Acceptable Loss - Anne Perry [47]
“Nonsense,” she answered. “And Cook will be offended if you don’t eat at least most of that.”
“Tell her I’m ill. In fact, I’ll tell her myself.” Rathbone rose to his feet. The thought of remaining at the table in a bitter silence was so unpleasant, he would rather retreat into work. Any excuse would do. “As you have pointed out, it will be exceedingly difficult to present any believable defense. And if I don’t make a reasonable show of it, I will not only let Rupert Cardew down, and his father, I will damage my own reputation. I cannot afford to do that.” He turned at the door. “Don’t wait up for me. I shall probably be a long time.”
Margaret opened her mouth to speak, and then changed her mind. He would never know whether it would have been an apology or not. He chose to think that it would. But even so, the laughter, the intimacy, of the previous evening seemed an age ago, hard even to recall to the inner mind, where treasures are stored.
CHAPTER
6
HESTER FELT AWKWARD STANDING on the steps of Lord Cardew’s beautiful house in Cheyne Walk at ten o’clock the following morning. It was a bright, windy day, and the river was choppy as the tide came in. Pleasure boats were bobbing up and down, people clutching hats, ribbons flying. The russet-colored sails of a barge billowed out, the hull listing over.
She had brought news of death before, and of maiming, burning, disfigurement. There was never an easy way to deal with grief, nothing to say that could make it any different. If there was healing with time, then it came from within.
It was difficult to speak with someone whose only living child was accused of something as hideous as this. If he had killed someone in a fight or, more cold-bloodedly, in revenge, it would have been bad enough. But to be tied in the mind with a man as fearful as Mickey Parfitt, to have known him, used his services, and said nothing—that left a stain that would be indelible.
And yet it seemed unacceptably cruel to ignore the father’s pain as if it were of no importance, or an embarrassment one would rather avoid.
The door was opened by a butler whose expression was guarded, his eyes already showing the strain.
“Good morning, madam. May I help you?”
“Good morning.” She produced her card. “Mr. Rupert Cardew has been extremely generous to me and to the clinic for the poor that I run. It seems an appropriate time to offer Lord Cardew any service I can perform for him.” She smiled very slightly, sufficient only to show goodwill.
The stiffness in the butler’s face eased. “Certainly, madam. If you care to come inside, I will inform his lordship that you are here.”
She dropped her card onto the small silver tray, then followed the butler through the hall with its carved mantel and exquisitely wrought plaster ceiling and cornices. He left her in the firelit morning room with its faded carpets and the seascapes on the walls, the numerous bookcases, the spines lettered in gold, but of odd sizes. She knew at a glance that they were bought to read, not for show.
The butler excused himself, closing the door. In other circumstances Hester might have looked at the titles of the books. It was always interesting to know what other people read, but she could not keep her mind on anything at the moment. Even in the silence, she kept imagining footsteps in the hall; her mind raced to find words that would sound anything but futile.
She paced from the bookcase to the window and back again. She was staring at the garden when the door finally opened, catching her by surprise.
“I apologize for keeping you waiting, Mrs. Monk,” Lord Cardew said quietly, closing the door behind him.
“It is gracious of you to see me at all,” she answered. “I would not have been surprised had you declined. Especially since, now that I am here, I hardly know what to say that makes any sense—only that if I can be of service to you, then I wish to be.”
Cardew looked exhausted. His skin was papery, as if there were no blood in the flesh beneath it. But it was the emptiness