Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [78]
But she was fifty-three. Merely naming it hurt.
“I suppose it has to be Devlin O’Neil,” he said, looking up at her at last. “Unless it is someone we know nothing about. I don’t suppose it is even imaginable that his wife knew he intended leaving her for Tamar, and employed someone to kill him.” A bitter humor lit his eyes for an instant, and then changed to pity. “That is, of course, if he really did mean to leave her. I don’t think he had much money of his own, and he would have given up a very comfortable life, and all social reputation. I’ve never told Tamar, but I think honestly it was unlikely he would have done such a thing. He probably told her he would because he really loved her, and couldn’t bear to lose her, so he lied, hoping to keep it going as long as he could. But we’ll never know.”
She chose deliberately to ask the most painful question. It was there in her mind, and it would get all the blows dealt at one time.
“And would she have married him? Isn’t she Jewish? What about her faith, marrying outside her own people?” She hated the words even as she heard herself saying them.
“Not desirable,” he admitted, meeting her eyes very directly. “But we are not very strict. She would have done it.”
“And her brother did not mind?” She pushed it to the sticking point.
“Aaron?” He lifted his shoulders very slightly. “He wasn’t pleased. And of course Passmore wouldn’t have been pleased either, if she had given up the stage and become a respectable matron—or perhaps respectable would have been impossible, since Blaine would have left his wife for her—but at least quietly domestic, raising a family. She is the best actress on the London stage at the moment—with the possible exception of Bernhardt.”
“So he would have wished Blaine … elsewhere?”
He smiled broadly. “Certainly, had he known about it. But he didn’t. He thought Blaine was just one more stage door johnnie. They were pretty discreet. And she did have other admirers, you know.”
“Yes, of course. I suppose it is natural.” Unconsciously she smoothed down her skirt.
“Very.”
“Then it comes back to Devlin O’Neil,” she said decisively. “We must make his acquaintance and learn all we can about him. If we cannot prove Aaron’s innocence, then we must prove someone else’s guilt.”
His admiration was undisguised. “How wonderfully obvious! We have spent five years trying to show Aaron did not do it; we should have tried harder to show that someone else did. But we didn’t have the necessary skills.” He relaxed a little farther into the chair. “And of course O’Neil was not exactly well disposed towards us, nor ignorant of our interest.”
“Of course not. But he does not know me, nor my daughter, who is quite practiced in these things.”
“Is she? What a remarkable family you are. I shall never judge people so hastily again. You seem so utterly respectable. I apologize!” He laughed very lightly. “I supposed that you spent your mornings visiting dressmakers and milliners, writing beautiful letters to friends in the country, and ordering your households. And in the afternoons you would call upon acquaintances, or receive them, taking tea and cucumber sandwiches cut by your cook, and doing good works for the less fortunate, or stitching fine embroidery. I pictured your evenings at the very best social functions, or sitting by the fire reading improving books and holding suitable conversations—uplifting to the mind. I am truly sorry; I eat the bread of humility.” The laughter was vivid in his face. “I was never so mistaken! Women are the most mystifying creatures, so often not at all what they seem. All the time you were out detecting fearful