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He had no idea where parties such as he required might be held on this particular night. He took a hansom and ordered the driver up and down the streets of Mayfair and Belgravia until he saw a large number of carriages stopping outside a well-lit home and elegant men and women alighting and going up the steps and inside.
He stopped the driver, paid him and alighted also. He was inviting disaster, but he had little alternative left, except to report failure, and he was not going to do that. He hesitated, pretending to look for something in his pocket, until he could walk in with half a dozen people, four of them women, and appear to be part of their group. Indeed, one of the younger ladies seemed to find the idea appealing and he capitalized on it without a second thought.
Inside the main reception hall was already thronged with people, at least a hundred, and more were arriving all the time. It appeared to be a ball, and if he was fortunate the hostess would be only too happy to have another single and presentable man of good height who could and would dance. He traded upon it.
It was nearly midnight, amid a whirl of music, chatter, high-pitched laughter and the clink of glasses when he scraped into conversation with a middle-aged lady in blue who knew Delphine Lambert well and was happy to gossip about her.
“Charming,” she said, looking straight at Monk.
Monk had no shame at all.
“How very generous of you,” he said, smiling back at her. “If even in your company she seemed so, then she must indeed be exceptional.”
The orchestra was playing and the music danced in his head. He restrained himself with an effort.
“You flatter me, Mr. Monk,” she responded, clearly pleased.
“Not at all,” he denied, as he had to. “I see you in front of me, while Mrs. Lambert is merely a name. She has no grace, no humor, no spark of wit or warmth of character for me to comment on.” He looked so directly at her she must take his implication to be that she did.
This was the most gracious attention she had received in a long time. She was not about to let it go. She was quite aware of her friends a few yards away watching her with amazement and envy. She would talk about Delphine for as long as this delightful and rather intriguing man wished her to.
A pretty girl in pale pink swirled by, laughing up at her partner, flirting outrageously for the brief moment she was out of her mother’s reach.
A gentleman with ginger hair bumped into a waiter.
“It is not really wit or humor she has,” she elaborated, prepared to go into any degree of detail. “Not that she is without it, of course,” she amended. “But her charm lies rather in her extraordinary delicacy and beauty. It is not …” She thought for a moment. “It is not the beauty of amazing coloring or exquisite hair, although she does have a beautiful brow. Her figure is comely enough, but she is not very tall.” She herself was only three or four inches less than Monk’s own height. “It is the beauty of perfection,” she continued. “Of even the tiniest detail being flawless. She never makes a mistake. Oh …” She gave a little laugh. “I daresay it is the sort of thing only another woman would notice. Aman might only know there was something less attractive but not be able to put his finger upon what it might be. But Delphine … Mrs. Lambert … always rises above the little things that trip the rest of us.”
The waltz was ended and replaced by a very slow pavane, or something of the sort. The temptation to dance was removed temporarily.
“How interesting,” he said, watching her intently as if there were no one else in the room. “You are extraordinarily observant, Mrs. Waterson. You have a keen eye.”
“Thank you, Mr. Monk.” She blushed faintly.
“And a gift with words,” he added for good measure.
She needed no further encouragement. She launched into varied stories not only of Delphine but, with a little guidance, of Zillah as well. She described their social round with some flair. Under Monk’s flattery she did indeed exhibit an acute observation of manners and foibles and the intricacies which give clue to character.
A waiter offered them glasses of champagne and Monk seized one for Mrs. Waterson and one for himself. He was more than ready for it. All around them wa
s laughter and color and swirl of movement.
“Only a careful eye could tell,” Mrs. Waterson continued, leaning a little closer and lowering her voice confidentially, “but the whole bodice had been taken apart and restitched with the fabric going crosswise. Much more flattering.” She nodded. “And her use of colors. It is more than just a flair, you know, in her it is a positive art. Nothing is too much trouble if it will produce beauty.”
She was watching him intently, completely oblivious of a couple so close the woman’s skirts touched her own, and who seemed to be having a fierce but almost silent quarrel. “You know I have heard it said,” she told him earnestly, “that the skill in always appearing beautiful is not so much a matter of the features you are born with, or even of disguising those which are less than the best, but in drawing the onlooker’s eye to those which are exceptional. And the others are barely noticed.” There was triumph in her face. “Never apologize or appear to be ashamed or attempting to conceal.” She raised her chin. “Walk with pride, smile, dare the world to accept you on your own terms. Believe yourself beautiful, and then others will also. That takes a great deal of courage, Mr. Monk, and a formidable strength of will.”
“Indeed it does,” he agreed, wishing she would proceed to something which might conceivably be relevant to Rathbone’s case. “Invaluable advice for a mother to pass on to her daughter.”
“Oh, I am sure she did,” Mrs. Waterson said with a little lift of her shoulder. “Miss Lambert is quite lovely, and was never permitted to be anything less. The minutest details were given the utmost attention. Of course, nature assisted her beautifully!”
They were playing a waltz again. Could they dance and then return to the subject? No, of course not. It would be forgotten, become forced. He might even lose her altogether. Damn Rathbone!
It was time for a little more judicious flattery. One could not expect a woman to spend above an hour praising another woman.
“Fine features are very well,” he said casually, as if it were merely a passing thought. “But without intelligence they very soon become tedious. I could listen all evening to a woman with the gifts of intelligence and expression. I could not look at one woman all evening, no matter how lovely her face.”
“You have remarkable perception and sensitivity, Mr. Monk,” she responded, her cheeks pink with pleasure. “I am afraid there are very few men with such finely developed values.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Do you think so, Mrs. Waterson? How kind of you to say so. I don’t think anyone has ever told me such a thing before.” He looked suitably satisfied. He refused to think what Hester would have said of him for such playacting. The only thing that mattered was learning something that would help Rathbone’s case. And so far he had singly failed in that.
