‘Not to him,’ I agree, bringing my lips right up to Denny’s ear. ‘But I’m sure you have plenty of indiscretions I could bring to light that don’t involve Robert.’

  Denny raises his chin and stares me down, eyes full of contempt.

  Trust me, the feeling’s mutual.

  ‘Now, I’ll ask you again. Where have you been? What have you been doing down there?’

  Denny glances at the trapdoor, as if he’s forgotten what this is all about. ‘Fine,’ he says, clearing his throat. ‘If you must know, I was having my hair cut.’

  Robert flashes me a triumphant smile. I pretend not to notice.

  ‘You were having your hair cut?’

  Of all the ridiculous things. . .

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then why the concealment? Why back alleys and secret codes and trapdoors?’

  ‘He’s a very exclusive barber. London’s best-kept secret.’

  Until now.

  ‘Besides,’ he adds, lowering his voice, ‘he’s French.’

  ‘I see.’

  It’s not a great time to be French in Britain. Not a great time to be French in France, either, for that matter.

  ‘Was there a gentleman there?’ I ask. ‘Handsome, tall, dark hair?’

  ‘You mean Frank Churchill,’ Denny says with a sly smile.

  ‘Yes, I mean Frank Churchill.’

  I think about asking Denny how he knows Frank, but I imagine he makes it his business to know all the handsome, rich society men.

  ‘Yes, he’s in there,’ Denny says. ‘Also getting a haircut.’

  ‘And when you say a haircut—’

  ‘I mean a haircut,’ he says, gesturing towards his close-cropped Titus. ‘See for yourself. He’ll be up soon enough. Now, if that’s all?’

  I take a step back.

  ‘Robert,’ Denny says, eyes sweeping over him hungrily. ‘Always a pleasure. Don’t leave it so long next time.’ He leans in and says something that sounds suspiciously like ‘the moustache looks good on you’.

  Robert blushes, his hand reaching towards his mouth.

  ‘Harriet,’ Denny says with a curt nod in my direction. ‘I’ll be seeing you.’

  ‘Hopefully not too soon,’ I say sweetly to his retreating figure.

  We follow Denny to the end of the alleyway, which is just as well, because Frank reappears a few minutes later, sporting a stern expression and a rather fashionable Bedford crop.

  ‘Well, of course, he had to have his hair cut,’ I tell Robert. ‘Otherwise people would have noticed the lie.’

  ‘Right. The lie being. . .’

  ‘That he was coming to London to get his hair cut,’ I snap, realising exactly how ridiculous I sound. ‘He’s up to something,’ I insist, with more confidence than I feel. ‘You just watch.’

  We trail him as he meanders through the streets, kicking loose pebbles as if he’s been shorn of his sense of purpose as well as his hair. Finally, we follow him into Broadwood’s on Great Pulteney Street.

  ‘Go and see what he’s looking at,’ I whisper to Robert.

  As Robert crosses the shop, Frank turns around and looks straight in my direction. I duck down behind the nearest pianoforte – an elegant instrument, not a grand, but a large-sized, square pianoforte of superior workmanship. It’s remarkably like my mother’s instrument – the one I assaulted with my clumsy childhood fingers until she coaxed them into diligent application. I had become proficient by the time she was gone, although I never did reach her level of mastery. I could sit at my mother’s feet for hours, listening to Bach and Mozart flow from her fingers as if she had composed the melodies herself. She had a flair for improvisation and she rarely bothered with sheet music. ‘It’s all in here,’ she would say, tapping her breast, when her admirers wondered at her skill.

  I kept playing after she’d gone, as if it would keep a part of her with me. Father didn’t approve. I suppose it was too painful a reminder of what he’d lost. It wasn’t long before we had to sell the pianoforte and the building that housed it, along with everything else my mother left behind. Of course, I’ve played many a fine instrument in the homes of rich and impressionable gentlemen, but we moved so often from place to place that I never again had my own instrument.

  ‘Can I help you, miss?’ says a clipped voice behind me. I stumble against the pianoforte stool, but quickly recover myself. I peer over the instrument and see Frank at the counter, paying for his wares. I remain kneeling by the instrument, running my hand over it.

  ‘I was just admiring the workmanship,’ I say, turning in time to detect the raised eyebrow of the shop assistant, a bored-looking young man with a beaklike nose and the most outrageous Brutus hairstyle I’ve ever seen. (Perhaps he has paid a visit to a certain French barber.)

  ‘Yes. It is fine workmanship.’

  Too fine for you, his voice seems to say.

  I’ll show you, Mr Brutus.

  ‘Would miss like to try the instrument?’ he asks in the same clipped tone, no doubt expecting me to demur.

  Well, I don’t like to be predictable.

  I glance over at the counter and see that Frank has retreated to the door. Robert stares at me, wide-eyed. I jerk my head towards the door, hoping he’ll take the hint. He continues to stare at me, mouth hanging open like a dead fish, but, as I repeat the motion with added emphasis, he nods in acknowledgement and follows Frank out onto the street.

  ‘Miss?’

  ‘Yes,’ I snap, turning my attention back to Brutus. ‘I should like to try the instrument.’

  ‘Very well,’ he says, not attempting to hide his smirk as he pulls out the stool for me.

  I sit down, fingers poised over the pianoforte.

  ‘Would miss like some music?’ he asks, still smirking.

  ‘No, miss would not,’ I say as I strike up the opening notes of Mozart’s ‘Rondo alla Turca’. His favourite. It wasn’t what I’d meant to play. I didn’t mean to conjure up the image of his enchanting smile as he watched me from his dutiful place beside his aunt, nodding in all the right places at her relentless monologue, his attention clearly fixed on me. If there was ever an incentive to memorise my music, it was those magical minutes when our eyes met over Mozart, both of us too stubborn to look away – propriety be damned. My fingers falter momentarily, but I couldn’t stop if I wanted to. And I don’t want to banish his smile. Because he’ll never smile at me again.

  It is a fine instrument. Not so fine as those I played in Vienna or Paris – or Derbyshire, even – but the comparison is an unfair one. I cannot expect perfection here. There’s a softness in the upper notes that suits my style exactly. I hadn’t meant to show off as much of my skill, but the shop assistant had been so superior that I wanted to wipe the smirk off his smug little face. By the end of my performance – for performance is what it is – a small crowd has gathered around the instrument. They break into astonished applause as I finish with a flourish.

  ‘Madam,’ Brutus simpers, his face flushed, ‘I have never encountered such exquisite style. You must tell me, who is your music master?’

  ‘I have no master,’ I say as I rise from the instrument and glide towards the door, head held high.

  Out on the street, Robert is watching a retreating carriage, foot tapping as his eyes dart towards Broadwood’s. I’m thankful he wasn’t around to witness my musical triumph. It didn’t quite fit with my plan of keeping a low profile.

  ‘Where is he?’ I demand as I reach Robert.

  ‘Gone back to Highbury,’ Robert says, pointing towards the carriage in the distance. ‘Should I follow him?’

  ‘No,’ I say wearily. ‘I think we’ve done enough for one day. And I suppose I must collect Miss Bickerton from her aunt’s house at some point.’

  Robert looks relieved.

  ‘What did he buy?’ I ask, reluctant to abandon the last glimmer of hope that this hasn’t been a wasted trip.

  ‘Sheet music. Irish Melodies.’

  ‘A present for Miss Fairfax, no doubt.’

  ‘I expect so,’ Robert agrees.

  ‘Not exactly extravagant for a man of his means, is it? Hardly a grand gesture.’

  ‘I suppose he has to be subtle about it. Small things that won’t be noticed or can be explained away. He wouldn’t want to cause a stir.’

  Once in a while, Robert is utterly brilliant, though I’m careful not to tell him so.

  ‘No,’ I say, tapping my fingers against my arm. ‘He wouldn’t, would he? Wouldn’t want anything that drew attention. Neither would Jane.’

  Money doesn’t solve everything, you know.

  Jane Fairfax is right, of course. But it could solve my problem. Well, one of them, at least. I might not be any closer to proving who the poisoner is, but I may just have found a way to create a rift between Frank and Jane.

  Perhaps this day hasn’t been such a waste of time after all.

  I take Robert’s arm and steer him back towards Broadwood’s.

  ‘I think I have an idea,’ I tell him.

  And I think it might just work.

  CHAPTER 7

  Rule number seven: The only thing more intriguing than an extravagant gift is an extravagant gift from a mysterious benefactor.

  Everyone is talking about Jane Fairfax’s pianoforte. In fact, it’s all everyone’s been talking about all week. Right now, our esteemed hostess, Mrs Cole, is doing a spectacular job of grilling Jane about the tone, the touch, the pedal. But, let’s be honest, there’s only one question anyone really wants to know the answer to: who sent it?

  Mrs Cole is far too polite to ask Jane outright and has instead alighted on the least scandalous option: Jane’s guardian, Colonel Campbell. A gesture of paternal kindness for a girl who has an abundance of talent but no wealth to support it. Jane is a fine player and she deserves a fine instrument. She has that now, at least.

  But it’s not the sort of thing a middle-aged man springs upon his ward unannounced. No. Colonel Campbell is kind and this is not a kind gift. It is spontaneous. Ostentatious. Just the type of thing a rash and entitled young man would send to his clandestine lover without considering the consequences. By the look on Jane’s face, I can see she has reached this conclusion. Which is entirely the point.

  I know what kind of damage a misplaced object can do. There was Lady Leighton’s sapphire brooch, for example – the one that mysteriously appeared in Miss Eliza Wynne’s bedchamber after she had admired it at the Leightons’ summer ball. Disastrous timing for Miss Wynne, as she had been expecting a proposal from Lord Harbourne any day. Strangely enough, the brooch never made its way back to Lady Leighton.

  And then there was the unfortunate incident of the maid who discovered Mr Cowan’s cravat under Miss Clara Keen’s pillow. Miss Keen was adamant that Mr Cowan hadn’t stepped foot in her room, but then how did the cravat get there? Her protestations of innocence were not convincing enough for her father and she was packed off to the cottage of a maiden aunt in an insignificant Devonshire village. Mr Cowan, meanwhile, set his sights on a rich young heiress who disappeared (along with a great deal of Mr Cowan’s silver) just hours before the wedding ceremony.

  If a stolen brooch and a mislaid cravat can do such damage, imagine what trouble a pianoforte sent by a mysterious benefactor could cause.

  I bet that Jane is regretting accepting the invitation to the Coles’ dinner party right now – and as an evening guest at that. To suffer the indignity of being the source of after-dinner gossip and not to have even partaken in the dinner itself. But Jane Fairfax is in good company in the after-dinner crew tonight. For it turns out that Harriet Smith isn’t good enough to sit at the Coles’ table either. The Coles who are trying to claw their way up the social scale through the ill-advised purchase of garish paintings in gilt picture frames, marble statues of inelegant proportions and a grand pianoforte that gets about as much use as the Hartfield edition of Shakespeare.

  ‘Really, it is ridiculous for Miss Fairfax to have a pianoforte at her aunt’s house,’ Emma tells me. ‘There’s barely any room for it in the parlour.’ I’m sitting in my usual place by her side, fulfilling my customary role of chief flatterer and faithful confidante until she finds someone more interesting to talk to. Everyone in Highbury thinks that Emma is the centre of my universe but, the truth is, they only notice me when I’m in her sphere of influence. I’m Emma’s little friend, lucky enough to capture her interest where so many have failed. I’m forever in her shadow, obscured from view. That’s why I picked her. With Emma around, I can observe the Frank Churchills and Jane Fairfaxes of the world without them watching me.

  Emma runs her fingers across the smooth silk of her new mauve gown. She has dressed herself with particular care tonight. Her hair is swept up off her face into an elegant bun, showing off her amethyst and pearl earrings. A simple amethyst cross hangs from her neck. Partly this is to remind the Coles of their place and the very great favour she is doing them by attending their little soirée. But mostly it is for Frank Churchill’s benefit. Really, I should be encouraging her. It would help my cause if Frank could be persuaded to trade Miss Fairfax for Miss Woodhouse. But there’s something about Emma’s obvious attempts at seduction that sets my teeth on edge.

  ‘If she’d wanted to practise on a superior instrument, she could have used the pianoforte at Hartfield. She need only have asked,’ Emma adds, safe in the knowledge that Jane never would. ‘I wonder who could have sent her such an extravagant gift.’

  ‘Everyone is saying it’s from Colonel Campbell.’

  ‘Everyone is saying that. But what are they thinking?’

  ‘Miss Woodhouse, whatever do you mean?’

  Emma tosses her head like the Coles’ Lipizzaner stallion. ‘Only that it is such a generous gift. More the kind of thing you would expect from a lover rather than a father figure, don’t you think?’

  I frown, pretending to consider Emma’s suggestion. ‘But Miss Fairfax does not have a lover.’

  Emma leans forward with a wicked smile. ‘That we know of.’

  I shake my head. ‘I have hardly heard her talk of any men except for Colonel Campbell and Mr Churchill and her friend’s husband, Mr Dixon.’

  Emma clutches my arm. ‘Well, it could hardly be Colonel Campbell or Frank. But Mr Dixon—’

  ‘Mr Dixon is married,’ I insist. ‘And to Jane’s best friend.’

  ‘Yes,’ Emma agrees, a glint in her eyes, ‘and doesn’t she look like a woman with a guilty conscience? Someone who’s pining for a love she cannot have? Actually, she does look rather unwell, don’t you think?’

  I glance over at Jane. Her white muslin dress and pale skin give her an ethereal quality. She’s tapping a finger unconsciously against the stem of her wine glass. ‘I think she looks quite pretty actually,’ I say quietly.

  ‘No. She is too thin. And so lethargic. She has barely moved from her chair all night.’

  I suspect this is a deliberate ploy on Jane’s part to reduce the number of people who will quiz her about the pianoforte and to ensure she doesn’t have to speak to Emma.

  ‘I’m not convinced she should be here at all,’ Emma adds. ‘Perhaps I should speak to her aunt about it.’

  I’m about to put a restraining hand on Emma’s shoulder when I’m spared the necessity by the appearance of Frank Churchill. He’s framed in the doorway, eyes roaming around the Coles’ drawing-room. It’s the first opportunity I’ve had to get a good look at him up close without a dark alleyway, or a tea-room menu, or a pianoforte between us. Frank is classically handsome. Tall, broad-shouldered, clean-cut. Perhaps a little too clean-cut for my taste, although it’s hard not to be drawn in by those playful eyes, full of laughter, as if he’s enjoying his own private joke but is perfectly willing to let you in on it.

  Jane stiffens as she sees him, throwing herself into an animated conversation with her aunt. Frank steps into the room and sidles up to Jane, placing himself squarely in front of her. His smile falters as Jane turns away to speak to Mrs Cole. Frank hovers by her chair, exchanging pleasantries with Miss Bates, waiting for Jane to acknowledge him. Eventually, he gives up, nodding to Miss Bates and moving to the other side of the room, from where he can observe his fiancée’s frowns at his leisure. He has an excellent vantage-point as he lingers behind Emma, who is too preoccupied with her mission to shoo me into an empty chair so that there is room for Frank between us to perceive that his interest lies elsewhere. Emma attracts his attention at last and Frank, apparently realising just how obvious he’s being, sits down beside her.

  ‘Mr Churchill, may I present my dear friend, Miss Harriet Smith,’ Emma says with an unnecessary flourish.

  ‘Miss Smith,’ he says, taking my hand and raising it to his lips with such delicacy that I begin to understand what Jane sees in him. I lean towards him, breathing in the scent of lemon and jasmine and something wonderfully—

  ‘Miss Smith?’ Frank is making no attempt to hide his amusement.

  I stare at him open-mouthed. Let him think I’m an imbecile. A wide-eyed damsel, completely in his thrall. I know his type, with his impossibly blue eyes and his teal cravat. The serial seducer, always eager to please, hungry for attention. I could have him eating out of the palm of my hand in seconds. Except I’m not here to ensnare Frank. I’m not going down that path again.

  ‘Harriet. Mr Churchill was asking how you’re enjoying tonight’s gathering,’ Emma says with a meaningful glare.

  Apparently, I’m making her look bad.

  I smile sweetly at Frank. ‘Oh, it’s wonderful. To be in such good company, I feel quite blessed.’

  ‘Well said, Miss Smith. To good company.’ Frank raises his glass and catches Emma’s eye with a smirk.

  She’s so busy congratulating herself on her conquest that she doesn’t register his furtive glance in Jane’s direction.

  The other gentlemen enter the room and Emma is forced to pay Mr Cole some compliments on his table and his wine and his grand pianoforte. We wait for her to finish but, when Mr Cole shows no sign of releasing her, Frank turns to me with a shrug.