The Murders of Richard III - Elizabeth Peters [14]
John Rawdon looked alarmingly like Abraham Lincoln, even to the wart on his cheek. He was a Harley Street specialist who was prominently featured in the newspapers because of his advocacy of natural foods. His reputation as an internist made it difficult for his exasperated colleagues in the medical profession to denigrate his recent enthusiasm. Certainly the doctor was a living testimonial to his eating habits; his tall, thin body moved with the vigor of a young man’s, and his coarse black hair had not a touch of gray. His head was uncovered; the chaperon, a cap with a formal version of the medieval hood, was flung back over his shoulder and attached to his belt by a long liripipe. His velvet skirts did not suit his vigorous stride; he kept kicking them out of the way as he walked. He represented the last Lancastrian King. Saintly, feeble Henry VI.
Then the last member of the group rose from behind the grand piano, which had hitherto concealed all but his head and shoulders.
Alone of the men, Philip Rohan had chosen to wear the short tunic. And short meant very short. It was belted in at the waist like the long robe, but its skirts were only six inches long. The rest of Rohan was covered by tights as revealing as those of a dancer. Thomas couldn’t even suspect him of padding the tights. The ripple of muscle fore and aft indicated that the shape was all Rohan. And Jacqueline was taking it in with fascinated interest.
Finally her eyes moved up from the pale-gray tights to the green-and-silver tunic, with its padded sleeves and fur-trimmed neck. Rohan’s chest was broad enough without the extra width of the sleeves; he looked almost wasp-waisted. The chaperon, which he wore on his head, was very becoming. The fall of cloth along one side of the face softened features that were too hard for conventional handsomeness, but which had a rakish appeal. He too wore his hair long. It was fair, so pale a gold that it looked like silver, and as fine as a girl’s. But there was nothing girlish about the rest of him.
“Well, well,” he said softly, surveying Jacqueline as candidly as she had observed him. “What a pleasant surprise. I expected any expert Thomas collected would be hawk-nosed and hideous.”
“You are an actor, of course,” said Jacqueline.
“How did you know?” The deep, controlled voice quivered with amusement. “I am also Hastings, Richard’s best friend, whom he beheaded one morning between elevenses and lunch.”
“After he had treacherously plotted against Richard,” squeaked Lady Isobel indignantly.
“And conspired with the Woodvilles,” added Weldon. “It is difficult to explain Hastings’ change of loyalty. No doubt he was seduced by—”
“You sound like one of your own articles,” Liz interrupted. “Do be quiet, darling Uncle Dickon, and let Jacqueline have some tea.”
“She’d much rather have a drink,” said Philip. “Wouldn’t you, darling?”
“No,” said Jacqueline. With Philip’s assistance she removed her jacket, displaying a sleeveless green jersey top. Looking cool and relaxed, she settled on one of the sofas and smiled at Weldon. “Tea would be splendid.”
For a time no one spoke. The silence was unusual and, to Thomas, slightly disturbing. It was as if they were all wary in the presence of a stranger—afraid of giving something away.
“Why all the cops and robbers about our arrival, Dick?” he asked, to break the silence.
“I meant to ask if you had had any difficulty,” Weldon said.
“Difficulty? Why should we?”
“The wolves are gathering,” said Mrs. Ponsonby-Jones melodramatically. “We are virtually besieged, Thomas.”
“I did notice the village was unusually crowded. You mean those people are—”
“Newspaper persons,” said Lady Isobel, as one might say “burglars.” “Frightful people! One of them actually tried to creep into the house.”
“But you’re going to admit the press on Sunday,” Thomas objected. “What’s all the fuss about?”
It was Kent who answered, with his barking laugh.
“They want to catch us—what’s your popular phrase?—with our pants down.