Chapter Four
Thanks to theirlate and strenuous night, they woke too late in the morning to indulge Solomon’s desire for a repeat. He was only too aware of the danger he had managed to avert last night, largely through his own desperation, though he hadn’t expected the crisis to leave him feeling so vulnerable, so in need of the reassurance of her passion.
Although he truly hadn’t meant to hurt Constance by what he had said to the Tizsas, he had been a little too crass in making his point. And no point in the world was worth losing her for.
The making-up of their quarrel had brought a wild new intensity to their lovemaking, of course. The pleasure still made him want to purr. But it had not solved the problem, which, perhaps, they were both making too much of.
Constance, wrapped loosely in her dressing gown, padded toward him with a tray of delicious-smelling coffee. No doubt she had retrieved it from the dressing room, where Anne had developed the habit of leaving it each morning.
“That smells good,” he said, struggling into a sitting position to accept his cup.
Constance sat on the edge of the bed beside him. “Shall we try to see Dr. Sorenson this morning? And then perhaps Darrow and his friend.”
Solomon nodded, glad of the normality of discussing cases. And yet she was delectable in her half-tied dressing gown with her red-goldhair wild and loose…
Focus, Grey!
“We should probably try to speak to her colleagues at the theatre, too. And then I’d rather like to talk to Montague without Kellar standing over us.”
“I thought that. The servants, too.” She set her cup on its saucer and rose. “Then I had better ring for Anne.”
Solomon had thoroughly approved of her acquiring a lady’s maid, even though he avoided a valet of his own. However, there were times when body servants were inconvenient. Constance met his gaze, with complete understanding and a wicked smile.
“It’s half past eight,” she reminded him.
He sighed. “So it is.”
Giving in, he rose and retreated to the dressing room.
*
Since Dr. Sorensondealt largely with the rich and fashionable, his patients did not keep early hours. Constance and Solomon were shown almost immediately into his consulting room, where he had been catching up with his medical reading, judging by the books and journals scattered across his large desk.
He rose at once to greet them, a man of middle years with kind, attentive eyes and a beaming smile. “Mr. Grey, a pleasure to meet you.”
“And you, doctor,” Solomon said, shaking hands. “This is my wife.”
“Charmed,” the doctor said, managing to make his eyes smile at her without leering. He was indeed charmed, but most professionally. “Do sit down. Were you recommended to me?”
“In a way,” said Solomon. “By Mr. Digby Montague, although we are not here as patients.”
“You are friends of Mr. Montague?” Sorenson asked, a certain wariness entering his expression.
“Acquaintances. He has given us permission to inquire into the circumstances surrounding his wife’s sad demise.”
Sorenson blinked. “Inquire? What circumstances? It is beyond tragic, of course, both personally for poor Montague, and more broadly for the loss of her great talent. But I fail to see—” He broke off with a sudden frown. “Does he want a postmortem examination now?”
“Would you mind?” Solomon asked.
“No, though I think it unnecessary. However, he has no need to speak to me through anyone else on the matter.”
“Oh, no. He didn’t mention it to us, and I don’t believe he has changed his mind. Yet. It is really a matter of setting his mind at rest, for his sake and that of Mrs. Montague’s friends.”
“I mean to call on him later today, when we may talk in person.” The doctor’s mustache bristled. “Are you a physician, sir?”
“I am not,” Solomon said.
The doctor reared up from his chair. “Dear God, you’re not a journalist, are you? Digging for dirt on the poor—”
