“I like him, now that he’s given up the notion of taking me to bed.Besides, I wondered if Mrs. St. John might come with her daughter.”
Both Madly and the St. Johns had been involved in the mystery of the two bodies found on the establishment doorstep a couple of months ago.
“I don’t know if they’ll come,” Constance said. “I’m trying to work out how disastrous it would be if everyone on my doubtful list stayed away. What do you think?”
She sounded almost nervous, and he realized how much she was trying. Her instinct was against this party, but she was prepared to try her best to make it work, to please him. And perhaps because something had shifted in her mind, maybe the sad ending to the Montagues’ marriage, or just from her natural generosity.
“I think it’s an excellent list,” he murmured. “I’d like to add a few more names and see what you think.”
It was the right thing to say. And to do. He was still inclined to lay down the law, however benign and well intentioned, and that was neither fair nor sensible where Constance was concerned.
He let the paper flutter to the desk and placed his hands on her shoulders. Bending, he kissed her cheek and her nape, heard the familiar catch in her breath. Slowly, he drew her to her feet and against his naked body for a long, slow kiss. And then another. It was she who made the first tiny move toward the bed, and that was all the invitation he needed. He swept her up in his arms and laid her on the pillows beneath him.
Everything else could wait.
*
At precisely twoo’clock that afternoon, Solomon and Constance knocked on Marianne Locke’s front door. She had rooms with their own separate entrance in a larger building. It would, Solomon reflected, make a discreet meeting place for lovers. If Caterina hadbeen seen entering the building, she was obviously calling on her friend. If anyone had noticed Darrow, well, he could have been visiting any number of other people.
The singer opened the door herself. Interestingly, she wore black again, although it was a different gown from yesterday, more modest and comfortable.
“My wife,” Solomon said with the usual tingle of pride. When he had first met Constance, he could never have imagined saying those words, let alone being proud of them. What foolish assumptions and prejudices misdirected the brain…
“How do you, Mrs. Grey?” Marianne led the way into a cozy parlor. A piano occupied one corner of the room, which was decorated in pleasant autumnal shades of green and brown and gold. “Do sit down. I’ll fetch us some tea.”
She must have had everything prepared, because she returned only moments later bearing a tea tray. A sliced cake already sat on the low table conveniently placed between a sofa and two armchairs. Whatever the singer had to say to them, she had not invited them for a scolding.
While the tea was infusing, she said, “Carl—Mr. Darrow said you called on him with questions about Caterina, at Mr. Montague’s request.”
“With Mr. Montague’s permission,” Solomon corrected her. “Our questions were inspired by the concerns of another friend of Caterina’s.”
“Mr. Kellar,” Constance said. “Perhaps you know him?”
“We have met. Caterina was very fond of him. I believe he was a family friend who helped her escape from Italy during the late revolutions.”
“Then you understand his concerns about her death?” Constance said.
“I understand his grief. I’m not sure I understand what hisconcerns actually are. Darrow seemed to think you doubted her death was of natural causes. Which naturally troubles both of us.”
“Is Mr. Darrow angry with us for these questions?” Solomon asked. The violinist had certainly avoided both of them quite adeptly yesterday.
“No, he is angry with Mr. Montague,” Marianne said ruefully, “having tried and convicted him in his own head. If indeed that much thought was actually involved.”
“Doyoubelieve Mr. Montague could have harmed his wife?”
“He doted on her. He is a gentle man.”
Not so gentle that he could resist tripping the man who had cuckolded him. Plus, Marianne hadn’t actually answered the question.
“Mrs. Locke, was Caterina afraid of her husband?” he asked bluntly.
“Oh, no. I’m sure she had no cause to be.”
“Not even if heknewabout her relationship with Darrow?”
Marianne’s lips parted and closed again. She had made up her mind to tell them something—why else would she have invited them here?—but it was not easy for her to say. No doubt loyalty and past promises made it so.
She sighed and picked up the teapot. “He did know.”
