unburied-for whatever reason.”
“But he was so very ordinary,” she said with exasperation and a touch of pity. “He was wealthy, but not exceptionally so; the title is not worth anything, and anyway, there is no one to inherit it. He was pleasing enough to look at, but not handsome, and far too pompous to have a romantic
He waited. There was sufficient understanding between them that it would have been faintly insulting for him to have reasoned with her. She was as capable as he of seeing the nuances, the shadings of suspicion and fear.
“I suppose it is better that I tell you than you learn it from backstairs gossip,” she said irritably, angry not with him but with the circumstances.
He understood. “And probably more accurate,” he agreed.
“Alicia,” she said simply. “It was an arranged marriage, as what else could it be between a sheltered girl of twenty and a comfortable, unimaginative man in his mid-fifties?”
“She has a lover.” He stated the obvious.
“An admirer,” she corrected him. “To begin with, no more than a social acquaintance. I wonder if you have any idea how small London Society really is? In time one is bound to meet practically everybody, unless one is a hermit.”
“But now it is more than an acquaintance?”
“Naturally. She is young and has been denied the dreams of youth. She sees them parading in the ballrooms of London-what else do you expect her to do?”
“Will she marry him?”
She raised silver eyebrows very slightly, her eyes bright. There was a dry recognition of social difference in them, but whether there was amusement at it or not, he was not sure.
“Thomas, one does not remarry, or even allow oneself to be seen considering it, within a year of one’s husband’s death; whatever one may feel, or indeed do in the privacy of the bedroom. Provided, of course, that the bedroom is in someone else’s house, at a weekend, or some such thing. But to answer your question, I should imagine it is quite likely, after the prescribed interval.”
“What is he like?”
“Dark and extremely handsome. Not an aristocrat, but sufficient of a gentleman. He has manners enough, and most certainly charm.”
“Money?”
“How practical of you. Not a great deal, I think, but he does not appear to be in need of it, at least not urgently.”
“Lady Alicia inherits?”
“With the daughter, Verity. The old lady has her own money.”
“You know a great deal about their affairs.” Pitt disarmed it with a smile.
She smiled back at him. “Naturally. What else is there to occupy oneself with, in the winter? I am too old to have any
His smile widened to a grin, but he made no comment. Flattery was far too obvious for her.
“What is his name, and where does he live?”
“I have no idea where he lives, but I’m sure you could find out easily enough. His name is Dominic Corde.”
Pitt froze. There could not be two Dominic Cordes, not both handsome, both charming, both young and dark. He remembered him so clearly, his easy smile, his grace, his obliviousness of his young sister-in-law Charlotte, so painfully in love with him. It had been four years ago, before she met Pitt, at the start of the Cater Street murders. But do the echoes of first love ever die away? Doesn’t something linger, perhaps more imagination than fact, the dreams that never came true? But painful. .
“Thomas?” Vespasia’s voice invaded his privacy, drawing him back to the present: Gadstone Park and the disinterment of Augustus Fitzroy-Hammond. So Dominic was in love with Lady Alicia, or at least sought after her. He had seen her only twice, yet had gathered an opinion that she was utterly unlike Charlotte, far more a memory of Dominic’s first wife, Charlotte’s sister Sarah, who had been murdered in the fog. Pretty, rather pious Sarah, with the same fair hair as Alicia, the same smooth face. He could think only of Charlotte and Dominic.
“Thomas!” Vespasia’s face swam up at him as he lifted his head; she was leaning forward touched with concern now. “Are you quite well?”
“Yes,” he said slowly. “You said ‘Dominic Corde’?”
“You know him.” It was a statement rather than a question. She had lived a long time, known many loves and hurts. Little escaped her understanding.
He knew she would recognize a lie. “Yes. He was married to Charlotte’s sister, before she died.”
“Good gracious.” If she read anything more into it than that, she was far too tactful to say so. “So he is a widower. I don’t recall his mentioning it.”
Pitt did not want to talk about Dominic. He knew it would have to come, but he was not ready yet. “Tell me about the rest of Gadstone Park?” he asked.
She looked a little surprised.
He pulled a small, ironic face. “I can’t imagine Alicia dug him up,” he said, meeting her eyes. “Or Dominic?”
Her body relaxed, altering the line of the high lace neck. “No,” she sighed wearily. “Of course not. They would be the last ones to wish him back. It would appear, unless the whole thing is fortuitous after all, that either one of them murdered Augustus or someone believes they did.”
“Tell me about the other people in the Park,” he repeated.
“The old lady is a fearful creature.” Vespasia seldom minced words. “Sits upstairs in her bedroom all day devouring old love letters, and letters of blood and military vainglory from Waterloo and the Crimea. In her own eyes she is the last of a great generation. She savors over and over again every victory in her life, real or imagined, up to the last minute, so she can wring life dry before it is snatched away from her. She doesn’t like Alicia, thinks she has no courage, no style.” A sudden dry twist lit up her face. “I really don’t know whether she would like her better or worse if she thought her capable of having murdered Augustus!”
Pitt hid a smile by turning it into a grimace. “What about the daughter, Verity?”
“Nice girl. Don’t know where she gets it from; must be her mother’s side. Not especially good-looking, but quite a bit of life to her, underneath the well-drilled manners. Hope they don’t marry her off before she has a little fun.”
“How does she get on with Alicia?”
“Well enough, so far as I know. But you needn’t look at her; she would have no idea where to employ a grave robber, and she could hardly do it herself!”
“But she might prompt someone else,” Pitt pointed out. “Someone in love with her-if she thought her stepmother had murdered her father.
Vespasia snorted. “Don’t believe it. Far too devious. She’s a nice child. If she thought such a thing she would have come out and accused her, not gone around persuading someone to desecrate her father’s grave. And she seems genuinely fond of Alicia, unless she’s a far better actress than I take her for.”
Pitt had to agree. The whole thing was preposterous. Perhaps, after all, it was the work of a lunatic and the fact that it was the same body both times only a grotesque mischance. He said as much to Vespasia.
“I tend to disbelieve in coincidences,” she replied reluctantly, “but I suppose they do occur. The rest of the Park are ordinary enough, in their way. Lord St. Jermyn I cannot fault; neither can I like him, in spite of the fact that it is he who will sponsor our bill through Parliament. Hester is a good woman making the best of an indifferent situation. They have four children, whose names I cannot remember.”
“Major Rodney is a widower. He was not at the interment, so you have not seen him yet. He fought in the Crimea, I believe. No one can recall his wife, who must have died thirty-five years ago. He lives with his maiden sisters, Miss Priscilla and Miss Mary Ann. They talk too much and are always making jam and lavender pillows, but are otherwise perfectly pleasant. There is nothing to say about the Cantlays. I believe they are precisely what they seem to be: civil, generous, and a little bored.
“Carlisle is a dilettante; plays the piano rather well, tried to get into Parliament and failed, a bit too radical.
