Paragon Walk - Anne Perry [15]
“—time you came home?” Pitt finished.
George scowled. She could remember the same expression on his face when doing sums as a child. He always chewed the ends of his pencils. Disgusting habit. She had told his mother to soak them in aloes, but the softhearted woman had refused.
“I’m afraid I didn’t look,” George answered after a few moments. “I think it was pretty late. I didn’t disturb Emily.”
“What about your valet?” Pitt enquired.
“Oh—yes,” George seemed uncertain. “I doubt he’ll remember. He’d fallen asleep in my dressing room. Had to waken him up.” His face brightened. “So it must have been pretty late. Sorry, I can’t help you. Looks as if I was miles away at the time that matters. Didn’t see a thing.”
“Were you not invited to the Dilbridges’ party?” Pitt asked with surprize. “Or did you prefer not to go?”
Vespasia stared at him. Really, he was a most unexpected person. He was sitting now on the couch, taking up more than half of it in pure untidiness. None of his clothes seemed to fit him properly, poverty, no doubt. In the hands of a good tailor and barber he might even have looked quite well. But there was a suppressed energy about him that was hardly decent. He looked as if he might laugh at any time, any inappropriate time. Actually, when she thought about it, he was quite entertaining. Pity it had taken a murder to bring him here. On any other occasion he would have been a distinct relief from the boredom of Eliza Pomeroy’s ailments, Lord Dilbridge’s excesses, as recited by Grace Dilbridge, Jessamyn Nash’s latest gown, Selena Montague’s current involvement, or the general decay of civilization as monitored by the Misses Horbury and Lady Tamworth. The only other diversion was the rivalry between Jessamyn and Selena as to who should attract the beautiful Frenchman, and so far neither of them had made any progress that she had heard about. And she would have heard. What was the point in making a conquest if one could not tell everybody about it, preferably one by one and in the strictest confidence? Success without envy was like snails without sauce—and, as any cultivated woman knew, the sauce is everything!
“I preferred not to go,” George said, his brow wrinkled. He also failed to see the relevance of the question. “It was not the sort of occasion to which I would wish to take Emily. The Dilbridges have some—some friends of decidedly vulgar tastes.”
“Oh, do they?” Emily looked surprised. “Grace Dilbridge always looks so tame.”
“She is,” Vespasia said impatiently. “She does not write the guest list. Not that I think she would object to it. She is one of those women who like to suffer; she has made a career of it. If Frederick were to behave properly, she would have nothing to talk about. It is the sole source of her importance—she is put upon.”
“That’s terrible!” Emily protested.
“It’s not terrible,” Vespasia contradicted. “She is perfectly happy with it, but it is extremely tedious.” She turned to Pitt. “No doubt that is where you will find your murderer, either among Frederick Dilbridge’s guests, or among their servants. Some of the most reprehensible persons can drive a carriage-and-pair extraordinarily well.” She sighed. “I can remember my father had a coachman who drank like a sot and bedded every girl in the village, but he could drive better than Jehu—best hands in the south of England. Gamekeeper shot him in the end. Never knew whether it was an accident or not.”
Emily looked helplessly at Pitt, anxiety driving the laughter out of her eyes.
“That’s where you’ll find him, Thomas,” she said urgently. “No one in Paragon Walk would have done it!”
There was still time for Pitt to see Fulbert Nash, the last brother, and he was fortunate to find him at home a little before five. Apparently, to judge from Fulbert’s face, he had been expected.
“So you are the police,” Fulbert looked him up and down with undisguised curiosity,