A Stranger in Mayfair - Charles Finch [83]
“We start over. First of all I think we ought to confirm with Mrs. Clarke what we suspect about her son’s paternity. I’m meant to be in Parliament tomorrow, but I’ll see her early in the morning, out at the Tilton.”
“Then?”
“Then we need to sit down and speak with Ludo, and ask him to describe exactly what his relationship with Frederick Clarke is. I don’t think Inspector Fowler has done it, or is likely to, and we can’t let Collingwood rot in jail.”
“It may not work.”
Lenox looked grim. “It will if we keep trying. The truth wants to come out.”
They had been in a dark corner of the ballroom for so long that Lenox had forgotten there was dancing and merriment nearby. He only recognized it as noise, until a female voice called out to him.
“You must be the two dullest men in London!”
They turned and saw that it was Miranda Murray speaking.
“You don’t want to get caught between us, then. Perhaps you should dance,” Dallington said.
It was abominably rude.
Miranda, who looked wounded, tried a smile. “Perhaps you’re right!” she said.
“Might it be a dance with me, then?” asked Lenox. “I’m not much account, but of course the eyes in the room will be on you.” He held out a hand.
Gratefully she took it and followed him onto the dance floor. “Thank you,” she said as a new song started.
“Now tell me,” said Lenox, smiling mischievously, “do you think that baby looks more like Thomas or Toto?”
“You must know my answer,” she said. “I think Grace favors my cousin, of course. No doubt Toto’s cousins think as I do but in reverse. But look at the child’s strong chin! She’s a McConnell.”
“If you can keep a confidence, I think as you do. Of course I would never dream of saying it to either of them. She would be put out, and he would become terribly vain.”
She laughed gaily and turned with him toward the center of the room.
Chapter Forty-One
Lenox awoke the next morning bleary-eyed. It wasn’t so much that he had had three or four drinks but that they were spread over so many hours. In his younger days he would have woken the next morning and taken his scull onto the river to refresh himself, but it was his fortieth year now, and it took him longer to feel quite normal again.
Still, he dragged himself downstairs early and over a strong pot of tea devoured five blue books, none of them riveting but all, according to Graham’s carelessly penned notes, quite important. The sole moment of amusement that any of them afforded him was when a piece of paper dropped out of a blue book on education and he discovered that it was a self-portrait by Frabbs—that is, a self-portrait of how Frabbs wished he might look, which was nineteen years old, much more muscular, and with a rather dashing mustache. It was signed Gordon Frabbs in a deep, swooping hand.
“Graham!” he called out when he had finished his reading. It was nearly ten o’clock.
“Yes, sir?” said the political secretary when he appeared a moment later.
“I’m going to attend to the Starling case this morning—no, there’s no use looking stern, I tell you—but I want to be at the House promptly. Is it important to be there at the beginning?”
“I rather think so, sir. There will be an address on India by Mr. Gladstone, much anticipated, and he could use the benefit of your support on the benches.”
“Shouting ‘Hear, hear,’ and that sort of thing?”
“Yes, sir.”
Lenox sighed. “I only feel half part of the Parliament, Graham. I should have known about Gladstone’s speech. You told me, if I recall—but my mind has been elsewhere.”
“If I may speak freely, sir, I think it has.”
A look of anger quickly muted into resignation passed over Lenox’s face. “It’s not what I expected, I suppose. Not as easy, or revolutionary, as what I expected.”
“No, sir.”
“Well,” he said and stood up. “Thank you.”
Graham bowed. “Sir.”
When he was alone again Lenox’s mind traversed once more the details of the public water system, alighting on both its strengths and flaws. He was pacing his study when there was a ring on the