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It was enough. She told him all she could remember, drawn from her a piece at a time and, he thought, largely honest. It was of little use, except that she also remembered the strange smell, sharp, alcoholic, and yet unlike anything she could name.
He left, walking into the wind, turning over in his mind what she had said, but against his will more and more preoccupied, wondering what he had done in the past to earn the intensity of her hatred.
In the evening, on impulse, he decided to go and see Hester. He did not give himself a reason. There was not any. He had already decided to keep her from his mind while he was on this case. There was nothing to say to her, nothing to pursue or to discuss. He knew where she was because Evan had told him. He had mentioned the name Duff and Ebury Street. It was not very difficult, therefore, to find himself on the front step of the correct house.
He explained to the maid who answered the door that he was acquainted with Miss Latterly and would be obliged if he might visit with her if she could be spared for a few minutes. The answer from Mrs. Sylvestra Duff was most gracious. She was to be at home herself, and if Miss Latterly cared to, she might spend the entire evening away from Ebury Street. She had worked extremely hard lately and would be most welcome to a complete respite and change of scene, if she so desired.
Monk thanked her with the feeling of something close to alarm. It seemed Mrs. Duff had assumed more about the relationship than was founded in fact. He did not want to spend all evening with her. He had nothing to say. In fact, now that he was there, he was not sure he wanted to see her at all. But to say so now would make him look absurd, a complete coward. It could be interpreted all sorts of ways, none of them to his advantage.
Hester seemed ages in coming. Perhaps she had no desire to see him either. Why? Had she taken offense at something? She had been very brittle lately. She had made some waspish remarks about his conduct in the slander case, especially his trip to the Continent. It was as if she were jealous of Evelyn von Seidlitz, which was idiotic. His temporary fascination with Evelyn did not affect their friendship, unless she forced it to.
He was pacing back and forth across the morning room while he waited, nine steps one way, nine steps back.
Evelyn von Seidlitz could never be the friend Hester was. She was beautiful, certainly, but she was also as shallow as a puddle, innately selfish. That was the kind of ugliness which touched the soul. Whereas Hester—with her angular shoulders and keen face, eyes far too direct, tongue too honest—had no charm at all, but a kind of beauty like a sweet wind off the sea, or light breaking on an upland when you can see from horizon to horizon, as it had in his youth on the great hills of Northumberland. It was in the blood and the bone, and one never grew tired of it. It healed the petty wounds and laid a clean hand on the heart, gently.
There was a noise in the hall.
He swung around to face it just as she came through the door. She was dressed in dark gray with a white lace collar. She looked very smart, very feminine, as if she had made a special effort for the occasion. He felt panic rise up inside him. This was not a social call, certainly the last thing from a romantic one. What on earth had Mrs. Duff told her?
“I only came for a moment,” he said hastily. “I did not wish to interrupt you.”
The color burned up her cheeks.
“Quite well, thank you,” she said sarcastically. “And you?”
“Tired, chasing an exhausting and unhopeful case,” he answered. “It will be difficult to solve, even harder to prove, and I am not optimistic the law will prosecute it even should I succeed. Am I interrupting you?”
She closed the door and leaned against the handle.
“If you were I should not have come. The maid is perfectly capable of carrying a message.”
She might look less businesslike than usual, but she had absolutely no feminine charm. No other woman would have spoken to him like that.
“You have no idea how to be gracious, have you?” he criticized.
Her eyes widened. “Is that what you came for, someone to be gracious to you?”
“I would hardly have come here, would I?”
She ignored him. “What would you like me to say? That I am sure you know what you are doing and your skill will triumph in the end? That a just cause is well fought, win or lose?” Her eyebrows rose. “The honor is in the battle, not the victory? I’m not a soldier. I have seen too much of the cost of ill-planned battles, and the price of loss.”
“Yes, we all know you would have fought a better war than Lord Raglan if the War Office had had the good sense to put you in charge instead.”
“If they had picked someone at random off the street, they would have,” she rejoined. Then her face softened a little. “What is your battle?”
“I would rather tell you somewhere more comfortable and more private,” he replied. “Would you like to dine?”
If it was a surprise, she hid it very well … too well. Perhaps it was what she had expected. It was not what he had intended to say. But to retreat now would make it even worse. It would draw attention to it—and to his feelings about it. He could not even pretend he thought she was busy; Mrs. Duff had told him she was not.
“Thank you,” she said with an aplomb he had not expected. She seemed very cool about it. She turned and opened the door, leading the way out into the hall. She asked the footman for her cloak, and then together she and Monk went outside to the bitter evening, again dimmed by fog, the street lamps vague moons haloed by drifting ice, the footpaths slippery.
It took just under ten minutes to find a hansom and climb into it. He gave directions to an inn he knew quite well. He would not take her to an expensive place, in case she misunderstood his intent, but to take her to a cheap one would find her thinking he could not afford better, and possibly even offering to pay.
“What is your battle?” she repeated when they were sitting side by side in the cold as the cab lurched forward, then settled into a steadier pace. It was miserably cold, even inside. There was very little to see, just gloom broken by hazes of light, sudden breaks in the mist when outlines were sharp, a carriage lamp, a horse’s head and forequarters, the high, black silhouette of a hansom driver, and then the shroud of fog closed in again.
“At first, just women being cheated in Seven Dials,” he answered. “To begin with it was no more than using a prostitute and refusing to pay …”
“Don’t they have pimps and madams to help prevent that?” she asked.
