Ashworth Hall - Anne Perry [71]
Justine accepted her dismissal gracefully, leaving Pitt alone with Eudora.
Eudora leaned even closer to the fire, as if in spite of the now almost oppressive heat in the room, she were still cold. The yellow light from the flames lit her cheeks and the gentle angle of her chin, and cast the shadows of her lashes on her skin.
Pitt felt brutal, but he had no choice. He forced himself to remember Greville’s dead face under the water, the indignity of his body, Doll’s screaming; and Denbigh lying dead in a London alley.
“Was Kathleen O’Brien a thief, Mrs. Greville?” he asked.
“No, I don’t believe so,” she whispered.
“Was she dismissed for refusing to accommodate your husband’s wishes regarding her?”
“That … may have been part of the reason. She was … difficult.” She would not be drawn further. He could see it in the set of her shoulders. For all its softness under the draping of her dark dress, her body was rigid. There was much in her form, her auburn coloring, which was like Charlotte, except that she was so much more vulnerable.
“Was your brother, Mr. Doyle, aware of your husband’s tastes and his indulgences?”
“I never told him,” she said instantly. It was an answer of pride. It was also evasive. “One does not discuss such things. It would be embarrassing … and disloyal.” There was criticism in her voice, and a huskiness, as if she were close to tears.
He thought of all she had endured in the last few days, the tensions of the pressure upon Greville to succeed in an almost impossible task, the fear for his life which she knew was real. Then Piers had arrived and announced his betrothal, obviously without having even told his family he was deeply in love, let alone consulting them about his plans. The day after that, her husband had been murdered. Now Pitt was forcing her to realize that much of the entire life she had known was false, marred by ugliness and betrayal of her heart, her home, her innermost values. Her pain must be all but intolerable.
And yet she sat by the fire, blank-faced, and remained polite. A lesser woman would have wept, screamed, abused him for his cruelty. He hated being the instrument of her suffering. But it was far from impossible that Padraig Doyle had killed Greville. Greville’s treatment of Eudora would free Doyle from the constraints of family loyalties which might otherwise have held his hand. He was Irish, he was Catholic, he was a Nationalist. Greville would trust him above any other man in the house. They might easily have quarreled, but Greville would never have expected violence from him. He would have sat in the bath quite unafraid until the very last moment, when it was too late to cry out.
“Has your brother stayed with you at Oakfield House?”
“No, not for years.” She did not look at him.
“In London?”
“Sometimes. A great many people stayed with us in London. My husband has … had a very important position.”
“Do you go to Ireland from time to time?”
She hesitated.
He waited. The coals settled in the fire.
“Yes. Ireland was my home. I go back occasionally.”
There was no point in pressing her. All the questions in his mind were there between them. She understood, and would not answer.
“I’m sorry to have had to speak to you of it,” he said after a few moments. “I wish I could simply have burned the letters.”
“I understand,” she replied. “At least I think I do.” She looked up at him. “Mr. Pitt? Did Piers read these letters?”
“Yes … but he was not there when I spoke to the servants. He knew nothing about Kathleen O’Brien, or that there were other women in London.”
“Will you please tell him only what he has to know? Ainsley was his father ….”
“Of course. I have no desire to damage Mr. Greville’s reputation in anyone’s eyes, least of all his family’s ….”
She smiled at him. “I know. I do not envy you your task, Mr. Pitt. It must be very distressing at times.”
“Because it causes others pain,” he said gently. “People who are too much hurt already.”
She looked at