Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [40]
William did not hear him till he was a yard away. “Good afternoon, Mr. March. Forgive me for interrupting you, but I must ask you certain questions about Lord Ashworth’s death.”
At first William was startled, simply because his concentration had precluded his awareness of anyone else; then he put down the brush and faced Pitt bleakly.
“Of course. What do you want to know?”
Thoughts were teeming in Pitt’s head, but looking at the clever, vulnerable face, the delicate mouth, the quicksilver dreamer’s eyes, he abandoned them as clumsy, even brutal. What was there left to say?
“I am sure you must realize that Lord Ashworth was murdered,” he began tentatively.
“I suppose so,” William agreed with obvious reluctance. “I have tried to think of a way in which it could conceivably be an accident. I failed.”
“You did not consider suicide?” Pitt said curiously, remembering Eustace’s determined attempts.
“George wouldn’t kill himself.” William turned away and looked at the canvas on his easel. “He wasn’t that kind of man... .” His voice trailed off, and his face looked even thinner, pinched with a sorrow that seemed to run right through him.
It was precisely what Pitt knew to be true. There was infinitely less hypocrisy, less self-regard in William than in his father. Pitt found himself liking him.
“Yes, that is what I thought,” he agreed.
For a moment William was silent, then recognition lit his face.
“Of course—I forgot. You’re Emily’s brother-in-law, aren’t you?” he said, so quietly his words were almost lost. “I’m sorry. It’s all very ...” He searched for an expression of what he felt, but it eluded him. “Very hard.”
“I am afraid it won’t get better,” Pitt said honestly.”I’m forced to believe someone in this house killed him.”
“I suppose so. But I can’t tell you who—or why.” William picked up his brush again and began to work, touching a muted raw sienna into the shadows of a tree.
But Pitt was not ready to be dismissed. “What do you know of Mr. Radley?”
“Very little. Father wants to marry him to Tassie because he thinks Jack’s family might get him a peerage. We have a lot of money, you know—from trade. Father wants to become respectable.”
“Indeed.” Pitt was startled by his frankness. There was no attempt to protect his father’s weakness, no family defense. “And might they?”
“I should think so. Tassie’s a good catch. Jack’s not likely to do better—aristocratic heiresses can afford a tide, and the Americans won’t settle for anything less. Or to be accurate, their mothers won’t.” He went on working in the shadows, looking at the Vandyck brown, discounting it, and squeezing out burnt umber.
“What about Emily?” Pitt asked. “Doesn’t she have more money than Miss March?”
William’s hand stopped in midair. “Yes, she will have, now that George is dead.” He winced as he said it. “But Jack has too much experience of women, if even half his reputation is deserved, to believe from a couple of evenings’ flirtation that Emily would consider marrying him—especially with George behaving like such a fool. Emily was only retaliating. You may not be aware of it, Mr. Pitt, but in Society married women have little else to do but gossip, dress up in the latest fashions, and flirt with other men. It is their only source of entertainment. Not even an idiot takes it seriously. My wife is very beautiful, and has flirted as long as I have known her.”
Pitt stared at him but could see no additional pain, no new anger or awareness of fear as he said it. “I see.”
“No, you don’t,” William said dryly. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever been bored in your life.”
“No,” Pitt admitted. There had never been time; poverty and ambition do not allow it.
“You are fortunate—at least, in that respect.”
Pitt looked at the canvas again. “Neither have you,” he said with conviction.
For the first time William smiled, a sudden flash; then it was gone again as quickly, replaced by the knowledge of tragedy.