Buckingham Palace Gardens - Anne Perry [53]
He pushed the thoughts out of his mind and walked over to stand where Vespasia could see him.
“Good afternoon, Victor,” she said with interest. “Emily, do you remember Mr. Narraway? My niece, Mrs. Radley.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Narraway,” Emily said quietly. She was not quite beautiful, but the vitality in her appealed even more, and the arch of her brow, the line of her cheek reminded him again of Charlotte Pitt. “I hope you are well?”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Radley,” he replied. “I am very well, thank you, but unfortunately I have to ask Lady Vespasia’s help with a confidential matter. I apologize for such an ill-mannered intrusion. I would avoid it if I could.”
Emily hesitated, then recognized that she had no graceful alternative, even though her eyes betrayed a burning curiosity. “Of course.” She gave him a dazzling smile. She turned to Vespasia. “I shall meet you at the carriage in…shall we say an hour?” And without waiting for a reply, with a swirl of skirts, she was gone.
“Your problem must be urgent.” Vespasia took Narraway’s arm and they moved slowly toward the next room. “Is it to do with Thomas?”
He heard the edge of anxiety in her voice. “Pitt is quite well,” he said quickly. “But we are dealing with a case of such delicacy that I dare not mention it, except that it has to do with the Prince of Wales. I need your assistance.”
“You have it. What may I do?” She did not raise her voice or alter her tone.
He knew it would disappoint her that it was merely information he wanted, and he regretted it. In the past she had involved herself in cases more daringly, and shown considerable flair. “There are several people I need to know more about than I can ask easily, and with the speed and discretion I require,” he told her.
“I see.” She looked away so he could not see her silver-gray eyes, or read the emotions in them.
“There has been a murder,” he confided as they came into the next room. “The victim is a woman of the streets, but she was found in a residence where even her presence would cause a scandal, let alone her bloodied corpse in the linen cupboard.”
Vespasia’s silver eyebrows rose. “Indeed? How unfortunate. Who is it you suspect?”
“It has to be one of three men.” He named them.
“I am surprised,” she confessed.
“You think none of them capable?”
She smiled. “I think none of them foolish enough, which is not the same thing at all.”
“What can you tell me of them, in the way of gossip, scandal, or anything else that may be of interest?”
“You mean of relevance,” she corrected him. “I am quite capable of reading between the lines, Victor.”
He was pleased that she should use his Christian name, and aware that it was ridiculous it should make such a difference to him. “What can you tell me?” he asked.
“I should be surprised if it is Julius Sorokine,” she began thoughtfully, speaking almost under her breath. “He is a young man perhaps too handsome for his own good. Much has come to him easily, though not personal happiness, I think. He has not extended himself because he has had little need. He has no temper and not the kind of vanity that lashes out against denial. He is too lazy, too much on the periphery of life, nor has he so far the emotional energy necessary for violence.” She looked a trifle sad as she said it, as if he had disappointed her.
If someone had asked her, would she have said the same of him: “too much on the periphery of life?” Refraining from violence not through self-mastery but through emotional indolence? He had loved, and betrayed, but it was a long time ago. As always, he had chosen duty over passion.
No, that was not true. Passion was far too strong a word for what he had felt. The choice had not torn his heart. He remembered it with a