I ought not to have found anything objectionable in this speech, which expressed sentiments no different than my sister Cassandra had voiced on numerous occasions — being nearly as grave in her attitudes as Fanny Tilson — but my companion’s air of complaisance worked strangely upon me. I desired nothing more than to discompose her this morning, and prick her smug self-regard.

“That is a ravishing hat, Mrs. Tilson! I wonder if you obtained it at Cocotte’s?”

“No, indeed!” she exclaimed, staring. “I do not think I have ever ventured within a hundred yards of that establishment — nor do I know of any respectable woman who has done so.”

We walked on in silence, Fanny’s face averted. Then she said, with an air of offering an olive branch: “This straw was made for me by a very competent girl in Hans Town, Miss Austen — and if you should be desirous of examining her wares, I should be happy to accompany you at any hour. I may assure you that her workmanship is good, and her prices not exorbitant. Perhaps Mrs. Henry Austen would care to join us?”

“Thank you,” I returned, with a resurgence of humility, and a vow to say nothing further for the remainder of the morning. I am all too prone — particularly under the intoxicating influence of springtime — to allow my wretched tongue to run away with me, and offend the most worthy of persons with my levity. The forbearance of a Fanny Tilson must ever serve as salt in the wounds of one less marked by goodness than she.

VIRTUE WAS REWARDED IN THIS CASE, AS VIRTUE SO rarely is — with the surprising pleasure of a visit from a gentleman caller. I had returned but an hour to Sloane Street when Mr. Sylvester Chizzlewit’s card was sent into the drawing-room.

“Delightful,” Eliza murmured. “He looks so well against the scarlet hangings, don’t you agree, Jane? One should always have a decorative young man about the room, and well-bred if one may contrive it; it lends so much tone to the display. Show him in, Manon! And bring the decanters, if you please. I do not care if it is Sunday; I am sure the Good Lord was in spirits, too, on his day of rest.”

I said nothing of this deplorable want of respect, acquired no doubt among Bourbons and Nabobs, and rose to greet Mr. Chizzlewit.

While Manon remained in the room, he said everything that was indifferent and proper, in one paying a Sunday call; enquired after Eliza’s health; offered a pretty compliment on the style of my gown; and declared that there was nothing, after all, like April in England. When the door had closed behind the maid, however, he turned immediately to business. “I have seen Charles Malverley,” he said, “and must congratulate myself on having renewed those ties which a few years’ absence on his part, and hard work on mine, had very nearly extinguished!”

“Well done, Mr. Chizzlewit. And how did you find your old friend?”

“Much altered. He was used to be a carefree youth — more concerned with the niceties of dress and appearance than I should like, and an aspirant to Mr. Brummell’s mantle, among the Dandy Set— but now he is grown grave and troubled. There is a want of openness which I might have imputed to the difference in our stations, and a disinclination to renew the acquaintance, had he not gladly accepted my invitation to dine this evening, in my rooms; we are to play at picquet afterwards, and I expect my pockets shall be wholly to let by dawn.”

“Then you were unable, in your first meeting, to divine any particulars of the Princess’s business?” Eliza enquired.

“It was not the place to do so — we met at Jackson’s Saloon, where Malverley was sparring. I knew him to be in the habit of taking lessons from Gentleman Jackson, and contrived to visit the premises at a convenient hour. I may have expressed myself as being sensible of the cares lately placed upon him — and suggested that a bit of diversion among friends might prove beneficial — but beyond that, I could not go.”

“Naturally. He did not suspect you encountered him by design?” I asked.

“I should not think so. Charles is not the sort to suspicion an old acquaintance. I shall have more to report on the morrow, to be sure.”

“In the course of your dinner, Mr. Chizzlewit,” I said, “endeavour to learn whether Mr. Malverley prevaricated, when he claimed never to have seen a letter from Princess Tscholikova at Castlereagh’s house. It would be well to sound the fellow on his lordship’s habits, too — as both gentlemen are far too closed-mouthed regarding Castlereagh’s movements during the hours before the Princess’s murder.”

“I shall do my utmost,” the solicitor replied. “You persist in regarding Lord Castlereagh as the guilty party?”

“There is a simplicity to the notion I find appealing,” I agreed. “He possesses, after all, the motive for murder — the opportunity to effect it — and the stubborn persistence in denying all knowledge of the act! When a gentleman will not say where he has been, there is usually good cause for silence!”

“But that cause is rarely murder,” Mr. Chizzlewit returned.

“I keep an open mind,” I assured him, “and one replete with enough suspicion to tar most of London. I shall not hesitate to act, when the alternative is injustice.”

Beside me, Eliza shivered, and reached for her handkerchief.

“I trust you have interviewed your friend, Mrs. Austen?” the solicitor enquired. “The French Countess?”

“Indeed, Mr. Chizzlewit.” My sister revived in sudden animation. “And most affecting, I found it too! I am sure you will acquit Anne of any wrongdoing when you have heard the whole—”

Anticipating a recital as lengthy as yesterday’s, I said abruptly, “The Comtesse claims a member of the Muslin Company gave her the jewels — as recompense for having stolen her husband.”

“Indeed!” Sylvester Chizzlewit was hard put not to smile. “And the name of the bit of muslin in question?”

“Julia Radcliffe. Are you at all acquainted with her?”

“Miss Austen!” he cried. “Such a question! I do not know how to answer you!”

“She is a fixture in Harriette Wilson’s salon, I believe, or perhaps she rules over one of her own — my intelligence is imperfect on that score, I confess. I merely wondered, Mr. Chizzlewit, if you had found occasion to pay the salon a call.”

“Since you put it so unblushingly — then yes, Miss Austen, I have,” he returned.

Eliza clapped her hands. “Do tell us what it was like!”

He shifted slightly in his chair; the first sign of discomfort he had allowed himself to betray. “Very much of a piece with a gentleman’s club — save that the focus of admiration and interest were the ladies present, all of whom conducted themselves with a passable degree of propriety. You will know that those who collect around Harriette Wilson are many of them quite wellborn … tho’ fallen in their standing due to a variety of youthful indiscretions. Miss Radcliffe is one of these.”

“And what is your opinion of her?” I asked.

“She is ravishing — a diamond of the first water,” he replied. “The difference in her situation, from what it ought to be, must trouble anyone who knows her.”

“Except those, apparently, whose first duty it should be to protect her,” I observed. “Her family.”

“As I am ignorant of the particulars of her folly, I cannot undertake to judge.” Mr. Chizzlewit met my gaze squarely. “She is the object of general admiration; a shifting party of gentlemen — many of them among the highest in the land — collect around her, and tho’ most bestow expensive tributes, she has allowed no one to become her sole protector. I know for a fact that any number have offered Miss Radcliffe carte blanche — and she refuses to take it up.[22]  There are conjectures as to her reasons, of course— some would have it she remains faithful in her heart to a dead lover, others that she is angling for a title willing to offer marriage — but her independence has only increased her desirability.” The solicitor frowned. “To figure as the receiver of stolen goods — if indeed she apprehended that they were stolen — and to convey them, with malicious intent, to an innocent victim of her toils — is a piece of villainy I should like to think impossible.”