Page 91 of Pandora

“It is all just a game to him, and we his pawns,” Hamilton continues, quite in the throes of his subject. “The paintings he has taken! It’s said he has already claimed pieces by Raphael, Correggio, Titian, da Vinci... it is unpardonable.”

“So is it really true,” Edward asks, “that nowadays French commissioners can enter any building in Europe—public, private, or religious—to confiscate artistic works?”

Sir William’s face twists. “Regrettably, yes. I have it on good authority they have already seized almost three hundred antiquities from the private collection of a cardinal.”

“How can he dare?” Dora says, pausing over her fish, a little line forming between her brows, and Edward’s stomach knots itself. Oh, if she would only speak to him!

“He dares, my dear,” their host replies, “because he is answerable to no one but a God I scarce doubt he believes in.”

Cornelius sits forward, twists his fork lazily at the handle. “Is there any danger, Sir William, of Bonaparte reaching England?”

Hamilton sighs, picks up the wineglass at his side. “He is a formidable force to be sure. We are on the brink of invasion but I am confident in the strength of our fleet.” His eyes flick to his wife. “We have a great man at its helm, after all.”

Across the table Lady Hamilton colors.

“If Napoleon cannot invade,” Sir William says as if has not noticed, “then he is determined to see Britain suffer in some other way. Did you know that since he set up camp in Egypt he has damaged our trade routes to and from India?” The question is asked to the entire room and he is greeted with four cautious nods. “Then you might also be aware that the taxes have risen because of it, and the pocketbooks of our people will suffer in turn. If Napoleon is not stopped, in a few years... Well, we could be brought to the point of revolution. If that were to happen, Bonaparte will have won, though not in the way he anticipated.”

The notion is unsettling. Edward snaps a hair-fine bone thoughtfully between his teeth. “How will our antiquity trade be affected, do you suppose?”

“With the trade routes disrupted it means sales are more likely to come from personal collections rather than any outside sources. And with Bonaparte having seized the majority...” Hamilton shakes his head. “He’s like a magpie is to shine.”

“Speaking of magpies,” Cornelius quips, as if he has grown thoroughly bored with the conversation, “Miss Blake has one. Keeps it as a pet.”

Edward sends Cornelius a peevish look across the table. He expected his friend to show some remorse for the part he played the night before, and while Cornelius has apologized to Edward for what he deemed only “a slip of the tongue,” he has otherwise shown no regret. “Why should I?” he demanded after Dora had so unceremoniously left them in the carriage. “Surely this proves her guilt, does it not?”

“A pet?” Lady Hamilton is exclaiming now, clapping her hands in delight. “How charming!”

“Dirty birds, I find,” Cornelius sniffs, tweaking his cravat. “Just thought that would be an interesting little bit of information to share with the party.”

Dora clears her throat, very carefully places her knife and fork down beside her plate.

“They are not dirty,” she says quietly, perfectly composed, but Edward still senses her anger across the table and shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Hermes is very clean. Monstrous vain, actually. He’ll happily spend hours preening his feathers. He is a very beautiful bird.”

“A temper though,” Edward says, teasing, in an attempt to ease the tension. He raises his hand. “This will scar, I’m sure.”

He does not mean it. The wound is healing nicely and Dora knows it, but his effort at humor does not break the ice. Indeed, she ignores him completely.

“Nipped you, did he?” Sir William says, taking a sip from his glass.

“He was protecting Dora,” explains Edward. “I think he thought I was going to attack her.”

“Perhaps,” Dora says quietly, “he thought you someone you were not?”

The comment stings. Deflated, Edward lowers his fork.

“Aren’t magpies awfully unlucky?” Lady Hamilton asks after a moment, broaching the awkward pause that has befallen the table. “That rhyme of Brand’s. What was it, one for sorrow, two for mirth?”

“Not at all, my dear,” Hamilton says, keeping his voice light. “In China magpies are thought to bring good fortune, although killing one is supposed to bring the reverse. They’re actually associated with happiness; in the northeast they’re regarded as sacred. The Manchu dynasty that governs China uses the magpie as a symbol of its imperial rule.”

“Really?” Dora smiles then at Sir William, and Edward feels an unjustified stab of jealousy that it is directed at someone other than him. “I didn’t know.”

The diplomat raises his glass in mock salute. The air settles once more.

“Even so,” his wife says. “To have only one. Superstition, you see. It came from somewhere, surely. Superstition alone is a worrisome power.”

“Power is in its ability to disturb us, my dear,” Hamilton replies. “It is all in the mind. We often run ourselves ragged with imagining some greater meaning when there is none.”

“Oh, enough, I beg you!”

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