Chapter Three
Since they had left the office a little early and were able to enjoy the special pleasure of dining together in their own home, Constance was surprised by her urge to call in at the establishment.
Since returning from Venice, she had often forced herself to go out of duty rather than the powerful need to protect that had consumed her when she lived there.
In truth, like Solomon with his many businesses, she had delegated to the right people, and the establishment more or less ran itself.
She had thought this would pique her, but her life was now so interwoven with Solomon’s that she was glad.
Inevitably, as they took their wine to the comfortable drawing room, conversation turned to the latest case.
“Even if it is no case at all,” Constance said, “we should prove it as quickly as we can. I could call in at the establishment this evening and speak to Edith, who has spent some time with Darrow.”
“Who may or may not have been Caterina’s lover,” Solomon said thoughtfully. “Did you like him?”
“Yes. He was reserved but polite, and after he spoke to Edith at the establishment, he gave her at least one more lesson. I suppose he might have revealed something of his private life.”
“Did you want to stay there for long?” he asked.
“Probably not, unless they need me. Why?”
“I thought we might drop in on the Tizsas,” Solomon said. “Lady Griz knows many musicians. And Dragan may well have heard of Caterina’s physician, Dr. Sorenson.”
“True.” Lady Grizelda Tizsa was the eccentric daughter of a duke who had married a multi-talented Hungarian refugee, a physician by profession.
The couple, who were primarily responsible for Constance and Solomon’s meeting in the first place, were equally addicted to mysteries, although in an amateur capacity as far as Constance knew.
Besides which, they were good company. “Let’s do that, then.
If they’re not at home, we can try again in the morning. ”
That decided, Constance remembered to summon her new lady’s maid before they went up to change. By the time they entered their bedroom, the girl was already there, selecting a choice of gowns for Constance’s approval.
Solomon strolled off into his dressing room.
“The pink,” Constance decided, and the maid bobbed her head.
Anne Morris was a friend of Janey’s, encountered a couple of months ago when they were trying to find who was responsible for leaving a body on the establishment’s back doorstep.
In many ways, she was the complete opposite of Janey—shy, well spoken, and submissive.
She had been the assistant of a fashionable dressmaker whom Silver and Grey were responsible for closing down—and arresting—so Janey had considered they owed Anne a job.
At least to teach her to stand up for herself.
“When you worked for Veronique,” Constance asked suddenly, “did she ever have a customer called Caterina di Ripoli? Or Caterina Montague? An Italian opera singer.”
Anne thought about it while she helped Constance out of her day gown and left her to the washing bowl. “I don’t think so,” she said at last, clearly disappointed not to be useful.
“Just thought I’d ask.”
As Constance sat at her dressing table, having the final pins inserted in her hair, Solomon appeared at his dressing room door, handsome and elegant in evening dress.
One of those intense darts of desire took her by surprise, as they often did, and she wondered about leaving Edith until tomorrow and just staying home for the evening.
Here. In the bed that loomed suddenly large in her mirror.
“Will that do, ma’am?” Anne asked anxiously.
Constance had to admit that Anne could create rather lovely styles that she would never be able to achieve for herself. And if she stayed at home now, Anne would imagine it was her fault.
In the doorway, Solomon’s eyes kindled with amusement, as though he knew exactly what she was thinking. Drat him.
“Wonderfully,” Constance said briskly, rising to her feet. I shall be the belle of the brothel. And she didn’t care as long as he looked at her like that. “Thank you, Anne. You needn’t wait up for me. I’m not sure when we’ll be home.”
*
They were in good time for Constance to welcome the early guests to her establishment.
The usual evening party had just opened to the delicate strains of a violin recital by Edith.
Constance was delighted to see her growing in skill and confidence to this stage.
She did not interrupt. Instead, she played hostess, flitting among her guests and making sure all was well with her girls—not just those flirting with the gentlemen in the salon, but the others who, like Edith, were set on other careers, the maids and cooks and bookkeepers.
And, of course, the burly footmen who kept them safe.
She was glad to see that Sarah, her more-than-capable lieutenant, made her way to Edith as soon as she stopped playing. Though Edith was not for sale, she played so enchantingly that several of the male guests were clearly interested.
Sarah intercepted them. “Edith will be back to play more in a little,” she assured them. “Come, Edith, I think Mrs. Silver wants you…”
Constance was still Mrs. Silver here, though all the staff and most of their customers knew she was Solomon’s wife.
Constance took Edith’s arm and swept her across the hall to one of the more private rooms, where she complimented Edith sincerely on her playing. “You could start considering private engagements,” she said. “Solomon and I both think you are ready.”
Edith was shocked. “Oh, no, ma’am, I’m not nearly good enough. I might never be!”
“You held this lot spellbound for twenty minutes,” Constance said dryly, “and believe me, they had other things on their minds to distract them. Think about it. But actually, I wanted to ask you about something else. Carl Darrow.”
Edith’s eyes lit up. “I would love to be half as good as him. Though he taught me a great deal.”
“Then he was generous with his advice and guidance?”
“Oh yes. He even let me play along with him.”
“Do you still see him? Are you friends?”
“Not friends,” she said a little ruefully. “But he was kind.”
“He didn’t try to take advantage, did he?”
“Oh, no, nothing like that,” Edith said at once. “He’s not interested in me in that way.” Her mouth quirked. “Or at all, really. It’s the music that interests him. That made me proud, because I must have some talent to get his attention at all.”
“Is he married?” Constance asked.
“No, but I think there is someone. Someone who’s more than the music.”
“A singer?” Constance suggested.
Edith’s eyes widened. “Now that you mention it, I think so, yes. His friend told me he was in love with her. He—the friend—thought I would mind, but I don’t.”
“Is he a gentle man?” Constance asked. “Did he ever lose his temper around you?”
“Oh, no, though he could be impatient. He was kind, but only up to a point, if you see what I mean.”
“Not really.”
Edith spread her hands in a helpless little gesture. “Almost as if he was going through the motions, teaching me things that would make the music better, without really noticing me.”
“Was he like that with everyone?” Constance asked.
“Mostly, I think. Very focused on his own career but not above helping others when he could.”
“And this friend who warned you about his affections for the singer—who is he?”
“A pianist. Geoffrey Reid. They play together sometimes. He has lodgings in the same house as Mr. Darrow.”
How useful…
*
It was after ten o’clock before Constance and Solomon left the carriage in Half Moon Street and walked up the dark little lane to the Tizsa house. At least there were lights on, though Constance worried about waking the baby by knocking too loudly.
However, almost as soon as Solomon lifted the knocker the door was opened by a tall, dark, almost impossibly handsome young man.
“Tizsa,” Solomon said. “You’re going out.”
“Actually, no, we just saw you coming,” Dragan said in his perfect, only slightly accented English. “From the window. Come in.”
He took their hats and Constance’s evening cloak before ushering them into the drawing room that doubled as the couple’s much-used study.
“Goodness, how lovely you look,” Lady Griz said, hurrying to greet them. “Have you been to the opera?”
“Nothing so respectable,” Constance said brazenly. “And you’re looking rather fine yourself.”
“Am I?” Griz said in surprise, her eyebrows rising over the frames of her spectacles. She was always surprised by compliments, which was odd because she was in fact extremely pretty, in her own careless, eccentric style.
“Although one of the things we wished to ask you does concern opera,” Solomon said, as Constance and Griz sat side by side on the large sofa.
He took a winged chair opposite them and Dragan slouched into the other.
“Do you by chance know the singer Caterina di Ripoli? Otherwise Mrs. Digby Montague.”
“We’ve heard her,” Griz said. “At Covent Garden last week, and at some charity concert of Azalea’s last year, I think. Or was it two years ago? But I’ve never met her.”
“Does that mean you don’t know any gossip?” Constance asked.
“I’ve never heard any,” Griz said apologetically, “but then, I went for the music. If there is any to know, Azalea probably does.”
Azalea was Grizelda’s sister, Lady Trench, a philanthropic hostess much in the manner of their mother, the Duchess of Kelburn.
“What about the violinist Carl Darrow?” Constance asked.
“We did meet him at one of Azalea’s soirees,” Griz said, apparently pleased. “Plays divinely.”
“But not with you?” Solomon asked.
Griz smiled. “Lord, no, he has no time to waste on amateurs. He is ambitious.”
“Driven,” Dragan said. “And good enough to fill the largest halls, which I’m sure he will before he is much older.”
“Have you ever heard his name coupled with that of Caterina di Ripoli?” Constance asked.