Sir Francis laughed. “My dear, I am always reticent about the office. Work is a dull subject for a Saturday evening in such company.”
“And you have a duty of confidentiality that I would never ask you to break. My interest is more personal. What sort of a man is he? Besides a good one.”
“A trustworthy one, of course. Good company, well read, knowledgeable in all sorts of matters.”
“Is he from an important family?”
“He is a gentleman, if that’s what you mean. Gentry stock. I thought such issues didn’t interest you?”
“They don’t as a rule. I just find him…elusive.”
“He does travel around a good deal,” Sir Francis said. “Or he did. He is being considered for a highly important, London-based post. He says he wants to settle down at last. And, of course, it would be a wonderful promotion for him. A reward for years of loyal service, if you like. Is that what you want to hear?”
“I don’t know,” Constance said honestly. “Is he married, Sir Francis?”
Sir Francis’s eyebrows flew up. “Not to my knowledge.”
Constance drew him away to an even quieter corner. “Confidentially, Sir Francis, has he ever been in trouble in his career? I’m thinking particularly around 1848.”
Sir Francis hesitated, though whether over his memory or some knotty problem of ethics was unclear.
“There was some mess in Rome,” he said at last.
“Was that when he brought Caterina di Ripoli here?”
His face smoothed into a relieved smile. “You know about that already? He pulled some strings he probably shouldn’t to make it happen, but he is such a useful man, he was forgiven.”
“Thenthe mess in Romewas already forgiven?”
“There was nothing to forgive,” Sir Francis said. “Arguably, he risked too much bringing the girl here, but he felt responsible. One likes that about him.”
One did—if it were true. Or was the full story not yet revealed?
“This position in London,” she said. “Will he get it?”
“Probably,” said Sir Francis, smiling right past her as Deborah walked seductively across the room toward him.
Constance bowed out gracefully and sent for her carriage.
*
Solomon woke onSunday morning with the feeling that all was well in his world and was about to get considerably better. With a low growl of hunger, he reached for Constance—and found only the cooling patch of bed where she had lain.
He opened his eyes, aware of the sunbeam spreading through the half-opened curtain. In its light, Constance sat at her little escritoire, dressed only in her nightgown, busily writing. For several seconds, he let himself just appreciate her in silence, then he rose from the bed and padded naked across to the desk, pulling the curtain fully closed as he went.
She glanced up smiling. “Solomon.”
“Constance. Writing our notes?”
She generally did, with precision and conciseness, not because she could not remember every word she heard or read, but because it helped them both see patterns from unlikely or even conflicting facts. From their very first case together, when they had co-operated from defensive self-interest, this was how they had worked. And yet this time, she blushed.
“No, actually. I’m just experimenting.”
“With what?” he asked. He could see it was a list of some kind, but gentlemanly tact prevented him from reading it without her permission.
“With the names of people who might conceivably accept an invitation from me without disgracing you.”
Surprised, he glanced down, and she picked up her piece of paper and handed it to him. He skimmed down the names. “Tizsas, Lord and Lady Trench, the Swans…Zenobia Paul…Jason Madly?”
