Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [65]
Justified! Perhaps—as far as George was concerned. Sauce for the goose was sauce for the gander. But what about Jack himself? To begin with, she had hardly bothered to look at him as a person, but simply as an opportunity. He was extraordinarily charming, with outward warmth and virility. She had heard that he had very little money, but she had been uninterested; it made no difference to her.
But did it? If she had bothered to look more closely would she have seen a man in his mid-thirties, of good birth but with no money and no prospects, other than those he could make for himself with his wits? Might she have seen a weak man, grown accustomed to a very gracious style of living, envious of his financial betters and suddenly tempted by a pretty woman; a woman publicly ignored by her husband, vulnerable because she understood the conventions with her mind but not her heart?
Just how far had she encouraged him? Could she possibly have led him to imagine she would marry him if she were free to? Surely he realized her attention was merely a ruse to win George back. Even less than that—a by-product of her being charming rather than create a scene which could only drive George further away!
Perhaps not. Perhaps Jack Radley was even farther from families like the Ashworths or the Marches than she was—perhaps financial restriction and mounting ambition had eroded all other feelings.
She had judged him the sort of man too vain, too fond of his own pleasures and far too aware of his own interests to fall in love. Physical attraction was a different matter, but not to be taken seriously, never to be allowed to jeopardize the things of lasting importance, like means and status. Even the middle classes understood the necessities. One did not throw away everything on a whim. Certainly a man who had survived to thirty-five on his charm and wit knew a great deal better than to give in to romanticism or appetite.
Or did he? People did fall in love; some of the least likely were vulnerable. Had she really been so utterly delightful that he had thrown all sense to the winds—and in a fit of passion murdered George?
No. It would be a calculated greed. And he had chosen his moment so impetuously because somehow he also had heard the row between George and Sybilla and known that his opportunity was slipping away. Another day and it could be gone.
The carriage was passing in the dappled sunlight through an avenue of birch trees, and the wind in the leaves sounded like the rustle of skirts, black bombazine on the graveyard walk, the clink of jet beads round fat necks. She shivered. It was cold inside; the white silk handkerchief in her hand reminded her of lilies, and death.
Was she at heart responsible? She had not wished it, but neither had she cared. The moral guilt would remain, whatever the police discovered. And the social stigma too. The fact that she had done no more than be attentive would be forgotten. Society would remember her as the woman whose lover had murdered her husband.
And the money?
She had already received a quick note from the lawyer, a condolence merely, but she knew there was a great deal of money. Some of it was in trust for Edward, but she herself would still have a very considerable amount—enough to keep Jack Radley in very fine style indeed. And of course, she would have the houses.
The thought was frightening; a cold, clammy sickness gripped like a hand at her stomach. If he had murdered George then she must share the responsibility. If he was discovered she would be a social outcast at best—at worst she would be hanged with him.
If he were not discovered the suspicion would remain over her forever. She would spend the rest of her life with other people wondering and whispering about her. And she might be the only other person who would know without the worm of doubt that she was innocent—and he was guilty.
Could he afford to let her live, with the danger she might one day somehow prove it was he? She would have