Belgrave Square - Anne Perry [101]
Now he stood in his large bay window looking towards Green Park and tried to disentangle his thoughts.
What about the other names on the list, the second list? From what Pitt had said, Addison Carswell was almost certainly being blackmailed. And he could not, or would not, account for his time the night Weems was killed. Was the wretched man really so besotted with the Hilliard girl he would rather risk everything he possessed—not just his home and his family, but his very life—by murdering Weems, rather than simply give her up? Thousands of men all over London had mistresses, all over England, for that matter. If one was discreet, it mattered little.
What could Weems have done, at the very worst? Told Mrs. Carswell? What of it? If she did not know, or guess, and if this was the first time he had strayed, she might well be distressed. But if you keep a mistress, a wife’s distress is not an agony to you—certainly not worth risking the hangman’s rope for. His daughters? Grieved, angry perhaps; but they were old enough to have some awareness of the ways of the world, and hardly in a position to do anything worse than cool their affection for him, treat him to some isolation in his own house. That could certainly be unpleasant, but again, the smallest triviality compared with the unpleasantness of murder and its consequences. And as a magistrate, he would be acutely aware of just how fearful those consequences were. He, more than most, would know what a spell in Coldbath Fields or Newgate could do to a man, let alone the rope.
And what had happened to Byam’s letter, and Weems’s record of his payments to him? Byam had been so sure they were there, he had actually called Drummond and confessed his connection with Weems, the blackmail and the death of Laura Anstiss and thus his motive for killing him. Without them he would never have been connected with it at all.
His thoughts were interrupted by the manservant standing in the doorway, coughing discreetly.
“Yes, Goodall, what is it?”
Goodall’s thin face was very nearly expressionless.
“There is a Lady Byam to see you, sir.”
It was ridiculous. Drummond felt his breath catch in his throat and the color rush to his face.
“Lady Byam?” he repeated pointlessly.
“Yes sir.” Goodall’s eyebrows rose so minutely it might have been Drummond’s imagination.
“Ask her to come in.” Drummond swallowed and turned away. What had happened? Why had Eleanor Byam come here to see him, to his house, and in the evening, though it was still daylight, and would be for another two hours. It was an extraordinary thing to do. Something must be wrong.
Goodall opened the door again and Drummond swung around to see Eleanor just inside the room. She was wearing a dark dress of some color between navy and gray, or perhaps it was green. It looked like the sky a little after dusk, and there was a soft bloom to her skin, reminding him that for all the cool colors of her clothes she would be warm to the touch, and very alive.
Of all the idiotic and wildly inappropriate thoughts! The heat he could feel in his face must make him look as if he were running a fever.
“Good evening, Lady Byam,” he said hastily, moving forward to greet her.
Goodall closed the door and they were alone.
“Good evening, Mr. Drummond,” she replied a little hesitantly. “It is very kind of you to see me without notice like this, and at such an hour.” She touched her lips with her tongue, as though her mouth were dry and speech difficult for her. Obviously she too was aware that this was a circumstance requiring some explanation. Women of respectability, let alone quality, did not come alone to visit the houses of single gentlemen, uninvited and at such a time of day. She took a deep breath. He could see the rise of her breast and the tiny pulse beating in her throat. “I came