determined to secure him. Poor Violet. Julia practically snatched Johnny right out of her arms.”
Caro wrinkled her nose. “Violet’s in Brussels, you know. I saw her chatting quite civilly with Julia at a military review.”
“Julia wrote me that she’d seen Violet. I assume Violet’s seen Johnny in Brussels as well. What was between them was a long time ago.”
Caro gave Cordelia a hard look. “First loves don’t die easily.”
“No.” Memories shot along Cordelia’s nerve endings. “But they can become irrelevant.”
For a moment Caro looked as though she was about to press the matter, but instead she asked, “Do you think Julia left the ball to meet a man?”
“Apparently she was having an affair with the Prince of Orange.”
“Good heavens. That does explain the secrecy.”
Cordelia studied her friend. “You don’t seem particularly shocked.”
“Don’t forget I grew up among the Devonshire House Set. It takes a lot to shock me. Do you think Julia fancied herself in love with the prince?”
Cordelia tried to imagine her elegant sister beside the awkward, impulsive prince. “Impossible to say. But I doubt she’d decided Slender Billy was the love of her life. You saw her these past weeks in Brussels, Caro. Did you notice anything between her and the prince?”
“No. I don’t even remember them dancing together particularly. But then lovers often go to great lengths not to give public clues to their relationship. That is—” Caro flushed. Her affair with Lord Byron had been played out very much on the public stage. In fact, Cordelia had always suspected there was more to it in public than in private.
“We have different reasons for entering into love affairs,” Cordelia said. “Julia was never the sort to want to make a scandal.”
“Everyone called her the perfect wife. Said how devoted she and Captain Ashton were. Which only goes to show—” Caro sat bolt upright. “Oh God, Cordy, I’m a wretch. I’m supposed to be comforting you, not—”
“No, I need to understand.” Cordelia pushed her fingers into her hair again, dislodging more pins. “I need to understand Julia if I’m to learn who did this to her.”
“But—” Caro stared at her. “You said she was killed because she was caught in an ambush. That Harry and Malcolm Rannoch were meeting with a French contact.”
“That’s what Harry told me.”
“You think Harry was lying?”
Cordelia got to her feet, stalked across the room, and splashed more cognac into her glass. “I think Harry would like to tidy this whole nasty business away with no uncomfortable scandals or questions about the Prince of Orange sleeping with a British officer’s wife.”
“Cordy—” Caro scanned her face. “Do you really want—Is there any purpose to be served by dragging Julia’s name through the mud? We both know what it’s like—There’s Julia’s little boy to think of.”
“I am thinking of Robbie. He deserves to know what happened to his mother. I don’t think we’ve begun to learn the whole of it.”
Harry Davenport was already in the outer office at Headquarters when Malcolm arrived at five minutes to twelve the next morning. Davenport was shaved and neatly attired in his staff officer’s dark blue coat, white pantaloons, and black stock.
“Do you ever sleep, Davenport?” Malcolm inquired, closing the door.
“About as much as you do, I expect. And I didn’t have a family to command any of my attention this morning.”
The words were spoken in neutral tones, as though Davenport were making a statement about the weather or the condition of the roads.
“It’s my son’s birthday as it happens,” Malcolm said. “Once he’d opened his presents, he was insistent on time spent tossing his new ball. Or rather rolling, but I like to think he has the arm of a cricketer.”
Fitzroy Somerset, the only other occupant of the room, looked up from the stack of papers on the desk before him. “Young
Caro wrinkled her nose. “Violet’s in Brussels, you know. I saw her chatting quite civilly with Julia at a military review.”
“Julia wrote me that she’d seen Violet. I assume Violet’s seen Johnny in Brussels as well. What was between them was a long time ago.”
Caro gave Cordelia a hard look. “First loves don’t die easily.”
“No.” Memories shot along Cordelia’s nerve endings. “But they can become irrelevant.”
For a moment Caro looked as though she was about to press the matter, but instead she asked, “Do you think Julia left the ball to meet a man?”
“Apparently she was having an affair with the Prince of Orange.”
“Good heavens. That does explain the secrecy.”
Cordelia studied her friend. “You don’t seem particularly shocked.”
“Don’t forget I grew up among the Devonshire House Set. It takes a lot to shock me. Do you think Julia fancied herself in love with the prince?”
Cordelia tried to imagine her elegant sister beside the awkward, impulsive prince. “Impossible to say. But I doubt she’d decided Slender Billy was the love of her life. You saw her these past weeks in Brussels, Caro. Did you notice anything between her and the prince?”
“No. I don’t even remember them dancing together particularly. But then lovers often go to great lengths not to give public clues to their relationship. That is—” Caro flushed. Her affair with Lord Byron had been played out very much on the public stage. In fact, Cordelia had always suspected there was more to it in public than in private.
“We have different reasons for entering into love affairs,” Cordelia said. “Julia was never the sort to want to make a scandal.”
“Everyone called her the perfect wife. Said how devoted she and Captain Ashton were. Which only goes to show—” Caro sat bolt upright. “Oh God, Cordy, I’m a wretch. I’m supposed to be comforting you, not—”
“No, I need to understand.” Cordelia pushed her fingers into her hair again, dislodging more pins. “I need to understand Julia if I’m to learn who did this to her.”
“But—” Caro stared at her. “You said she was killed because she was caught in an ambush. That Harry and Malcolm Rannoch were meeting with a French contact.”
“That’s what Harry told me.”
“You think Harry was lying?”
Cordelia got to her feet, stalked across the room, and splashed more cognac into her glass. “I think Harry would like to tidy this whole nasty business away with no uncomfortable scandals or questions about the Prince of Orange sleeping with a British officer’s wife.”
“Cordy—” Caro scanned her face. “Do you really want—Is there any purpose to be served by dragging Julia’s name through the mud? We both know what it’s like—There’s Julia’s little boy to think of.”
“I am thinking of Robbie. He deserves to know what happened to his mother. I don’t think we’ve begun to learn the whole of it.”
Harry Davenport was already in the outer office at Headquarters when Malcolm arrived at five minutes to twelve the next morning. Davenport was shaved and neatly attired in his staff officer’s dark blue coat, white pantaloons, and black stock.
“Do you ever sleep, Davenport?” Malcolm inquired, closing the door.
“About as much as you do, I expect. And I didn’t have a family to command any of my attention this morning.”
The words were spoken in neutral tones, as though Davenport were making a statement about the weather or the condition of the roads.
“It’s my son’s birthday as it happens,” Malcolm said. “Once he’d opened his presents, he was insistent on time spent tossing his new ball. Or rather rolling, but I like to think he has the arm of a cricketer.”
Fitzroy Somerset, the only other occupant of the room, looked up from the stack of papers on the desk before him. “Young
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