I couldn't imagine the woman sitting before me turning to prostitution. She was so shy she could hardly bring herself to look at me. Could she have been that desperate, with no other options?
"I know what you're thinking," she said, and I had to lean forward in my seat to hear her. "But you're wrong. I was so naïve, I don't think it would have occurred to me. My father's creditors forced me to leave the house, not allowing me to take anything save my clothes, which I sold for enough money to rent a room for some weeks. I tried in vain to find employment and found myself thrown out of my lodgings when I could no longer pay the landlady. I wandered around the city, not knowing where to turn. Eventually, I wound up on a bench in Hyde Park."
"You slept there?"
"No. Mr. Francis found me. He assumed, as had several others before him, that I was a park girl. Of course, I had no idea such people even existed and didn't know that simply by being in the park so late at night, I had, in effect, identified myself as one of them."
"So Mr. Francis...hired...you?"
"No. He admonished me to abandon my evil ways, which shocked me greatly. I told him of my circumstances, and he insisted that I allow him to help me."
"You had no other options," I said.
"Quite true. He set me up in this house, paid for two servants, and saw to it that I never wanted for anything."
"And now?"
"Now...I don't know what shall happen to us." Tears streamed down her face, but she did not bother to wipe them away. "He didn't intend to make me his mistress."
This confused me. "But he kept this house for you?"
"He wanted to prevent me from turning to prostitution, Lady Ashton, not to seduce me into a more comfortable version of it. It was two years before—" She stopped.
"Before you fell in love with him?"
"I fell in love with him almost at once. How could I not have? He saved me from the worst sort of fate. But he never showed any romantic interest in me, and eventually I discovered that he was married and gave up hope."
"So what changed?"
"His wife. Mr. Francis wanted a child, but eventually it became clear that his wife couldn't give him one, so he turned to me. How could I deny him after all he'd done for me?" She sighed. "And I didn't want to deny him. I wanted him to love me."
"I'm sure he did."
"No, it was only for the child. I know that all too well. Forgive me, Lady Ashton, I don't think I've been of any use to you, and I must beg that you leave me now. This has all been a great strain, and I don't think I can stand much more."
"Of course. I'm sorry to have disturbed you."
"I hope his wife is coping."
"She will manage," I said.
"Please do all you can to figure out who killed him," she said. "Whatever he did, he didn't deserve to die." I was about to ask what she thought he might have done, but she left the room before I could open my mouth. I wouldn't have guessed that she could move so quickly.
"If you were married and had a mistress, would you be able to keep your wife from suspecting anything was amiss?" I was once again in Colin's fine library.
He raised his eyebrows. "If I were married, it would be to you, and my fidelity would make you the envy of all of London."
"Really, Colin, I'm not talking about us. Theoretically, do you think a spouse could conceal such a thing?"
"In many marriages, yes, I don't think it would be difficult at all. How many of your friends married because they felt true affection? Even when they're not arranged, marriages are usually entered into because of the status or the financial advantages the match will bring."
"I had no idea you were so cynical."
"I'm not cynical in the least, just realistic. Why do you think I've remained a bachelor for so long?"
"Well, I'd like to believe it was because you hadn't met me," I said, smiling.
"You've no more interest in a society marriage than I do. They're business arrangements, really, and I've no desire to share my house with a business partner."
"Put aside the notion of a society match. Imagine a marriage in which there is genuine affection. Could an affair be concealed in that?"
"Perhaps if there is only genuine affection. Not if there is passionate love."
"Surely if there is passionate love, there would be no need for an affair," I said and swallowed, suddenly finding my breath difficult to control.
"No, there wouldn't be," he said. We both sat very still, neither of us able to tear our eyes away from the other's. The tense pleasure was almost unbearable, and just when I thought I couldn't stand it any longer, Colin leapt to his feet. "Some port?" he asked, heading for a tray on which stood two decanters.
"Please," I replied. He handed me a glass that I accepted with a trembling hand. He poured for himself from the other decanter. "Whiskey?" I asked, noting the color of the beverage.
"Yes."
"You prefer it to port?"
"Sometimes."
"May we return to our marriage discussion? The question of the affair."
"Right. I'll be candid. People can be discreet, very discreet. But I don't believe that it is possible to hide entirely from one's spouse the transfer of affections to another person. Unless, of course, the spouse doesn't care."
"I can't imagine not caring."
"Nor can I."
The walk home passed quickly, and back at Berkeley Square Davis opened the door before I had reached it. "There's been another delivery, madam," he said, ushering me inside to the drawing room. "The smell is rather overpowering, so I thought you'd prefer not to have them in the library. I didn't separate them, as I thought you'd want to see the full effect."
The room was crowded with flowers, vases stuffed with lilies, roses, freesia, covering every table. Sitting on the center of the mantel was an envelope, which I opened at once. Davis was right; the scent of the flowers, though lovely, was overwhelming, and I went back into the hall to read the note, which I knew came in response to my notice that had appeared in the Times the previous day.
...if ever thou dost cast a clouded glance on me, I gaze on winter, and if thou lookest joyously, sweet spring bursts into bloom. Beneath the Greek was a simple statement: You'll never again receive any but the freshest flowers from me.
16
It was with a certain degree of trepidation that I called on Beatrice the following day. I wanted to learn more about her marriage without making her suspect that her husband had a mistress. Assuming, of course, that she did not already know. She was in the garden when I arrived, filling a basket with cut flowers, their bright colors a perfect contrast to her dull black dress.
"This heat is dreadful," she said when she saw me. "I quite envy you your dress." She looked longingly at my gown, which was fashioned from a pale pink lawn.
"It may look cooler than yours, but I can assure you that it doesn't feel it."
"Black's so oppressive, don't you think? Particularly in the summer." Sweat trickled down the side of her face. "But there's something cleansing about being in mourning. A sort of justice. It wouldn't be right for one to go on as if nothing had happened."
I took the basket from her and followed her down the path to a shaded grove, where we sat on a small stone bench. "I've found one of Léonard's letters," I told her. "And I'm wondering if your husband had the rest of them."
"How can that be possible? We've combed every inch of the house. They are not here."
"I think they may have been stolen, possibly with the snuffbox."