Pandora(74)

Dora bites her lip. ‘That’s different.’

‘Is it?’

The dancers begin to disperse. Without ceremony Mr Ashmole walks her out of the ballroom, deposits her in a shadowed vestibule near a gold-embossed pot, the edge of a punch glass poking out from the fronds of a fern. He stares at Dora a moment before speaking again, dark eyes calculating.

‘Do you honestly expect me to believe that you had no idea your uncle was involved in illegal trading? I’ve read Edward’s notes. It simply isn’t possible that your uncle was capable of hiding it from you for all these years, while you lived under the same roof.’

Dora’s stomach twists at the words. She hears the truth in them, understands his suspicions. When he puts it that way it does indeed look very bad. And yet …

‘It is the truth,’ she whispers.

Her companion scoffs. ‘You will forgive me if I struggle to believe you.’

‘Mr Ashmole,’ she says tightly, her shame ripe. ‘Edward has been extremely kind to me. I …’

Dora trails off. Frowns.

‘What notes?’

There is a split second of agonised silence. Then, as if someone has flipped a lever inside him, something shifts in Mr Ashmole’s face. The hand that has kept such a stern hold of her arm since he guided her into the vestibule drops so suddenly it is as if she has burnt him. Mr Ashmole curses, begins to turn away, but Dora stands firm in his path, a fire setting flame in the pit of her chest.





CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE





Sir William suggests they speak on the balcony where the crowds are thinner and where, the diplomat quips, he might actually hear himself think. Following him out, Edward thinks again of what Dora revealed.

He saved my life.

The wind is not as strong here. The back of the villa faces a bank of water, shielding them from the worst of it, and Edward is thankful for the cool air as it is over-hot in that ballroom and his claustrophobia (though he has tried his best to hide it from Dora) was beginning to rear itself. He feels completely out of place and utterly ridiculous. His slippers pinch his toes. There is far too much pomp. Lady Latimer’s decorations – though undeniably impressive – are altogether too grandiose for his tastes. Edward prefers simplicity. Peace and quiet. It amazes him how much money rich people seem happy to waste on entertainment for one mere evening.

They skirt past two couples who have also taken the air and a group of older gentlemen dressed in togas. For one brief moment Edward sees a familiar face among them – long white beard, a pair of piercing blue eyes – and he stumbles, tries to get a better look.

‘Mr Lawrence?’

Hamilton has stopped, is looking at him with an expression bordering on impatience.

‘I …’ Edward strains to see, but the man has gone. ‘Forgive me, I thought …’ He shakes his head. ‘Never mind.’

‘Come then,’ his companion says, and Edward lets Sir William lead him to a more secluded area on the far right of the pavilion.

‘So, Mr Lawrence,’ Hamilton says when they are out of earshot, leaning his weight on his cane. He grips its handle, what looks to be a Grecian face carved in ivory. ‘You have my undivided attention.’

The diplomat’s stare is uncomfortably direct. Edward recognises that he will not stand for time-wasting pleasantries, and so he comes straight to the point.

‘In my letter – which I wrote on the advice of Richard Gough – I said that I had come across a pithos. That pithos,’ he adds, chucking his chin in the direction of the ballroom. ‘I also said that its owner has many articles of Greek pottery which have possibly been acquired by underhand means.’

‘I see.’

‘I wrote requesting your advice.’

Sir William is very still. ‘Am I to understand that the owner of these artefacts is Dora Blake, as Lady Latimer indicated?’

‘The owner is her uncle.’

Hamilton’s expression darkens. ‘Do you know where he acquired them?’

‘We do not. Though that is something I am trying to discover.’ Edward thinks of the man Coombe, determines to visit his lodgings the first moment he can. ‘Dora found the pithos in the shop’s basement.’

‘And how did it find its way here?’

‘She has been using it for her jewellery designs. Lady Latimer took a liking to one of them, demanded to know where the inspiration came from.’

Sir William nods. ‘Yes, her ladyship has always been a stickler for getting her own way. How did Dora’s uncle take it?’

‘You must ask Dora.’

Hamilton pauses. Twists the cane on its foot.

‘What advice were you hoping I could give, Mr Lawrence?’

Here then, the crux of it.

‘Dora gave me permission to use the pithos as a study, as a means to gain entrance into the Society of Antiquaries. She has been sketching the pithos. I meant to write its history but the problem is – understanding now that it is of questionable origin – the Society cannot possibly publish it. I hoped, as an expert on Greek antiquities, that you would take a look at it, that you might give me an understanding of the black-market and its operations.’

‘Why?’

Edward hesitates. ‘For a different study.’

‘And does Dora know you wrote to me?’