

But it was Lady Heneage, ghost-like in a long white nightdress, her greying hair in a plait down her back, her eyes fearless, looking straight at him. He could have applauded her—he might have expected hysterics or wild screaming, either of which would have brought all the inhabitants of Markendale at the run, leaving him to escape…if he could.

Cobie decided to do nothing, simply to continue calmly unpacking the diamonds from the safe. To move towards her, to say anything, might only serve to destroy her unnatural calm.

She hesitated. She put up a hand to switch off the light, before walking silently from the room. The whole episode had taken only one nerve-shattering minute. From wondering sardonically what would follow if he were caught, he moved to understanding what her inaction, her refusal to arouse the house, told him of her relations with her husband.

Her intrusion also told him that the tightrope on which he was walking was higher above the ground than was usual, even for him. He didn’t think that he had been recognised. He did think that it behoved him to move as speedily as he could, which he did. At the end he took a card from his pocket and put it into the empty safe which he left, prominent in all its rifled glory on the dressing table.

The last leg of his dangerous odyssey lay before him. His booty in his pockets, he wriggled through the sash window, leaving it open. It was the work of a moment to walk briskly along the balcony to enter his bedroom through his own open window. Earlier, he had placed a ladder, fetched from the garden, to lean against the orangery wall, giving the impression of an outsider having gained entrance.

Luck had been with him again, but for how long? One day the horse beneath him would fall at one of the fences he was trying to take, and that would be the end—but not yet, please. He laughed noiselessly at the thought of the brouhaha the rifled safe would cause in the morning.

He parcelled up the Prince’s letters, to place them in a large and expensive envelope of white hand-made paper which he sealed with an elaborate and meaningless seal, bought from a pawnbroker’s in a dingy part of London, sinking it deep into the hot wax.

The envelope was addressed as to the personal attention of HRH the Prince of Wales. In the morning he would set out for his pre-breakfast ride—he had been taking one for the last week, so that his being up at such a time would cause no comment, and on his way out he would slip the envelope on to the table where the incoming mail was placed.

His last act after hiding the diamonds was to take a bath and dress himself for bed. Angelic in pure white, his newly washed and dried hair clustered in curls about his head, he offered the world the impression of a cinquecento saint. He opened the communicating door between Dinah’s room and his, to slip quietly into her bed where she lay sleeping, a small smile on her face, to be discovered by her in the early hours and to celebrate with him not only his presence, but his unknown skulduggery.

Sir Ratcliffe Heneage lay in bed with Susanna Winthrop in the curve of his arm. It was almost dawn, time for him to leave. He began to move; she protested against him in half-sleep. Waking fully, she said, a little fretful, ‘I really—can’t think what I’m going to do.’

He tensed a little, and asked, ‘About what?’ He was a trifle apprehensive. It was always dangerous when women began to think. Best if they only ever felt.

‘About the fact that I’m having a baby.’

‘What is there to do? Your husband knows, and hasn’t made anything of it.’

He could really do without this sort of thing to trouble him. Yesterday’s letters from his bankers and his creditors were enough trouble for a fellow without a woman having second thoughts when he was in bed with her. He was sure she was having second thoughts. He knew the tone of voice she was using only too well.

‘He knows the child can’t be his, but he’s prepared to accept it, it gives him an heir, keeps the money from his cousin, but I’m frightened that he might find out that it’s yours.’

Sir Ratcliffe gave a coarse laugh. ‘Never tell me that he thinks it’s Apollo’s!’

Susanna put her face into the pillow, said in a muffled voice, ‘For some reason he took it for granted that it was. I suppose he thought that it happened just before you and I became friendly. He thinks Cobie’s my lover.’

She fell silent, then raised an agonised face.

He said, brutally, ‘I’d have thought that it would have disturbed him more for Grant to be the father than myself. After all, Grant’s an illegitimate nobody, I’m the possessor of an illustrious name.’

Susanna said tearfully, ‘I know, but since he’s always believed that I’ve been unfaithful to him with Cobie, he didn’t mind a child by him—he half-welcomed it. But if he knew that it was yours he would be enraged. It would mean that I’d been unfaithful with two lovers, not one. He couldn’t stand that.’

Sir Ratcliffe began to laugh. ‘A good joke, isn’t it—seeing that you’ve assured me that you were never Grant’s mistress. Well, it’s to both our advantages to let him think that it’s Grant’s, so why worry?’

‘Because—’ and now Susanna’s voice was agonised ‘—I’m doing Cobie a dreadful wrong. He’s always behaved honourably towards me, and now everyone thinks that I became pregnant by him before I began my affaire with you. I’ve even let his wife believe that—as much by what I haven’t said as what I have. Now I don’t know how to tell the truth. Oh, it was a wicked thing to do…I can’t think why I did it….’

‘But sensible,’ said Sir Ratcliffe briskly, rising and putting on his heavy brocade dressing gown, ‘seeing that I can’t afford to keep a mistress and an illegitimate brat, and I don’t want to be involved in a nasty divorce case either. Now, if your husband doesn’t mind Apollo’s get, why should you have qualms? You gain every way. I’d better go, it’s getting late, and you’d better stop all this pious talk about doing wrong.

‘First of all you don’t mean it, and secondly, I find it a damned bore. I can get that sort of whining cant from my wife—from my mistress I expect better things. So put a bright face on, my dear, if you want to keep me in your bed.’

He had never spoken so coarsely to her before, but he was beginning to tire of her. Ordinary love was always milk-and-water to him: he needed strong brandy, but for safety’s sake, he dare not, at the moment, try to find any. It was too soon after he had enjoyed the last child. He wondered how long Susanna would go on clinging to him if he meted out to her some of the treatment his wife received. It might be interesting to find out.

He was humming cheerfully to himself when he walked along the corridor to his room, the morning light growing stronger by the minute. No one was about, although he knew that by now the servants in the attics would be stirring, getting ready for the day. He unlocked the bedroom door to let himself in, and switched on the light.

He didn’t, at first, see the open safe on the dressing table, only the bed, turned down for him, but not yet entered. He pulled off his dressing gown, yawned, and strode towards it…

To see on his way—no, he couldn’t be seeing that, no, not that! There was the safe, yawning as widely as he had just done, and empty, quite empty, except for a piece of card left on its floor. Fearfully he leaned forward, picked up the card, and felt the breeze from the window, which was wide open, although he had left it almost shut.

The message on the card was plain and unequivocal. I’VE TAKEN PAYMENT FOR LIZZIE STEELE—BUT IT’S NOT THE FINAL PAYMENT was printed on it in bold capitals. Sir Ratcliffe’s head buzzed and roared. For a moment the loss of the diamonds and the Prince’s letters were forgotten. Someone knew! Someone was aware of Lizzie’s death and his part in it, and that someone had taken the diamonds—and the letters—to punish him.

He was no longer safe, his secret was no secret. Some midnight thief had come through the window and robbed him, not only of his last few pieces of wealth, but of his security. Still holding the card, he sank on to the bed. What to do? He must report the theft of the diamonds. He couldn’t keep that from his wife.

Whatever he had said to her, he still wanted her to wear them every night. They were the only proof left that he wasn’t entirely bankrupt, wasn’t beginning to sell the last remnants of the Heneage wealth, everything else having gone. No, he must reveal the theft, but not the card which the thief had left—for what questions might not the police ask him about it?

He fetched his wallet from where he had left it on the previous evening and stuffed the card in it. As soon as there was a fire going and he was alone with it he would destroy the incriminating thing, but he couldn’t destroy the fact that someone, somewhere, knew the dreadful truth of him—and was seeking revenge.

Worse, the one salvation he had, the talisman which had kept him safe for so long, was his possession of the Prince’s incriminating letters—and they had gone, too. If they had been returned to the Prince he was done for, because the Royal favour, which had been the only thing to keep him afloat, would now be removed.