Pandora(98)

‘I see.’ Sir William’s lip twists in a wry sort of smile. ‘You can hardly blame her anger.’

Edward has no defence, none that will sound acceptable.

‘Give her time,’ Hamilton says gently. ‘The truth always comes out. One way or another.’

Edward drains his glass, places it down on Sir William’s desk with more force than he means. He attempts a smile, gestures for the diplomat to continue. ‘You said Hezekiah did not take you for a fool?’

Hamilton clears his throat. ‘No. I asked Hezekiah what his plans were. Posed some not-so-subtle questions to him.’

‘Such as?’

He spreads his hands. ‘How did you escape? Why weren’t your clothes filthy? Why does your wound look so clean-cut? His answers were always unsatisfactorily vague. Obviously Hezekiah knew I suspected him, though I never outright said the words. Indeed, what he said to me next made that perfectly clear.’

‘Which was?’

Sir William wipes a hand across his jaw. ‘As you are aware, I have collected many fine pieces over the years. Many of which I sold on to buyers overseas. However. There are strict laws forbidding the export of antiquities from the Kingdom of Naples. I thought perhaps, due to my close relationship with him, the King might make an exception for me. But he denied my request.’ Hamilton sniffs. ‘I’m afraid I did it anyway. I kept my dealings very quiet, so how Hezekiah knew this I do not know. But I suppose a crook always knows a crook, does he not?’

Edward stares at the diplomat in shock. ‘You traded in contraband?’

Sir William raises his finger, sets Edward with a piercing look. ‘No. No. I emphatically reject that accusation. They were mine to begin with. Money passed hands legally. Much of what I collected I donated to the British Museum. I ensured that the finest Mediterranean antiquities reached our shores to be celebrated, admired. I gave to the people. It was selfish of the King to deny such culture to the world.’ Hamilton lowers his finger, allows himself a grimace. ‘I am just sorry for the manner in which it was done. Exporting antiquities from Italy is a capital offence. It is illegal. I am – was – the British ambassador to the Court of Naples, and here in England I am a much-respected member of the peerage. I need not say, need I, Mr Lawrence, what that would have meant for me, if Hezekiah had done as he hinted most indelicately that he might, which was to notify the authorities.’

Edward blinks. ‘So he threatened you?’

‘In not so many words, yes.’

The two men are quiet. Edward is torn. It is quite something to discover a man one admires has operated on the wrong side of the law, no matter how well he justifies the fact. But, he reasons, what is done is done; what is to come is far more important now.

‘You let Hezekiah take Dora back to London,’ Edward murmurs at length, and Sir William’s expression darkens.

‘How could I prevent it? On her parents’ deaths Hezekiah became Dora’s legal guardian.’

‘Your position in society—’

‘Carried weight, yes, but there were too many complicated factors to overcome. It was safer to let them go.’

Edward releases his breath. ‘Weren’t you worried Hezekiah might still try to harm her?’

‘I feared that, certainly. I even had a man of mine report back to me every now and then, especially during the first year. But when it appeared she was safe in London, still with him …’ Hamilton shrugs. ‘It’s been twelve years. I even began to doubt my original suspicion that he meant Dora ill – that it had simply been coincidence she became trapped in the collapse. She had, after all, only just descended the ladder. How could Hezekiah have known that? But recent behaviour seems to indicate otherwise, doesn’t it? The Coombe brothers. Dora’s bird …’ Sir William shakes his head. ‘No, Mr Lawrence. I am convinced now that Hezekiah has kept her alive all this time for a reason. I just don’t know what that reason is.’





CHAPTER FORTY





Mr Ashmole has allowed Dora, much to her amazement and against her better judgement, to use the small sitting room at the front of the house for her workshop. A small bureau has been brought in from another room; her jewellery supplies now sit neatly in its drawers, her wire and ribbon and lace reels comfortably arranged on its shelves, with plenty of room for her sketchbook to open at its fullest. She runs her hands over the rosewood, smooth and shining beneath her palms, smells the fresh coat of beeswax on its polished surface. It is the nicest thing she has ever worked at. The chair (one of the silk damasks) is the most comfortable she has sat on whilst creating her designs. Nothing at all to her own tiny desk, the too-high stool. Nothing at all to the shop counter. This new set-up is vastly superior to both.

Yet.

The paper in front of her is empty. The inspiration that took hold of her the day Miss Ponsenby and her kin came through the doors of Blake’s Emporium has disappeared, to be replaced with only a listlessness, a frustrating blank in the space of her mind.

She pushes her spectacles up her nose.

It is not the first time inspiration has thwarted her. Invariably all creative minds dwindle every now and then. But the one thing that would have brought her solace is buried beneath a rosebush in Mr Ashmole’s garden and so she has nothing to comfort her, nothing to ease her artistic drought.