Paragon Walk - Anne Perry [65]
Charlotte was looking at her, her eyes anxious, watching for her reaction. She turned back to the moment, smiling.
“Thank you,” she said composedly, almost cheerfully. “Now I know what to do.”
“Emily—”
“Don’t worry.” She put her hand out and touched Charlotte, quite softly. “I shan’t have a quarrel. In fact, I don’t think I shall do anything at all, just yet.”
Pitt continued his questioning in Paragon Walk. Forbes had dug up some surprizing information about Diggory Nash. Yet he should not have been surprized, and he was angry with himself, for having allowed his prejudice to form his opinions for him. He had looked at the outward grace, the comfort, and the money in the Walk and assumed that, because they all lived in the same manner, came to London for the Season, frequented the same clubs and parties, that they were all the same underneath their uniformly fashionable clothes, and behind their uniformly mannered behavior.
Diggory Nash was a gambler with wealth he had not earned, and a flirt, almost by habit, with any woman who was pleasant and available. But he was also generous. Pitt was startled and ashamed of his own facile judgment when Forbes told him that Diggory subsidized a house that gave shelter to homeless women. God knew how many pregnant service girls were thrown out of sober and upright employment every year, to wander the streets and end up in sweatshops, workhouses or brothels. How unforeseen that Diggory Nash, of all people, should have given a meager protection to a few of them. An old wound of conscience speaking, perhaps? Or a simple pity?
Either way, it was with a feeling embarrassment that Pitt waited in the morning room for Jessamyn. She could not know what his assumptions had been, but he knew himself, and that was enough to tie his usually easy tongue and to give him a rare self-consciousness. It was no salve to his mind that it was perfectly possible Jessamyn had no idea of Diggory’s actions.
When she came in, he was amazed again at the emotional impact of her beauty. It was far more than a mere matter of color or the symmetry of brow and cheek. It was something in the curve of the mouth, the challenging blue blaze of her eyes, the fragile throat. No wonder she grasped for what she wanted, knowing it would be given her. And no wonder Selena could not come to terms with subordinacy to this supreme woman. It flickered through his mind, the moment before she spoke to him, to wonder what Charlotte would have made of her if there had ever been a true rivalry between them, if perhaps Charlotte had also wanted the Frenchman? Did any of them love the Frenchman, or was he merely the prize, the chosen symbol of victory?
“Good morning, Inspector,” Jessamyn said coolly. She was dressed in pale summer green and looked as fresh and strong as a daffodil. “I cannot imagine what more I can do for you, but, if there is still something left to ask, of course I shall try to answer.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” He waited until she sat down, then he sat also, as usual, allowing his coattails to fall where they may. “I’m afraid we have still found no trace of Mr. Fulbert.”
Her face tightened a little, a very little, and she looked down at her hands.
“I assumed you had not, or surely you would have told us. You cannot have come only to say that?”
“No.” He did not wish to be caught staring, yet both duty and a natural fascination kept his eyes on her face. He was drawn to her as one is to a solitary light in a room. Whether one wills it or not, it becomes the focus.
She looked up, her face smooth, eyes clear and brilliantly frank.
“What else can I tell you? You have spoken to all of us. You must know everything we know about his last days here. If you have found no trace of him anywhere in the city, either he has eluded you and gone to the Continent, or he is dead. It is a painful thought, but I cannot escape it.”
Before he set out, he had ordered in his mind the questions he meant to ask. Now they seem less ordered,