Chapter Fifteen #3
“Why do you think? To remember the old days and find out how you are.” He lifted his wine in a silent toast, and after a moment’s hesitation, she raised her own and allowed the clink of glasses.
“And how do you think I am?” she asked.
“According to your daughter, better than for many years. But I prefer words from your own lips.”
Juliet shrugged. “She generally knows what she’s talking about, does Constance. For instance, she tells me you’re about to be promoted to some new role of high importance.”
“It’s a home posting,” he said deprecatingly, “and allows me to stay in one place. After thirty years of a nomad’s life, I find I welcome it. Age catches up with us all.”
“And just why, Sebastian, have you looked me up at the very time I could ruin your life?”
He smiled with something that looked alarmingly like affection. “No, you couldn’t.”
“Is that politeness talking?” she asked. “Because I very much doubt it is ignorance. You know how far I fell, and how damaging my company could be for a respectable man.”
She thought his hand tightened on his glass, but since a waiter appeared and set a bowl of soup in front of each of them, he might just have been shifting it out of the way.
“May I know about that fall?” he asked when they were alone again.
“No,” Juliet said. “I’m sure you’ve guessed enough.”
He was silent for a few moments, while she ate her soup with an outward calmness she was proud of.
“I suspect it was my fault. Did the old besom read my letters?”
“Oh, no, I burned those. She read my diary—which was quite a feat, since I hid it beneath the floorboards. Clearly, she suspected, though she waited until after you had gone, and then out I went. Without a character, as they say.”
“Why did you not tell me?”
“There was no point. I had chosen my bed, and I lay in it. Quite a lot, in fact.”
A spasm crossed his face. She was fiercely glad of it, for the man generally betrayed nothing that he did not wish to.
“What of you, Sebastian?” she asked blandly. “Did you never marry?”
“No.”
“But you were not celibate, were you? Was Caterina di Ripoli yours?”
“No. Though I did seduce her mother. And left them all exposed.”
Though his expression did not change nor his voice waver, she sensed his guilt. He would do terrible things, but they still touched him.
“So you saved the child,” she said with deliberate detachment. “Did you love her mother, then?”
“No.” He didn’t even hesitate. Perhaps he had expected the question. “I never loved anyone but you.”
“Don’t give me that,” she snapped, her anger suddenly fierce. “I wasn’t born yesterday, and I certainly don’t need your damned platitudes.”
“Platitudes?” He stared at her blankly, and then a hiss of laughter escaped him. “Straight for the jugular. You could always deprive me of breath one way or another. Why did you let me go without you?”
She shrugged. “I suppose I didn’t want to go with you—enough.”
“Did you never wish you had? Come with me, I mean.”
“No. What would have been the point of that?” She set down her spoon and leaned back in her chair. “The soup was good.”
“Tasty,” he agreed, finishing his own.
“Did Caterina know what you were?”
“She knew I was with the British embassy.”
“But nothing that could damage you if it were made public?”
“Ah. You came as Silver and Grey’s secret weapon. I should have known.”
“The curiosity is my own.”
“Then the answer is no.”
“But I wouldn’t know if you were lying.”
“Yes, you would,” he said. “Because I never lied to you before.”
“You just don’t tell the whole truth.”
“Neither do you.”
Her lips twitched. “Touché.”
He smiled back and raised his glass to his lips. “I’m glad you came.”
So am I, God help me.
With the arrival of the steak pie and fresh green vegetables, their conversation left such difficult personal matters for comparisons of plants in other countries and Juliet’s attempts to grow flowers and herbs in pots in her tiny yard.
There were a few funny tales shared, a discussion of music and drama—which inspired a sudden longing in Juliet to attend the theatre again—and even a more detailed account of his encounter with Constance and Solomon in Venice.
“She made less of it,” Juliet said bleakly. “She always does.”
“She has married quite the fierce protector. And they both protect you.”
Wary of sliding back into the personal, Juliet finished the last of her dessert and thanked him for a very pleasant meal.
“It’s time I went home,” she added. “I open early in the mornings to catch the workers.”
He nodded because, of course, he knew that already, and rose to his feet without trying to persuade her otherwise. He held her chair and placed her wrap around her shoulders. “You will allow me to escort you home.”
His hands lingered just a little too long, light and warm. She remembered his touch with a totally unexpected spark of long-dead desire. Unable to breathe, she turned slowly to face him. Her heart clamored as though her whole life depended on the answer she gave now.
He was still a handsome and exciting man. And she knew only too well what she was. Confused by the past and by Connie’s suspicions, she should not be in this position. And yet he had asked her, and she could say yes, and God knew what would follow from there.
But he had asked her. And it was only a short walk.
She drew a deep breath.
*
Solomon found a larger-than-usual pile of post waiting for him at the breakfast table the following morning. Surprised, he sorted through the letters and found they were nearly all addressed to Constance.
He laid them at her place and opened his own while he ate.
One was from his brother David, still in Paris but writing excitedly about coming home and that there was so much to tell him in person.
Another was from one of his managers, and he folded it into his coat to read later.
The last was a handwritten note from his chemist, which he broke open.
By then, Constance had come in, looking delightful in a wide-skirted gown of dark blue with a flattering V-shaped waist. He stood up and used the moment to kiss her good morning, as if there hadn’t already been many such kisses. And more.
She returned the kiss with just as much enthusiasm.
“You are very popular this morning,” he murmured, indicating the letters beside her.
Her eyebrows rose, but she sat down, allowing him to help her to egg and toast and coffee, while she regarded the pile dubiously, almost as if she expected each letter to explode.
Intrigued, he sat back down and watched her take a bite of toast before all but forcing herself to open the epistle at the top of the pile.
“It’s from Zenobia Paul,” she said in surprise. “She has accepted our invitation for next Friday evening.”
Solomon’s eyebrows flew up. He hadn’t known she had actually sent any invitations, imagining she was still agonizing over their lists of possible guests. Even the date of their soiree had only been tossed around between them rather than confirmed.
She grabbed the next letter. “Lord and Lady Trench have also accepted… And your Mr. and Mrs. Halliwell…” At last, she raised her eyes to his face with a peculiarly childlike wonder. “Solomon, they’ve all accepted. So far.”
“Of course they have,” he said comfortably. He suspected she might have sent the invitations quickly so that she didn’t lose courage. And even then, it was probably to prove to him that she would either be ignored or refused. “And more will do so.”
She still looked so overwhelmed that he reached out and covered her hand with his.
“There will always be people who reject us for one silly reason or another—the color of my skin or the gossip about you. But we have friends.”
She blinked rapidly and swallowed, squeezing his hand in return.
“Did you ask Juliet?”
Constance’s lips twisted. “I did. She won’t come, of course, but I did send a card. To Kellar also, though I’ll rescind it if we find anything against him. What of your letters?”
Remembering, Solomon unfolded the chemist’s note and read it, before letting it fall back on to the table. “He found nothing. Every paper wrapping we found in Caterina’s room held exactly the same dose of powdered digitalis, as prescribed by Dr. Sorenson.”
“Somehow I thought that would…” She trailed off as the door of the breakfast parlor opened.
“An Inspector Harris is here, sir,” Lottie said. “From the police. I’ve put him in the morning room.”
“Just bring him along here,” Constance said, exchanging looks with Solomon, “and set another place.”
But though he sat down opposite Solomon and accepted a cup of tea, Harris refused breakfast, saying he had already eaten. In fact, he looked embarrassed.
“I’ve been sent by my superintendent, Mr. Galsworth,” he said bluntly. “It seems you’ve stood on the toes of a friend of his, and he insists you stop harassing him or face charges.”
“What charges?” Solomon asked.
“Breaking and entering, burglary, breach of the peace, and I don’t know what else. I don’t know what you’ve been up to, but he means it, so be careful how you tread.”
“Montague,” Constance said, scowling. “For the record, his servants admitted me, he gave us permission to question his household, and I never stole anything.”
“But he did discover you on your knees before his desk with a lockpick in your hand?”
“He might, but he didn’t see me use it.”
Harris let out a hiss that might have been anger or laughter. Even before they had begun Silver and Grey, he had been a friend and helped them in several of their investigations. But he was first and foremost a policeman, and Solomon would not underestimate that.
“We were asked,” he said quickly, “to investigate the death of the opera singer Caterina di Ripoli. She was Montague’s wife.”
While the inspector drank his tea, Solomon explained the oddities of the case and their suspicions concerning Montague.
“The thing is,” he added, “he might have done it before. Ten years ago, his betrothed, Sophie Worthington, died in a similarly unexpected and inexplicable manner. I don’t suppose you know anything about that? ”
The story had brought a frown to Harris’s face.
“I’ll see if there’s any record,” he said dubiously, “but I’ll have to be dashed discreet or have a much better cause for suspicion if I’m to face Galsworth’s wrath.
In the meantime, seriously, don’t alienate him.
He can make life da—very difficult for you, and he will. Stay away from Montague’s house.”
Solomon nodded. Constance said, “Very well.” But he knew they were both thinking the same thing. They had been banned from the house, but neither Janey nor Lenny had.
Then Constance took him by surprise, as she often did.
“I have no idea where you live, inspector, so I could not send you a card, but we are having a few guests on Friday evening and would be delighted if you and your wife could join us.”
Harris looked startled. “Why?” he asked.
Constance laughed. “Because you have been a good friend and ally to us since before we began Silver and Grey. We are an odd couple with diverse friends, and the gathering is informal.” Her lips quirked. “But respectable. We shall not embarrass you.”
For the first time in their acquaintance, Harris blushed.
He was an intelligent man of some education, but he did not generally move in wealthy circles.
He was probably more at home with the rabble of the streets and Constance’s girls than conversing with the likes of the Halliwells and the Trenches.
“Thank you,” he said briskly, setting down his teacup and rising to his feet. “I’ll speak to my wife.”
Solomon walked with him to the front door and returned to find Constance gathering her wildly expanded notes into her bag. “What prompted that invitation?”
“Sorry,” she said, pausing for an instant to rest her head against his arm. “I didn’t confer with you first. I suppose I was just carried away! Besides, we both like him, and it came to me that we could do him a good turn for once.”
“How?” Solomon asked blankly.
“Didn’t you tell me that one of your favored guests was an assistant commissioner of police, or some such thing? We might bring Harris to his attention.”
Solomon began to laugh and threw his arm around her shoulders. “You are wonderful, you know.”