Dark Assassin - Anne Perry [105]
Rose looked at her, then suddenly understood. “Short notice to get a gown,” she said tactfully. “Borrow one of mine. I’m taller than you are, but my maid can take it up this afternoon. We must make a plan of action.”
Thus it was that Hester accompanied Rose Applegate to the memorial service for the late Sir Edwin Roscastle. It was an extremely formal affair with a large number of people attending, including the cream of society. They arrived at the church and alighted from their carriages in magnificent blacks, purples, grays, and lavenders, according to the degree of mourning they wished to display and the color they believed most became them. Some were deeply mistaken as to the latter, as Rose observed to Hester in a whisper as she pointed out who they were. Rose herself was wearing lavender and dark gray. With her fair hair and pale skin, she cut an extremely elegant figure.
“There she is!” Hester interrupted as she saw Jenny Argyll walking up the steps, clothed in highly fashionable black. She moved with grace and a complete disregard for the biting easterly wind, although she did take care to keep to the leeward of her husband.
Rose shivered convulsively. “We can go in now. Why on earth do they always seem to hold these things at the bitterest time of the year? Why can’t people die with some consideration, in the summer?”
“It will be warmer at the reception afterwards,” Hester replied. “I hope to heaven the Argylls stay for it!”
“Of course they will!” Rose assured her. “That is where one can curry favor, make useful acquaintances, and generally show off. Which, of course, is what everyone is here for.”
“Isn’t anyone here to remember Sir Edwin?”
Rose gave her a startled glance. “Certainly not!” she retorted. “He was awful! The sooner he can be forgotten, the better. Dying was the best thing he did, and he did that far too slowly.”
Hester thought the judgment rather harsh, but she liked Rose too much to say so. And by the time they had sat through the eulogies and she heard what kind of people admired the deceased and why, she was inclined to take a similar view.
The reception afterwards was a different matter. Everyone else seemed to be just as physically cold and emotionally bored as she and Rose were. They walked rapidly up the hundred yards or so of dark and windy street to the hall where sausages, pies, and delicate hot pastries awaited them, along with various wines. Hester accepted a mulled claret with gratitude. She was surprised when Rose took a lemonade instead, but she made no comment.
They began to move among the other guests, intent upon approaching Jenny Argyll as soon as it could be done without appearing too obvious, and of course when Argyll himself wasn’t too close to her.
“I’m so pleased you came,” Rose said warmly to Jenny as an opening gambit. “There are few things one can do while in mourning without someone making a cutting remark. One feels dreadfully isolated. At least I did! Perhaps I am imagining mistakenly?”
Jenny could hardly fail to reply without being discourteous—added to which Rose was the wife of the member of Parliament most important to her husband. She gathered her wits with an apparent effort. “Not at all. You are most sympathetic,” she responded.
Hester remained standing back a few steps, as if Rose was alone. Jenny Argyll looked composed, but Hester could see that the veneer was thin. Her movements were stiff, and her skin looked bruised around the eyes, as if from too many nights awake and too much tightly held emotion she dared not let go of, in case she never grasped it again. Hester would have been sorry for her if she had not been convinced Jenny had placed her own safety and continued well-being ahead of that of her sister.
Suddenly Alan Argyll was at Hester’s elbow, a plate of savory pastries in his hand.
“Excuse me.” He brushed past her, his attention focused on his wife, his face tight and angry. It was almost as if he was frightened that she would in some way betray