Dorchester Terrace by Anne Perry Page B

wine.”
    “White, sir, surely?” the manservant suggested.
    “No, she prefers red,” Narraway replied with assurance. “And also bring something decent to eat. Thin brown toast, and a little pâté. Please.”
    “Yes, my lord.” The man smiled, rolling the title around on his tongue. He was inordinately proud of his master. He did not say so, but he thought Narraway was a great man, underappreciated by his government, a trespass for which he did not forgive it.
    Vespasia came in a moment later. She was wearing a deep shade that, in the gaslight, was neither blue nor purple but something in between—muted, like the night sky. He had never seen her in anything jarring; though she was always dressed subtly, when she was in the room, one looked at no other woman.
    He considered greeting her with the usual formalities, but they knew each other too well for that now, especially after the recent fiasco in Ireland, and then with the queen at Osborne.
    “Good evening, Victor,” she said with a slight smile. She had taken to using his Christian name recently, and he found it more pleasing than he would have admitted willingly. There was no one else who called him by his first name.
    “Lady Vespasia.” He looked at her closely. There was anxiety in her eyes, though she maintained her usual composure. “What has happened? It’s not Thomas, is it?” he asked with sudden fear.
    She smiled. “No. So far as I am aware, all is well with him. It is possible that what I have to tell you is nothing of importance, but I need to be certain.”
    Narraway indicated the chair opposite his own. She sat with a single, graceful movement, her skirts arranging themselves perfectly without assistance.
    “You would not come unless it mattered to you,” he replied. “I have not made my boredom so obvious that you would come simply to rescue me. At least, I hope not.”
    She smiled with real humor this time, and it lit her face, bringing back all the grace of her beauty and the sharp realization of how radiant she could be.
    “Oh, dear, I had no idea,” she murmured. “Is it that dreadful?”
    “Tedious beyond belief,” he answered, crossing his legs and leaning back in his chair comfortably. “Nobody tells me anything of interest. Either they assume I already know it—and very possibly I do—or else they are afraid they will be seen talking to me and people will assume they are passing me dark secrets.”
    The manservant reappeared with the wine and food. He served it with only the barest questions as to its acceptability, and then retreated.
    Narraway waited as Vespasia sipped her wine.
    “Do you know Serafina Montserrat?” she finally asked, in a quiet voice.
    He searched his memory. “Is she about our age?” he asked. That was something of a euphemism. Vespasia was technically several years older than he, but it was of no importance.
    She smiled. “The manners of their lordships are rubbing off onyou, Victor. It is not like you to be so … oblique … toward the truth. She is somewhat older than I, and considerably older than you.”
    “Ah. Yes, I have heard of her, but only in passing. Mostly in reference to certain European matters, those brief sputters of revolution in the Austro-Hungarian Empire and Italy,” he replied.
    “She would not like our efforts to be referred to as sputters,” Vespasia observed drily. There was amusement in her eyes, but also pain.
    “Indeed. I apologize. But why do you ask? Has something happened to her?” he asked.
    “Time,” she replied ruefully. “And it has affected her rather more severely than it affects most of us.”
    “She’s ill? Vespasia, it is not like you to be so evasive.” He leaned forward uneasily. “What is it that concerns you? We know each other well enough not to skirt around the truth like this.”
    She relaxed slightly, as if she was no longer bearing her great tension alone.
    “She is becoming very severely forgetful,” she said at last. “To the