If such a search did indeed occur, Roland was determined to make certain he was there as well. Someone had to protect Pippa, and it was not going to be two footmen, a small child, her nursemaid, or an octogenarian butler.
It was going to be him, whether she liked it or not.
Chapter 7
Tilly came to visit her at the townhome Pippa had shared with George, formerly a place where she had felt secure, loved, happy.
Now, it seemed more like a prison.
Worse, a danger.
No longer a home.
The intrusion of two nights before, along with the thinly veiled warnings delivered to her by the Chief Inspector at Northwich’s townhome, had changed all that. Although, to be fair, ever since she had come to realize the enormity of her husband’s secrets, she wondered whether or not this house—once a source of great pride for her, as George had spared no expense in decorating it with the finest paintings, antiquities, and furniture—had ever truly been a home.
The evidence suggested it had not. A gilded cage, rather, from which she had been allowed the illusion of happiness, whilst it lasted. Until it had been torn from her.
“I do not like this, Pippa,” her friend announced after she had handed off her hat and gloves.
No need for a wrap today. The weather, while nowhere near sweltering, had finally warmed as well. Unfortunately, no amount of sunshine could chase the cold which had settled into Pippa’s marrow. Her heart, she was sure, had been frozen to winter’s ice.
“What do you not like?” she asked Tilly anyway, attempting to make light of the moment, to distract the both of them. “The wallcoverings? They are directly from France, patterned after the green damask at the Palace of Versailles. George chose them.”
Of course he had. Why had it never occurred to her that George had choseneverything?
“Pippa.”
Her friend’s voice cut through her thoughts, making her realize she was standing still in the hall, staring at the walls. At the Caravaggio hanging on it, resplendent yet dark and brooding within its elaborate gilt frame. He had chosen the picture as well. How many thousands of pounds had the painting cost him?
And what sins had he committed to gain that money? How many innocents had suffered?
“Pippa, dearest, you are trembling.” Tilly’s hand on her forearm brought her back to the discussion with a jolt.
“I never liked green on walls,” she announced, and she did not know why. It had nothing to do with what they had been speaking of. Nothing to do with anything, really. “I do not care for this picture either, though I suppose it must have cost George a tidy fortune.”
A fortune which had not been his.
How foolish she had been.
Trips to Worth in Paris. A wardrobe that would make a queen envious. Jewels that had made the Morgan family sapphires look like worthless pebbles in comparison. Napoleon’s desk. Priceless paintings. New carpets from the ground floor to the attics. Horses and estates. After George’s death, the wealth he had amassed had been a source of comfort rather than something she had questioned. Knowing she and Charlotte would not need to seek the munificence of family had been heartening.
“Perhaps you might change the wallcoverings,” Tilly suggested softly. “Sell the artwork if it is not to your liking.”
But it was neither the damask nor the oil painting which displeased her now.
Rather, it was the immensity of the situation. Precarious and terrible.
She shook her head, forced a smile she did not feel to her lips, and glanced back to Tilly. “Come, let us go to the gardens. At least there, we are not surrounded by…”
Memories.
George.
“By so much disagreeable green,” she finished lamely.
Not at all what she had intended to say. But then, when had her heart and her tongue been in accord? Not since this massive upheaval in which she still found herself, perilously balanced.
“The gardens would be lovely,” Tilly said, smiling. “Your roses must soon be in bloom.”
