Chapter Eleven
Mrs. Philpot, CarlDarrow’s landlady, recognized them with a grunt of welcome and gestured for them to go straight up.
Constance more than half expected Darrow to be nursing a thick head—either from falling on it yesterday or from an excess of alcohol. Or both. Certainly, she couldn’t hear the violin, though there were some massively complicated scales coming from the piano in the sitting room.
Darrow practiced mornings, she remembered. Geoffrey Reid had the afternoons.
When Solomon knocked, a grumpy “Enter” snapped from within, seeming to confirm her suspicions.
However, Darrow sat at the table by the window, busily writing. He was in his shirt sleeves, but as soon as they walked in, he sprang to his feet and reached for his coat. His eyes were clear, despite a rather colorful bruise around one eye.
“Sorry,” he said, bowing to Constance. “An argument with a hackney floor. It won.”
“I thought it was Mr. Montague who won?”
He paused. “What do you mean?”
“My husband saw him trip you.”
Darrow blushed, suddenly looking much younger.
“Why lie?” Solomon asked.
“Wouldn’t you?” Darrow retorted. “What else could I do? There aren’t so many reasons for a bereaved husbandto attack another man on the day of his wife’s funeral. I chose to preserve her reputation—and mine. I don’t care about Montague’s, though I daresay he wouldn’t like to be known as a cuckold.”
He swung away, waving one hand toward the comfortable chairs. “But you saw him, Mr. Grey. You saw how violent he is?Andhow he covers it up with such civility for the benefit of observers? No wonder Caterina was afraid of him.”
“Would it surprise you to know,” Constance asked, sitting down, “that no one else believes she was afraid of her husband?”
“No,” Darrow said. “She told me things she told no one else.”
“She told Marianne Locke that she was ending her relationship with you,” Solomon said.
Darrow frowned. “But she didn’t,” he said blankly. “Why would she say that? Why would shedothat?”
“Because her husband had found out,” Solomon said. “And she chose him over you.”
If he had hoped to surprise any ugliness out of Darrow with such a brutal statement, he was disappointed. Darrow just looked bewildered. “But I could swear Montague didn’t know, not before the funeral…” His eyes widened. “Would Marianne have told him that very day? I know she disapproved and wanted me out of Caterina’s life… But I never thought her capable of such hurtful behavior.”
Neither did Constance, though appearances were often deceptive.
Darrow shook his head, staring down at the carpet. “No, she wouldn’t,” he answered himself. “I thought him too dull to find out, but I must have been wrong…” He raised his head suddenly. “Thatwas why Caterina finally agreed.”
“Agreed what?” Constance asked.
“To come away with me. We planned it all last Monday and this Tuesday. We were to leave on Friday, after her evening performance. She was so happy…”
Constance met Solomon’s gaze.
“Where were you going to go?” he asked.
“Back to Italy. She missed home and sunshine, and she was desperate to get away from Montague.”
“And you were both willing to abandon your promising careers here in England?”
Darrow smiled. “In matters of music, England is nothing compared to the entire continent of Europe. The world is much bigger than London.”
“And you were both prepared to face any difficulties Caterina might have had with the governments in Italy?”
