Belgrave Square - Anne Perry [102]
Her words were ordinary; the apology he would have expected, the reasons could be understood by anyone, but far more powerful than that he could see the fear in her. Her body was stiff under the soft muslin gown and the shawl around her shoulders, a matter of decorum rather than necessity in this warm evening.
He forgot himself for a moment in his desire to make her feel at ease.
“I understand,” he said quickly. “It is most natural.” He felt nothing ridiculous in saying this, although in all his years in the police force no other woman had called upon him in his house because she could not contain her anxiety. But then he had never been involved in a case like this. “Please don’t feel the need to apologize. I wish there had been more I could have told you so this would not have been necessary.” Then he heard his words in his own ears and was afraid she might think he meant to make her visit avoidable. He fumbled but could think of no way of undoing it without being overful-some, and that might be worse. He would appear such a fool.
She swallowed and looked even more uncomfortable, aware that she was intruding in his home with a matter which was strictly professional. They had no acquaintance other than his attempt to help her husband, for reasons of which she knew nothing. The Inner Circle permitted no women—nor indeed did any secret society of which he had ever heard. Such organizations were a totally masculine preserve.
She opened her mouth to make some apology, and looked as if she was even considering retreating.
“Please,” he said hastily. “Please allow me to take your shawl.” He stepped forward and held his hand ready, thinking that to reach for it would be precipitate.
She took it off slowly and handed it to him, a tiny smile on her lips. “You are very generous. I should not have intruded into your time this way, but I wanted to speak to you so much, and not at the police station …”
For a ridiculous instant his heart leaped. Then he told himself furiously that her eagerness was born solely of her fear—fear for her husband—and was in no way personal.
“What may I do to help you?” he said more stiffly than he had intended, placing the shawl clumsily over the back of the sofa.
She looked down at the floor, still standing, just a few feet from him. He was aware of the very faint perfume of some flower he could not identify, and he knew it was she, her hair and her skin.
“Inspector Pitt is doing all he can,” he began tentatively. “And he is making progress. He has discovered strong evidence against several other suspects.”
She looked up quickly and met his eyes.
“It seems terrible to say that I am glad, doesn’t it? Some other poor woman somewhere may be just as afraid as I am, only for her it will end in tragedy.”
Without thinking he reached out his hand and touched her arm.
“You cannot change it for her,” he said gently. “You have no cause to feel oppressed by a grief that you did not create and cannot help.”
“I—” She stopped, her face deeply troubled.
He became aware of his hand still on her arm and removed it quickly. Was that what she had been going to say? That he had trespassed; he was taking advantage of her anxiety to be more familiar than he would have had this been her house, and he the supplicant?
They both began to speak at once, he simply to say her name. He stopped abruptly.
“I’m sorry—”
She smiled fleetingly and then was desperately serious again.
“I know that you told Sholto you will do everything you can, and to begin with that seemed to ease my mind so much that it was almost as if the matter were already over. But now he is so worried he is ill with it.” Her lips tightened for a moment. “He tries to conceal it from me, so