His smile was warm, but she shook her head. No. Thank you, but just no.
CHAPTER 34
“Care for a sibling powwow?” Philip asked Julia as he closed the door on the departing guests.
She had already insisted Christophine retire for the evening and not even consider clearing the dirty glasses. The two women embraced, saying nothing and communicating everything, and Christophine disappeared down the shadowed hall to her quarters. Though she’d known beforehand of Eva Pruitt’s misfortune, she looked shaken to hear again its relentless course toward grief.
Julia and Philip returned to the library. She accepted a cigarette but waved off more brandy. He settled in his chair and smoked nearly his entire cigarette before speaking.
“Too bad your young swain couldn’t stay. Maybe next time he’ll undress.”
Julia coughed on a startled draw of her cigarette.
“A wise old eye can always tell, you know.” He tapped at the corner of his. “The difference between clothes thrown off in haste and those merely slept in. Better luck next time.”
She wanted to resent his teasing, but he was right. It had been a ridiculous ruse, that Sunday morning when Hannity’s visit had roused her out of bed. She’d wanted to appear worldly with a lover in tow, but the pretense had been comical. She had to smile. One could only laugh at oneself, in the end. “I was mortified,” she admitted. “He slept on the divan. He preferred to safeguard my virtue.”
Philip smiled too.
“At any rate, about this morning, brava,” he murmured. “Though it must have pained you to sacrifice that rather fetching little shoe. No doubt your dress was maimed by the same steely hand? Well, I suppose they had to be sacrificed, under the circumstances.”
Philip stretched out his legs and loosened his tie and collar. “Nice work tonight, first to last. Things might well have happened as you described, though I suppose you know the tale’s full of holes. Any good lawyer could send marching bands parading through it.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s not the truth. We may never know with absolute certainty, but my version makes sense. I believe it’s true to the spirit of what happened, if not the exact letter. Nothing refutes any of it.”
“Hence its beauty, yes. That business with the initial was positively spine tingling. Do you think the lady had the foggiest notion it read both ways?”
Julia had described the mystery of the scratched initial in her ramblings as they’d returned home that morning. She shrugged.
“Willard Wright could use it in one of his shillin’ shockers.” Philip cooled his amusement with a swallow of brandy. “Yet I’m afraid your lovely work tonight will evaporate in the harsh light of tomorrow’s scrutiny.” His voice lilted softly. “You know that, don’t you?”
Julia rose and poured herself more brandy after all. She wouldn’t sleep tonight—a headache later was a fair price for immediate solace. She returned to her chair and rested her head against the smooth leather wing so that she could look out into the black night.
“Kessler’s a good fellow, but consider his position,” Philip mused. “Timson may be unmourned and unmissed, but Wallace? The morning editions will hemorrhage ink over his death. Politicos across the state will don black armbands. They’ll dance to dirges at every debutante ball. Charities will keen for their handsome benefactor. It will be damp and noisy—all that clamoring for justice. And smack in the center, bearing the brunt of their woe, will sit Kessler.” Philip issued a lazy procession of smoke rings into the room. “What will he do? He’ll sit down at that imposing desk of his and tot it all up in his usual thorough manner.”
Philip went to the trolley. Returning with the decanter, he poured another finger’s depth into Julia’s glass and refreshed his own. “And what will he have? Two murders and one suicide. One murder clear and undisputed, the other still in some question.”
Julia took a fresh swallow of brandy. She couldn’t prove the identity of Timson’s murderer, not yet, but there was plenty to dispute about Wallace’s death. Even to call it murder was a travesty. Wallace had brought death upon himself by refusing to let Eva go. Had he acted one last time as the calm and reasonable man he’d aspired to be, she and Jerome might be on their way to Paris by now. Julia despised the Wallace revealed to her that morning, but she pitied him too: brought down, as so many ambitious men were, by his own pride.
Philip took a deep breath. “How do you think poor Kessler will answer that lachrymal chorus of whys? Will he bow to your compelling deductions and proclaim the truth about Mr. Wallace? Will he tell the world that the charming friend of orphans, bankers, hostesses, and senators was a murdering rapist felled by his avenging victim?”
Julia closed her eyes. Wallace had been charming. He’d been a friend to orphans and all. Those facts about him would always be true, no less than the violence he’d once turned on Eva. If Julia could barely hold both Wallaces in her mind, she despaired that anyone else could ever do so.
They both knew the answer to his question, but only Philip had the courage, or the cynicism, to speak it aloud. “I fear not,” Philip said. “How much tidier and more plausible simply to add one more crime to the résumé of the late Miss Pruitt. She is a murderer, after all. Why not twice over? Can it make any difference?”
Julia took another quantity of brandy into her mouth and let it burn her tongue, inscribing itself into her palate, before sliding down her throat.
“Two dead murderers were carried out of that apartment this morning,” Philip continued, his voice as smooth as the liquor was vivid, “both guilty, both already punished. Does it even matter how we choose to understand? Would Kessler’s losing his job—as he well might, should he announce your version of things—make the slightest difference to anyone concerned? He’s a
