Cain His Brother - Anne Perry [91]
Was she mad? Her behavior was more than unstable, it was unbalanced. This charge would ruin him, but if she insisted that he attempted to force his attentions on her, which she could not possibly believe, then she stood to be at best the subject of speculation as well as sympathy, and at worst the butt of less than charitable gossip. Perhaps she had escaped from Bedlam, or some other asylum for the insane.
He lay on his back staring at the ceiling.
No, that was stupid. If she were demented, then it would be a private matter, cared for by her family. That must be it. She had temporarily escaped her keepers. When she was found again, it would all be explained. They would understand. Quite probably she had behaved wildly before. Perhaps she had even done the same thing to some other unfortunate man.
He rose, washed and shaved. It was while he was staring at his face in the glass, its lean planes, the level gray eyes hard and clever, the wide lips with the faint scar beneath, that he remembered seeing the same face when he first came back from hospital. He had not known it then, not found it even faintly familiar. He had searched it then as he might a stranger’s, looking for character, the weaknesses and the strengths, the marks of appetite, the signs of gentleness or humor or pity.
The next question was obvious. Was Drusilla Wyndham mad, or had she known him before, and hated him? Had he done her some injury which she could never forgive, and this was her revenge?
He did not know!
Slowly he cleaned his shaving things and put them away, his hands moving automatically.
But if he had known her, then she must surely have expected him also to know her now? How had she dared approach him as if they were strangers? Had she changed so much she had assumed he would never recognize her?
That was ridiculous. She was a remarkable woman, not merely beautiful but most unusual. Her carriage, her dignity, and her wit were unique. How could she expect any man to see her and then forget her so completely that in meeting again, seeing her repeatedly, speaking with her, hearing her laugh, he would still not remember?
He walked over to the window and stared out at the gray morning, carriages passing below with lamps still lit.
She must know of the loss of his memory.
But how? Who could have told her? No one knew except his personal friends: Hester, Callandra, Oliver Rathbone, and of course John Evan, the young policeman who had been so loyal during that first terrible case after the accident.
Why did she hate him enough to do this? It was no sudden impulse. She had lied and connived from the beginning, sought him out, charmed him, and deliberately placed him where he could be accused and had no defense. They were alone. Her reputation was intact, it was a situation in which it was quite justifiable to be. He could imaginably have assaulted her, and she had witnesses, at least to her distress and escape.
Who would believe his account?
No one. It made no sense at all. He could hardly believe it himself.
He dressed, and forced himself to eat the breakfast his landlady brought.
“You don’t look well, Mr. Monk,” she said with a shake of her head. “Do ’ope as yer not coming down wi’ summink. ’Ot mustard poultice, me ma always used to say. Swear by it, she did. Any’ow, tell me if yer needs one, an’ I’ll make it for yer.”
“Thank you,” he said absently. “Think I’m just tired. Don’t worry.”
“Well, you mind yerself,