Buckingham Palace Gardens - Anne Perry [69]
Alexandra smiled bleakly. “Did you imagine I was unaware of it? My dear, that man Pitt would not be here and allowed to ask such questions were there not something very badly wrong. I’m so sorry. It must be wretched for you.”
Elsa struggled for something appropriate to say, and found nothing. They walked in silence from that gallery to the next one, and the one after.
“If you would care to look at these a little longer, I am sure there is no reason why you should not,” Alexandra said at last. “I fear I should return and speak to Lady Parr again. Not that she would mind in the slightest if I didn’t, but duty requires it.”
“Thank you,” Elsa accepted gratefully. Her mind was whirling, and the further respite was intensely welcome. She needed time to be alone. Her thoughts were chaotic, kept in turmoil by emotion. She was frightened because it had to be Simnel, Hamilton, or Julius who had killed the woman in such an appalling way. Someone she had stood next to, exchanging polite chatter, had torn a woman apart, a woman whose name she did not know, whose whole life she knew nothing about, except the sordid manner in which she earned money. How much choice had she had in that?
They were all imprisoned here until the police found the answer. What if they didn’t find it? They couldn’t stay here indefinitely. Would they let them all go? With that hanging over their heads forever? It would be unbearable to live with. Had the police the power to keep it secret? That was a cold, terrifying thought. A woman could come in here, be butchered like an animal, and nothing would ever be said! That kind of power should not exist.
And yet how could they make it public, and allow three men to live with that type of scandal for the rest of their lives.
She was looking at the dark, passionate Spanish face in a Velázquez portrait when the sound of footsteps jerked her back to where she was. Please heaven it was a servant of some sort, someone she would not have to speak to. Resolutely she kept her face turned toward the picture. Whoever he was was close to her.
“You can feel his emotions, can’t you?” he observed.
It was Julius. It was the first time she had been alone with him in a year. She could remember the last time exactly. It had been after dinner at the new home Cahoon had bought in Chelsea. They had been in the conservatory. The smell of leaves and damp earth had hung in the air, warm and motionless, like a tropical jungle.
She cleared her throat. She was shivering. “Yes.” Should she go back to the party now? It would be cowardly. She loathed the coward in herself even more than in others. She wanted to stay, even if they did not speak to each other. “There is a Rembrandt in the next gallery. Different sort of face altogether.”
“Self-portrait?” he asked.
“Yes, yes, I think so. It would be hard to see yourself honestly enough for a painting to be worth doing, wouldn’t it.” It was not really a question, simply a remark to fill in the silence, and prevent anything personal from being said.
“Yes,” he agreed. “To catch the weakness, the indecision, the thing that’s pleasant but shallow. Willfulness would be easier. Or appetite.”
“More attractive?” she asked, thinking of Minnie. What about herself? Did she find Cahoon’s passion and will more exciting than Julius’s less forceful nature? Was she afraid that behind the strong bones of his face there was essentially a man without the hunger or the courage to fight for his dreams? Or without dreams at all? But why should she expect of him what she seemed to lack herself?
He had not answered.
“Is it?” she pressed him. “Is that what we like to see?” Then as soon as the words were out she did not want him to answer. But if she spoke again, stopping him from doing so, she would always wonder what he would have said.
“Not on my own walls,” he answered. “I would rather have something with truer beauty, someone you feel would smile at you, if they could move.” He hesitated. “And I would