Chapter 18
We left through the back entrance, though this halfhearted attempt at discretion would likely have little effect.
Mrs. Reynolds may run a tight ship in many ways, but she couldn’t entirely stop the servants from gossiping with each other or their neighborhood counterparts.
Luckily, I didn’t care what people said about me, or so I reminded myself as I climbed into Mr. Dorian’s coach.
He followed close behind and directed the driver to take us to the Carrington Hotel in Mayfair.
I raised my eyebrows at the exclusive, and expensive, establishment as I settled against the bench seat. “No paltry widow’s portion for her, then?”
Mr. Dorian shrugged, taking the seat across from me. “According to Mrs. Langham, she has done well for herself abroad. And that fellow of hers is rumored to be a minor Italian royal.”
“Really?” I said, as I recalled the man’s dark features and Romanesque nose. “How interesting. He certainly looks like a character out of an Ann Radcliffe novel. I wonder if he is a count?”
Mr. Dorian snorted. “I didn’t take you for a title hunter,” he grumbled.
I ignored this comment, as it was beneath us both. “I wonder what brought her to London in the first place. The timing does seem rather … convenient.”
Mr. Dorian nodded. “And while a woman may not have possessed the strength needed to kill Charles Pearson, that fellow you’re so fond of certainly does.”
“I am not fond of him,” I protested. “I don’t even know the man.”
“I only wanted to make sure you are capable of remaining on task while in the presence of such male beauty.” As the corner of his mouth curved up, I realized he was teasing me. Well, two could play at that game.
“And yet I’ve never been distracted by you,” I shot back, holding his gaze.
To my surprise, this comment seemed to catch him off guard.
Mr. Dorian’s cheeks turned pink, and he glanced away.
The man very well knew he was attractive.
Nearly everywhere we went, he drew at least some person’s notice—and often used it to his advantage.
But now he seemed embarrassed to have it pointed out.
After a moment, he cleared his throat and looked back at me. “Glad to hear it.”
As our eyes met, the air felt heavy with anticipation and something more I did not wish to name.
Something I had barely allowed myself to feel in many months.
I parted my lips, though I had no idea what to say, and Mr. Dorian’s gaze shifted to my mouth.
His eyes darkened as he leaned forward slowly.
But then, just as I felt my own body begin to move as well, the coach rocked to a halt. We had reached the hotel.
Mr. Dorian blinked and sat back, as if he had just woken from a dream.
Before either of us could speak, the door was pulled open by an employee of the hotel, and I exited the coach.
Once outside, I allowed the strange, heady feeling to dissipate into the air and headed up the steps.
Mr. Dorian was by my side within seconds.
“If she is here,” I began, keeping my gaze ahead, “how are we going to find her? We don’t know for certain what name she is registered under and even if we did, I can’t imagine reception would simply give out her room number to a pair of strangers.”
“Yes, that is unlikely,” he agreed. “But not to worry. We have a number of options to choose from.”
I frowned at his casual tone. “Such as?”
“I can distract the concierge while you riffle through the guest book, we can steal waiter’s uniforms, then sneak into the kitchens and wait for an order for their room, we can pose as chambermaids …
” While he prattled on, I pretended to be irritated by his increasingly outrageous suggestions, but secretly I was glad we were back on our usual footing.
“Or we can simply say hello and ask if she would like a chat.”
I turned to him. “That last one isn’t very exciting.”
“No,” he admitted, as he looked past me towards the lounge. “But it might just work.”
I followed his gaze and saw Mrs. Pearson and her companion sitting at a table just past the entrance.
He was reading a newspaper, while she idly sipped from a cup of tea, her gaze fixed somewhere off in the distance.
She had changed since the church, and while her gown was still black, it was not made of the expected crepe of a widow but something far more expensive, likely silk.
A large ivory brooch was pinned to her collar just below her throat.
I hadn’t noticed it before, but now, without the distraction of the long mourning veil and ostentatious hat, I could see that she was a very elegant woman, and together she and her companion made a handsome couple.
I glanced over at Mr. Dorian, but he kept his gaze fixed on them as he approached their table. Mrs. Pearson noticed him first and set down her teacup with an expectant look.
“I’m terribly sorry to intrude,” he began, looking far more meek than he ever would under normal circumstances. “But I believe I saw you earlier at the church.”
Yet this tactic appeared to work, as Mrs. Pearson smiled. “Oh, yes. I thought you looked familiar.”
Of course she noticed him, I thought to myself rather unkindly.
“I am Mr. Dorian, and this is Mrs. Harper,” he said, gesturing to me where I hovered just behind his shoulder.
She smiled at me in acknowledgment. “Hello. I am Mrs. Murray, and this is Mr. Romano.”
So not a count, then.
“And yet, I was told you had a different surname. One you shared with the deceased,” Mr. Dorian murmured. As the woman blushed and looked away, Mr. Romano shot him a mighty glower. “I’m not trying to embarrass you, madame,” he said quickly, as he held up his hands in supplication.
Her mouth tightened as she bowed her head. “Mrs. Murray is the name I use when I travel,” she said quietly.
“Perhaps it would be best if we continued this conversation somewhere in private,” Mr. Dorian replied in a gentle tone. “There is much we wish to discuss with you.”
“She has nothing to say to you,” Mr. Romano stated, in his heavily accented English. “Go somewhere else for gossip, you vulture.”
Just as an irate expression began to cross Mr. Dorian’s face, I stepped forward.
“I’m so sorry, but that isn’t at all why we are here.
My sister and I had the misfortune of finding Mr. Pearson, and as such, we have become entangled in this case.
If we could have just a few minutes of your time, I would be so grateful. ”
Mrs. Pearson looked up, her dark eyes wide. “Is your sister Delia?”
“Yes,” I said with an enthusiastic nod.
Then she turned to Mr. Romano, and they began to have a hushed conversation in rapid Italian.
At first, the gentleman shook his head fiercely, but then she said something that looked and sounded like a plea, and he eventually relented with a single nod.
She reached across the table and took his hands in her own as she whispered her thanks.
All in all, it seemed a very intimate exchange to have right in front of two people they had just met.
Mrs. Pearson then rose. “Let us go to our rooms.”
Her companion immediately pushed back his chair and stood, though his full lips were still frozen in a disapproving scowl.
The man was taller than I realized, with broad shoulders and well-formed arms. He certainly possessed the physical strength needed to kill Charles Pearson.
What remained to be seen was whether he possessed a motive.
I exchanged a look with Mr. Dorian, who seemed to share my thoughts, and we followed them out of the lounge to the elevator.
Despite his lover’s pleas, Mr. Romano did not appear at all happy with this development and spent the entire ride glowering at both myself and Mr. Dorian.
I avoided his gaze as best I could, but it was difficult in the cramped space.
Thankfully, it was not long before we reached the top floor.
Once we exited the elevator, Mrs. Pearson showed us into a luxurious suite decorated in sumptuous tones of pink and gold.
“Please, sit down,” she said, gesturing to a small sitting area by the hearth.
Mr. Dorian and I took the sofa, while Mrs. Pearson sank into a wingback chair opposite us.
Mr. Romano moved to stand behind his inamorata until she glared up at him.
“Dante, I can’t think with you hovering like that,” she snapped and pointed to the chair parallel to her.
“Sit there, and stop glowering at them,” she added, giving me an apologetic smile.
I half expected the man to protest, but instead he let out a sulky grunt and took the seat across from me.
His manner reminded me of Cleo when she was in a mood about something, and only then did I notice that he was quite young.
I estimated that Mrs. Pearson was about my age, but her companion couldn’t have been more than twenty-five.
“How is your sister faring?” Mrs. Pearson asked, drawing my attention away from studying his profile.
“It has been a very difficult time for her,” I replied, “as I’m sure you can understand.”
Mrs. Pearson glanced at her companion. “Yes. But it has been many years since Charles and I were together.” Mr. Romano pointedly turned away from her.
She rolled her eyes, but did not otherwise comment on this bald display of jealousy.
“We were very young and incredibly foolish when we married, you see,” she explained.
“Neither of us understood what it meant to pledge a lifetime to the other.”
I wondered if they had been any younger than Mr. Romano, but kept that to myself. “Is it true that his father didn’t approve?” I asked instead.