Belgrave Square - Anne Perry [43]
A multitude of answers rose to his lips, the instinct to tell her who Charlotte was, which he dismissed reluctantly. It would be unfair to Charlotte, and possibly close an avenue of acquiring knowledge. Charlotte had certainly been acute enough in her judgment in the past. He wanted to assure Eleanor Byam that any friend who abandoned her because of such a thing was not worthy of her association, let alone her affection. Then he realized that she knew it as well as he, but she still needed the comfort of being accepted. She was afraid of scandal, of the unpleasantness of being cut, of the cruel whispers, the speculations, the unjust thoughts. Courage did not prevent the hurt, only helped one to endure it with dignity. Even the knowledge that those one had thought friends were shallow and cruel was no balm for the disillusion. She would prefer they were not put to the test. She did not want to see their faults.
“Pitt is discreet,” he said seriously. “He is pursuing the notion that many people borrowed money from Weems, and it is probably a debtor grown desperate who killed him.”
Her face was instantly touched with pity, and self-mockery.
“I wish it were not necessary to learn who is guilty in order to prove that it was not Sholto,” she said earnestly. “I expect it is inexcusable of me, but I cannot entirely blame someone in desperate financial straits, if Weems threatened to foreclose, and they had nowhere else to turn.” She bit her lip. “I know murder is no answer to anything, but I cannot help imagining the poor creature’s feelings.”
“So will Pitt,” Drummond said before he thought, and because he felt somewhat the same himself. If ever a victim was unmissed it was William Weems.
She looked up at him again and saw his own reaction mirrored in his eyes.
He found himself blushing.
She looked away. “Sholto is taking it very well,” she said, forcing a lightness into her voice. “If he is afraid, he masks it with a confidence that in time you will be able to learn who is responsible. The whole tragedy of Lady Anstiss’s death was so long ago, it is ridiculous it should shadow our lives today. What a grubby thing it is to be so greedy!”
He pulled a wry face at such an understatement.
“Did you know her?”
“No, not at all. It was some years before Sholto and I met.” She looked across at the window and the leaves moving in the wind and the sun. “I believe she was very beautiful, not just the usual regularity of feature and clarity of complexion which one sees very often, but a vulnerable, passionate and haunting beauty that one could not forget. I have seen a painting of her in Lord Anstiss’s home, and I admit I could not put it from my mind myself.” She turned to him with puzzlement in her gray eyes. “Not because of her tragic death, simply because her face was so individual, so full of intensity, so very unlike the traditional English lady I had expected.” She blinked. “When we speak of vulnerability I had thought to see a fragile face with fair hair, very young, very soft. She was not like that at all. She was dark, with a proud nose, high cheekbones and such a marvelous mouth. I admit, I find it dreadful to think someone who looked so alive should have taken her own life. But I had no difficulty believing she would have loved fiercely enough to die for it.”
“I’m sorry,” he said awkwardly, acutely aware it was Eleanor’s husband for whom Laura Anstiss had felt such a passion. He admired her deeply that she could speak of it with gentleness, and without a shadow of resentment. She must be very sure that Sholto Byam now loved her, whatever