Oddly, his reluctance to speak of the situation also deepened Julia’s regard. He might have abandoned Eva to her great fall like so many others, but he’d chosen instead to catch and cushion her. Julia admired that his caution in preserving Eva’s safety was stronger than his desire to impress. He could be trusted. Eva was well sheltered. For the first time in days, Julia could relax, even enjoy the evening’s glittering pleasures.
When Julia had learned they were going to a gala dinner to benefit the Saint Patrick’s Cathedral Roof Restoration Fund, she’d understood the agenda. As a rising political prospect, Wallace wanted to be seen widely and well, and female company was part of the desired tableau. It had been an evening of opulence, as events spawned by charity frequently were. Julia thoroughly enjoyed the clothes, the jewels, the effusive alcohol, the course after course of culinary objets d’art. She even relished the insipid chat, the vacuous pleasantries, the social fawning, the political pretenses. It would be a pleasure to recount everything over the next several days to a rapt—if blushing—Christophine.
Julia wore the latest of Christophine’s reworked gowns. It was a cornflower-blue satin sheath with a fistful of fabric gathered bustle-like at her bum, a fluid satinfall that murmured as she moved. Christophine had cut a new deep V neckline to echo the wedge of bare spine in the back, then inserted a triangle of chartreuse organdy along one side so that it swept in an asymmetrical panel above her left breast, covering what might have been (on another woman) décolletage. It was a fine joke, to hide what was not there. On the organdy she’d stitched a single meandering line of tiny gold beads, as if a gilded ant had wandered by in search of a picnic. A dozen women had remarked on her frock, which alone testified to its success. Julia could hardly wait to relay the compliments to Christophine, to whom they were really directed.
Wallace and Julia had dined at a large round table with three other couples in one of the hotel’s grand ballrooms upstairs. During the meal her unspoken job was to divert the husbands while Wallace enchanted the wives. The real work came afterward, when the women receded to a salon with music to oblige the men their cigars and brandies. Over thimbles of sherry Julia endured innumerable recommendations of clubs and societies to which she really must belong, as well as endless pecking at the edges of her mildly worrying pedigree. (“Milo Kydd’s daughter? Was your mother the foreign girl?”) The tedium was rewarded when Wallace bagged—Julia’s term—invitations to three country weekends, two debutante parties, and one new advisory board. A successful night’s work.
Now the personal pleasures could begin. Or as soon as they could reach a private table. Every man rose to greet Wallace as they moved through the crowded lounge. At each stop Julia met another middle-aged, wealthy, and no doubt powerful businessman or lawyer or banker or industrialist, each alike in easy yet hungry confidence. She understood that every compliment paid her was deposited straight into Wallace’s treasury. She didn’t mind. His luster enabled her to shine. They could share the profits.
Julia saw them before they noticed her. Sunk into a trio of armchairs in a distant bay between two columns, in a companionable haze of smoke, sat Philip, Jack, and Kessler. They’d chosen a spot farthest from the orchestra, where its efforts would not ruffle what looked to be an intense conversation. Julia had no doubt of the subject: Leonard Timson’s murder—still unresolved. As each day passed without an arrest, the newspapers’ clamor grew. Unfortunately, every day she asked Philip if there was any news, and every day he sighed and answered that Kessler remained as baffled as ever.
She began to angle a path away from them, but a pressure at her waist objected.
“I see the assistant commissioner is here,” Wallace said into her hair. “I’d like a word with him, if you don’t mind. Just to say hello—not long.”
Did he have some information about Eva to pass along to the police? He’d dodged Julia’s efforts to learn of how she was faring in whatever shadows he’d created for her, but surely he’d speak more plainly to Kessler. Julia readily led the way to the sequestered men in the rear alcove. Kessler greeted Wallace with a distracted handshake, clearly troubled to see him with Julia. He began to introduce Philip and Jack when Wallace interrupted. “I had no idea you had a sister, Kydd, and such a charming one. Kessler’s bringing out his secret weapon?”
Philip dismissed this with a skewed eyebrow. His occasional help on Kessler’s more baffling murder cases was not exactly common knowledge, but rumors—no doubt inflated—abounded in places like the Twilight Lounge.
A waiter slid two more chairs into the alcove. Additional brandies arrived. With the usual banter they agreed to a foursome of golf at the Marylebone Club. Julia appreciated Philip’s acquiescence, as he enjoyed mocking the sport more than playing it, but he wouldn’t miss the likely discussion of the Timson case. The golf course was as bad as the smoking lounge or steam room (or Grolier reading rooms)—each a place for discussing vital business or legal matters shaping daily lives. When men returned from their afternoon on the links, often all that remained was to announce their decisions. Those excluded from those places, including women, could only protest the done deals—even (especially) those directly governing themselves. Kessler wrote the agreed-upon date in his pocket calendar, and banal civilities petered out to silence.
Surely everyone was ready to burst with the obvious questions. Julia looked to Wallace, who dropped his eyes. All right then. She
