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No one could easily believe it of her own father. Hester would not have believed it of hers. It was not rational. The brain said that one’s father was human like any other man, but all the heart and the will denied the very idea that he would lower himself to indulge carnal appetites with a woman paid from the streets. It awoke something inside oneself as to the origin of one’s own existence, the nature of one’s physical creation, and something unbearable about one’s mother as well. It was a betrayal beyond acceptance.
“No,” Hester said, not really as a reply, simply an understanding. “Of course not. Perhaps your brother may know if he intended to meet someone, or if not, at least what his destination might have been.”
“I have already tried,” Livia said with both embarrassment and anger. “He simply told me not to worry myself, that the police would find the answer, and not to listen to anyone.”
“That might be good advice,” Hester conceded. “At least the part about not listening to what people say.”
There was a knock on the door, and almost before Livia had finished answering, it opened. A dark, lithe man in his thirties came in, hesitating when he saw Hester, but only momentarily. He had an air of confidence about him which was arrogant
, even abrasive, and yet had a certain attraction. Perhaps it was the feeling of energy in him which appealed, almost like a fire, at once dangerous and alive. He moved with grace, and he wore his clothes as if elegance were natural to him. He reminded Hester fleetingly of Monk as he would have been in his early thirties. Then the impression was gone. This man lacked a depth of emotion. His fire was of the head, not the heart.
Livia looked over at him, and her face lit instantly. It was not something she did consciously, but it was impossible to mistake her pleasure.
“Michael! I was not expecting you.” She turned to Hester. “I should like you to meet Mr. Michael Dalgarno, my brother’s partner. Michael, this is Mrs. Monk, who has been kind enough to call upon me in connection with a charity in which I am interested.” She barely blushed at her lie. She was perfectly used to the accommodation of social exchange.
“How do you do, Mrs. Monk.” Dalgarno bowed very slightly. “I am delighted to meet you, and I apologize for intruding upon your tea. I had not realized Miss Baltimore had company, or I should not have been so forward.” He turned to look at Livia and smiled; it was deliberate and devastatingly charming. There was a candor to it that was as intimate as a touch.
The color swept up Livia’s face, and neither Hester nor Dalgarno himself could have doubted her feelings for him.
He placed his hand on the back of Livia’s chair, gently, as if it were her shoulder. It was oddly possessive. Perhaps so soon after her father’s death, and in such circumstances, the statement of anything further would be inappropriate, but the gesture was unmistakable.
Hester had a fleeting thought that as the daughter of a wealthy man, about to become vastly wealthier through the sale of the components, Livia Baltimore was a young woman who might expect a great number of suitors, many of them driven by the least noble of motives. She must have known Dalgarno for some time. Was it a genuine love, begun as friendship long before the promise of wealth, or was it a classic piece of opportunism by an ambitious young man? She would never know, nor did she need to, but she hoped profoundly that it was the former.
Now she had learned all that she was likely to, she did not want to remain longer and risk saying something that would give away the lie to Livia’s explanation for her presence. The only charity with which she was connected was the house in Coldbath Square, and she did not think that Mr. Dalgarno would find it easy to believe that Livia was interested in that.
She rose to her feet. “Thank you, Miss Baltimore,” she said with a smile. “You have been most gracious, and I shall call upon you again if you wish, or not trouble you further if you feel we have—”
“Oh, no!” Livia interrupted hastily, rising as well, her black skirts rustling stiffly. “I should very much like us to speak again, if . . . if you would be so kind?”
“Of course,” Hester agreed. “Thank you again for your graciousness.” She turned to him. “I am delighted to have made your acquaintance, Mr. Dalgarno.” He moved to open the door for her. She went out and was conducted to the entrance by a footman. She passed a tall, fair-haired young man coming in. He was remarkable for his vigor and his large ears. He took no notice of her, but strode toward Dalgarno and started to speak before he reached him. Unfortunately, Hester was obliged to go out into the street before she could overhear anything.
* * *
The following evening Hester and Margaret kept their appointment to meet in Margaret’s sister’s home and learn what more they could about Nolan Baltimore.
Accordingly, Hester dressed carefully in her most sober jacket and skirt, the one which she would have worn were she seeking a position of nursing in a private house. Margaret wore a becoming gown of a dark wine shade and a highly fashionable cut. They took a hansom together and arrived in Weymouth Street, south of Regent’s Park, just after six. It was a very imposing house, and even as they crossed the footpath and mounted the steps up to the front door, Hester felt a subtle change come over Margaret. She moved less briskly, her shoulders were not quite so square, and she pulled the brass knob of the bell almost tentatively.
The door was answered straightaway by a footman of towering height and excellent legs, the qualities most admired in his calling.
“Good evening, Miss Ballinger,” he said stiffly. “Mrs. Courtney is expecting you and Mrs. Monk. If you would care to come this way.” He ushered them in, and Hester could not help glancing around the perfectly proportioned hallway with its black-and-white flagged floor leading to a magnificent staircase, and the walls hung with ancient armor, decorated swords, and flintlocks, stocks inlaid with gold wire and mother-of-pearl.
The footman opened the withdrawing-room door, announced them, and then showed them in. Hester saw Margaret draw in a deep breath and go forward.
Inside the room, oak-floored with paneled walls, heavy plum-colored curtains framed high windows onto formal gardens beyond. Three people were awaiting them. The woman was obviously Margaret’s sister. She was not quite as tall, and judging by her skin and slightly more ample figure, the elder by four or five years. She was handsome in a conventional way, and gave the air of being extremely satisfied with all about her. She was fashionably dressed, but discreetly so, as if she had no need to make herself ostentatious in order to be remarked.
She came forward as soon as she saw Margaret, her face beaming with welcome. Either she was genuinely pleased to see her sister or she was a most accomplished actress.
“My dear!” she said, giving Margaret a swift kiss on the cheek, then stepping back to regard her with great interest. “How delightful of you to have come. It has been far too long. I swear I was quite giving up hope!” She turned to Hester. “You must be Mrs. Monk, Margaret’s new friend.” This welcome was not nearly so warm—in fact, it was merely courteous. There was something guarded in her eyes. Hester realized immediately that Marielle Courtney was not at all sure that Hester’s influence upon her sister was a good one. It might have replaced some of her own, and with less desirable effects. And of course she could not place Hester socially, which set her at a disadvantage in estimating her desirability.
“How do you do, Mrs. Courtney,” Hester replied with a polite smile. “I think so highly of Margaret that to meet any member of her family is a great pleasure to me.”
“How kind of you,” Marielle murmured, turning to the man to her right and just behind her. “May I introduce you to my husband, Mr. Courtney?”
“How do you do, Mrs. Monk,” he responded dutifully. He was a bland-faced man of approximately forty, already a little corpulent, but full of assurance and general willingness to receive his wife’s family, and whoever they might bring with them, civilly enough.
The third person in the room was the one they had come to see, the man who might be able to tell them more about Nolan Baltimore. He was slender and unusual in appearance. His thick hair waved back off a high brow and was touched with gray at the temples, suggesting his age was more than his ease of carriage and elegance of dress portrayed. His features were very aquiline, his mouth full of humor. Marielle introduced him as Mr. Boyd, and laid rather more emphasis on Margaret than Hester was prepared for.
She saw Margaret stiffen and the color rise to her cheeks, although she masked her discomfort as well as possible.
