A Poisoned Season by TASHA ALEXANDER

and ran out the front door, calling for Jeremy, thinkinghe might still be in the vicinity. There was no reply. I would have to wait to ask him if he had seen anything else suspicious. I went back to the house, where I turned my attention to the note:

    It took me only a few moments with my lexicon to translate the passage: And what is Reason to Love? Light up, quick!—And where is thy old study of philosophy?—Away with the long toil of wisdom; this one thing only I know, that Love took captive even the mind of Zeus.
    “Davis, did you see the note before the duke picked it up?”
    “No, madam, I did not. I can assure you that it was not there when Mr. Berry departed. He dropped several cigarettes when His Grace removed him from the house. Molly swept the stairs immediately.” I had hired Molly away from the Savoy the day after I learned about Charles Berry’s treatment of her.
    “Would you please go into the square and see if the undercover policeman Mr. Hargreaves has stationed there saw anyone?” I asked. Davis did so, but the man had noticed nothing out of the ordinary. Whoever had left this missive was skilled in the art of remaining hidden.
    If I hadn’t witnessed firsthand Jeremy’s lack of interest in the ancient language, I might have suspected him of having left the message. As it was, I dismissed the thought almost at once. My admirer and the cat burglar were the same person, and there was no possibility that Jeremy was the thief. He’d never have the focus for such an endeavor. I would not be surprised to learn that he frequently found himself in the bedrooms of some of the best houses in London, but I doubtedthat he was ever reduced to using the window as his method of entrance.
     
    T he walk from Berkeley Square to Park Lane was a short one, past tree-lined rows of stately houses. It was a fine day, the heat having relented at last, and the improved weather had driven society outdoors. I passed no fewer than seven acquaintances before reaching the perfectly manicured park at Grosvenor Square, and until that moment, I had given no thought to the notion that my mission might be considered inappropriate. Being in close proximity to my parents’ house, which stood on the north end of the square, made me more self-conscious, and I wondered if calling unescorted on a gentleman would further damage my already tender reputation. I steeled my resolve and continued on, feeling only the slightest tinge of apprehension when I reached my destination and knocked on the heavy door. The dignified butler who opened it confirmed that Mr. Hargreaves was at home and ushered me quickly into the magnificent house, doing nothing to disguise the fact that he was neither accustomed to nor approving of finding young ladies on his master’s doorstep. He led me to an elegant salon, where rather than sit, I circled the room, examining the pictures that hung on the walls. So engrossed was I by a scene of the Thames painted by Turner that I did not notice Colin had entered the room until he stood next to me.
    “Very daring of you, Lady Ashton,” he murmured, “to come here quite unprotected.”
    I laughed. “I know that you’re right, though I don’t see how it is any different from your calling on me.”
    “At your house you are surrounded by your own servants. Here you are at my mercy.”
    “Your butler clearly does not approve of me and is certain to look after your own honor, so I feel confident I’m in no danger.”

    He stood very close but was careful not to touch me. “Fear not, Lady Ashton, your reputation is perfectly safe.” He kissed both of my hands, then stepped away.
    “You are taking this no-kissing business far too seriously,” I said.
    “It is quite serious.” His eyes sparkled. “What brings you to me this afternoon?” I told him, as succinctly as possible, about the letters Beatrice had found.
    “What do they say?” he asked.
    “They were written when the queen was in jail and seem to