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The most obvious thought was another woman, although even the most scrupulous examination of the accounts revealed not a farthing’s discrepancy. Whatever it was, it apparently cost him nothing in terms of money.
Monk grew more and more puzzled, and unhappier.
It was while pursuing Angus Stonefield’s path over the previous month that he went to the Geographic Society in Sackville Street. Angus had said he attended, but there was no record of him there. Monk was leaving, somewhat preoccupied with his thoughts, when he bumped into a young woman who was just mounting the steps. Her companions had gone on ahead of her and were already inside.
He looked up absentmindedly to apologize, then found his attention grasped most firmly. She was quite small and delicately shaped, but there was a fire and charm in her face unlike any other, and she was staring at him intently, searching his features.
“I’m sorry,” he said with a sincerity which surprised him. “I was not looking where I was going. I beg your pardon, ma’am.”
She smiled with what seemed genuine amusement.
“You were a little preoccupied with your thoughts, sir. I hope they were not as gloomy as they seemed.” Her voice was rich and a little husky.
“I’m afraid they were.” Why on earth had he said that? He should have been cautious instead of so frank. Was it too late to retreat? “I was on an unpleasant errand,” he added, by way of explanation.
“I’m sorry.” Her face filled with concern. “I hope at least you can now say it is concluded.”
It was mid-afternoon. He could not abandon the chase for the day, although he was enjoying it less and less. There were certainly gaps in Angus Stonefield’s life, whether he was as blameless as his wife believed or not. Some of them might have been accounted for by visits to Caleb, but were they all?
“Not concluded,” he replied unhappily. “Simply come to another blind alley.”
She did not move. She made a delightful picture standing on the steps in the winter sun. Her hair was the color of warm honey, and thickly coiled. It looked as if it would be soft to the touch and he imagined it would smell sweet, perhaps faintly of flowers, or musk. Her eyes were wide and hazel-brown, her nose straight and strong enough to speak of character, her mouth full-lipped.
A stout gentleman with a rubicund face came down the steps and tipped his hat to her. She smiled back, then turned to Monk again.
“You are seeking something?” she asked with quick perception.
He might as well tell her the truth.
“Did you ever meet a man named Angus Stonefield?”
Her winged eyebrows rose. “Here? Is he a member?”
He changed his mind rapidly. “I believe so.”
“What was he like?” she countered.
“About my height, dark hair, green eyes.” He was about to add that he was probably well dressed and sober of temperament, then he realized that possibly he was denying himself an entire avenue of exploration. Instead he fished in his pocket and brought out Enid Ravensbrook’s drawing and passed it to her.
She accepted it with a slender hand, delicately gloved, and inspected it with considerable thought.
“What an interesting face,” she said at last, looking up at Monk. “Why do you want to know? Or is that a tactless question?”
“He has been absent from his home, and his family are concerned,” he said noncommittally. “Have you seen him?” He found himself hoping that she had, not only for his investigation but because it would allow him further time in her company.
“I am not sure,” she said slowly. “There is something familiar about him, but I cannot think from where. Isn’t it odd how one can think one knows a face but cannot tell from where? Do you have that happen to you? I am sorry to be so vague. I promise I will search my memory, Mr.…”
“Monk,” he said quickly. “William Monk.” He inclined his head in something resembling a bow.
“Drusilla Wyndham,” she replied with a smile which touched not only her lips but her eyes. She was beautiful, and she could not be unaware of it, but neither did it make her arrogant or cold. Indeed, there was a warmth in her and an ability to laugh which he found not only attractive but eminently comfortable. She was sure of herself, she would not need constant flattery and small attentions, nor would she be simplemindedly focused upon marriage. With her beauty,
she could afford to pick and choose and await her fancy.
“How do you do, Miss Wyndham,” he replied.
A gentleman wearing a dark suit and carrying a newspaper brushed past them, his mustache bristling. Without knowing why, Monk glanced at Drusilla Wyndham and saw amusement flash in her eyes, and they both smiled as if understanding some secret joke.
“Are you about to keep some appointment inside?” he asked, hoping fervently that she was not. Already his mind turned over plans to meet her again in less hasty circumstances.
