Dorchester Terrace by Anne Perry Page A

major, for all Vespasia knew. But that was all long ago. Most of them were dead now, and their scandals were gone with them, along with their dreams.
    Nerissa smiled. “It is kind of you to care, but I cannot limit Aunt Serafina’s visitors. It would leave her terribly alone. To talk to people, to remember, and perhaps romance a little is about the only real pleasure she has. And it is generous of you to consider another servant, but that is not the answer. I don’t wish to tell Aunt Serafina, but it is not economically wise at present.”
    Vespasia could not argue with her. It would be both impertinent and pointless. She had no idea as to Serafina’s financial situation. “I see.”
    “I hope you will come again, Lady Vespasia. You were always one of her favorites. She speaks of you often.”
    Vespasia doubted it, but it would be ungracious to say so.
    “We were always fond of each other,” she replied. “Of course I shall come again. Thank you for being so patient.”
    Nerissa walked with her across the parquet floor toward the front door, and the carriage waiting at the curbside, the horses fretting in the wind.
    V ICTOR NARRAWAY WAS ALREADY extremely bored with his elevation to the House of Lords. After his adventure in Ireland and his dismissal from Special Branch—which had stretched him emotionally far more than he had foreseen—he wanted something to occupy his time and his mind, a position that had use for at least some of his talents.
    But for Narraway to interfere in Special Branch now that Thomas Pitt was head would imply that he did not have confidence in Pitt’s ability; it would undermine any action Pitt took, not only in Pitt’s mind, but also in the minds of those he commanded and those to whom he reported. It would be the greatest disservice Narraway could do him, a betrayal of the loyalty Pitt had always shown. Pitt had trusted in Narraway’s innocence in the O’Neil case when no one else believed him and his guilt seemed clear—indeed, it was morally true that he was partly at fault. Still, Pitt had refrained from blaming him for anything.
    So Narraway was left bored, and felt more acutely alone than he had expected to; able to watch but unable to participate.
    Not that there was much to participate in; in the months since Pitt had been in charge, nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, nothing to challenge the imagination or the nerve.
    Narraway had considered foreign travel as an option, and indeed had taken a late autumn trip to France. He had always enjoyed its rich countryside. He had walked around some of its older cities, reviving his half-forgotten knowledge about them, and adding to it. However, after a while it became stale, because he had no one with whom toshare it. There was no Charlotte this time, no one else’s pleasure to mirror his own. That was a pain he still preferred not to think of.
    He had had the time to attend more theater. He had always enjoyed drama. Comedy was, for him, profoundly bereft without the presence of Oscar Wilde, who had been stigmatized for his private life, and whose work was no longer performed on the stage. It was an absence Narraway felt with peculiar sharpness.
    There was always opera, and recitals of music, such as that of Beethoven or Liszt—two of his favorites. But all these pursuits only stirred in him the hunger for something to do, a cause into which to pour his own energy.
    He sat in his book-lined study with its few small watercolor seascapes, the fire burning and the gaslamps throwing pools of light on the table and floor. He had eaten a light supper and was reading a report of some politician’s visit to Berlin; he was looking desperately, and without success, for a spark of intrigue or novelty in it. So he was delighted to be interrupted by his manservant, announcing that Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould had called.
    He sat upright in his chair, suddenly wide awake.
    “Ask her in,” he said immediately. “Bring the best red