She smiled as he strolled away toward Solomon. Mrs. St. John, dressed in elegant black, watched him surreptitiously.
“Mrs. Grey, you dazzle as always.”
She turned quickly to face another late arrival. Kellar, looking handsome and distinguished in his evening clothes. “So do you! Thank you for coming.”
“How could I stay away? Is there any more news on Darrow?”
“He has pleaded guilty to both murders. Beyond that, we have heard nothing. I don’t expect to, formally, although I can introduce you to a policeman if you wish. Inspector Harris has become something of a friend and ally.”
“I would be delighted,” Kellar said politely. “Have I missed your mother?”
Constance glanced at him quickly. “She won’t come. She never makes public appearances.” She paused, and he halted with her. For the first time since her first guest had arrived, her stomach churned, not with social nerves but with the difficulty of saying what she had to. “My mother lost her pride for many years. Now that she is reclaiming it…” She drew in a breath, “Don’t take it from her again.”
Kellar regarded her thoughtfully, his face, as usual, giving little away. “You blame me for that loss of pride. With some justification, it must be said.”
“No,” Constance said. “Juliet made her own decisions. I know that. And she will continue to do so. But she needs truth and peace. Not you chasing your lost youth or whatever it is you meant by searching for her.”
Kellar took a sip of his wine. “I understand you,” he said at last. “Who is the violinist? She is very good…”
*
Juliet was notused to this kind of fear. Like making the decision to dine with him, it had taken a great deal of courage to put on her glad rags and pin up her hair decently. This was worse, though, because it didn’t just concern her. It concerned Constance, and she would die before she endangered her daughter’s new life.
No wonder her knees grew increasingly wobbly as she approached Constance’s house. Many carriages lined the road, and the Greys’ house was a blaze of lights. Sweet violin music drifted out among the sounds of civilized chatter and laughter.
Juliet walked by the window, taking in the bright colors, the sparkle of gold and jewels in candlelight. She wasn’t convinced her knees would actually carry her to the front door. She wasn’t sure she wanted them to.
She knewhewould be there.
People would know she was Mrs. Grey’s mother. She had toned down the vulgarity of her looks, but even so…
Courage, Juliet. You’ve faced down a hell of a lot worse.
She turned her feet up the path, through the pretty front garden. A liveried footman opened the door. He must have been hired for the evening. She presented her card, and he took her cloak.
She felt naked without it. Naked and common and disgraceful.
Well, if Connie can do it, so can I.
She followed the music toward the big drawing room, where the Venetian portrait of Constance and Solomon hung over the fireplace. She had enjoyed her times in that room, at whatever time of the day.
But the first person she saw was not Constance. It was Sebastian Kellar, strolling past her line of vision, so distinguished and handsome that her heart as well as her knees failed her. She was physically incapable of turning into that room, even though Constance or Solomon, or both of them, would immediately come to greet her.
She walked straight past, along to the servants’ hall and down the passage to the back door. She turned the key and went out.
And that was as far as her knees would carry her.
She sat on the little wrought-iron bench, careless of her gown, which would now never be seen by Connie’s friends. Nor by Sebastian.
Five minutes to breathe, and then she would go home to her own comfortable little flat, her pride and joy. Her security. Her initial instinct had been right. She should never have come.
But there was no harm done. Connie would see by the card she had handed over that she had dropped in. No one else would ever know. All was well.
She gazed at the setting sun in its glorious pink-and-gold sky and just breathed. She thought of how far she had fallen, but mostly, she thought of how far she had come up again. Scarcely the life she had envisaged at twenty, but it was a good life, an interesting life.
And she had an amazing daughter. Maddening and clever, lovely and loyal and determined. She had long known that if she had done nothing else right in her life, there was Constance. Even when she had worried her the most, Juliet’s pride in her had never wavered. Her love had never failed.
And that was enough.
