“And meanwhile I will have contrived to endanger half the Jews in Spitalfields and almost certainly get one of them hanged for a crime he may not have committed,” he added. He hated the self-loathing in his voice the instant he heard it.

She shot him a look of anger that did not yet include pity, but it would be worse when it did. He burned to prove it unjust.

“Is there a way we can find out if the Clarence story is true?” he asked. He was not certain what he was reaching towards, only that inaction was surrender.

“I don’t think it matters anymore,” she answered him, the anger softening from her eyes. “It could be true, and I doubt anyone could disprove it, which is all the Inner Circle will need. The outrage it would create would not hesitate for an instant to weigh or judge facts. If it is to be stopped, then it must be before it is said aloud by anyone outside the Circle.” The ghost of a smile touched her lips. “Like you, I am not certain whom I can trust. No one, I think, for morality. There are times when one stands alone, and perhaps this is one of them. But there are those whose interests I believe I can judge well enough to trust which way they will act when pressed.”

“Be careful!” He was terrified for her. He should not have spoken; he was aware even as he said it. It was an impertinence, but he no longer cared.

She did not bother to reply to that. “Perhaps you had better see if you can do something to help your Jewish friends. I think there is little purpose in your pursuing whoever really killed poor Sissons. He seems to have been a dupe all the way along-I think to some degree a willing one. He did not foresee death in the end. He had no idea of the power or the evil of the conspiracies with which he was meddling. There are so many idealists for whom the end will justify any means, men who began nobly…” She did not complete the thought. It trailed away, carrying its ghosts of the past.

“What are you going to do?” he pressed her, frightened for her, and guilty that he had come to her.

“I know of only one thing that we can do,” she answered, looking not at him but into the distance of her vision. “There are two monstrous alliances. We must turn them upon each other, and pray to God that the outcome is more destructive to them than to us.”

“But…” he began to protest.

She turned to face him, her eyebrows slightly raised. “You have some better thought, Thomas?”

“No.”

“Then, return to Spitalfields and do what you can to see that innocent bystanders do not pay the price for our disasters. It is worth doing.”

He rose obediently, thanked her, and did as she had told him. Only when was he out in the morning traffic did he realize that he had still not had breakfast. The servants had been too conscientious to interrupt them with such trivialities as food.

When Pitt had gone, Vespasia rang the bell and the maid came with fresh tea and toast. While she ate it her mind raced over all the possibilities. One thought underlay all of them, and she refused to look at that yet.

First she would address the immediate problem. It hardly mattered that Sissons had not in fact lent money to the Prince of Wales, so long as the Inner Circle had contrived to make it seem as if he had. And she believed they would have taken care of all other appearances necessary to create the fraud. The sugar factories would close. That was the purpose of the murder. The ordinary men of Spitalfields would not riot unless their jobs were lost.

Therefore she must do something to prevent that, at least in the short term. In a longer time some other answer could be found… possibly even a grand gesture by the Prince? It would be an opportunity for him to redeem himself, at least in part.

She went upstairs and dressed with great care in a gunmetal-gray costume with sweeping skirt and magnificently embroidered collar and sleeves. She collected a parasol to match, and sent for her carriage.

She arrived at Connaught Place at half past eleven-not a time one called upon anybody, but this was an emergency, and she had said as much on the telephone to Lady Churchill.

Randolph Churchill was waiting for her in his study. He rose from his desk as she was shown in, his smooth face severe, displeasure only moments away, held in by good manners, and perhaps curiosity.

“Good morning, Lady Vespasia. It is always a pleasure to see you, but I admit your message occasioned some alarm. Please do…”

He was about to say “sit down,” but she had done so already. She had no intention of allowing anyone, even Randolph Churchill, to set her at a disadvantage.

“… and tell me what I can do for you,” he finished, resuming his own seat again.

“There is no time to waste in pleasantries,” she said tersely. “You are probably aware that James Sissons, sugar manufacturer in Spitalfields, was murdered yesterday.” She did not wait for him to acknowledge that he was. “Actually, it was intended to look like suicide, complete with a note blaming his ruin upon having lent money to the Prince of Wales, who had refused to repay it.

As a consequence, all three of his factories would be ruined and at least fifteen hundred families in Spitalfields sent into beggary.” She stopped.

Churchill’s face was ashen.

“I see you understand the difficulty,” she said dryly. “It could become extremely unpleasant if this closure comes about. Indeed, along with other misfortunes which we may not be able to prevent, it could even bring about the fall of the government and of the throne…”

“Oh…” he began to protest.

“I am old enough to have known those who witnessed the French Revolution, Randolph,” she said with ice in her voice. “They too did not believe it could happen… even with the rattle of the tumbrels in the streets, they disbelieved.”

He relaxed back a little, as if the energy in him to protest had been drained away by fear. His eyes were wide, his breathing shallow. His fine, soft hands were stiff on the polished desk surface. He watched her almost unblinkingly. It was the first time in her life she had ever seen him rattled.

“Fortunately,” she continued, “we have friends, one of whom happened to be the person who discovered Sissons’s body. He had the foresight to remove the gun and the note of debt, and destroy the letter, so the death appeared to be murder. But it is only a temporary solution. We need to see to it that the factories keep working and the men are paid.” She met his gaze unflinchingly, a tiny smile on her lips. “I imagine you have friends who would feel as you do, and be willing to contribute something towards that end. It would be a very enlightened thing to do, in our own self-interest, not to mention as a moral gesture. And if done in such a way that the public were to learn of it, I imagine it would meet with a considerable feeling of gratitude. The Prince of Wales, for example, might find himself the hero of the day-as opposed to the villain. That has a certain ironic appeal, don’t you think?”

He took a very deep breath and let it out in a long, slow sigh. He was relieved; it glowed in his face in spite of any attempt to mask it. And he was also awed by her, very much against his will, and that was there also. For an instant he considered prevaricating, pretending to consider the idea, then he abandoned it as absurd. They both knew he would do it; he must.

“An excellent solution, Lady Vespasia,” he said as stiffly as he was able, but his voice was not quite steady. “I shall see to it that it is implemented immediately… before any real damage is done. It-it is fortunate indeed that we had a… friend… so well placed.”

“And with the initiative to act, at considerable risk to himself,” Vespasia added. “There are those who will make life exceedingly difficult for him should they learn of it.”

He smiled bleakly, pulling his lips into a thin line.