“Good morning, Han. You’re too early, you know. Bella won’t be back until luncheon.”
Solomon touched Constance’s hair. “Pins,” he breathed, and she passed them over without a word.
In the passage, Cordell was saying smoothly, “So Hutton informed me. I was silly enough to disbelieve him—and to bring in visitors to wait. You remember Mr. Grey, who called before?”
He wandered into the room just as Solomon, having re-pinned Constance’s loose hair, dropped his hands to his sides.
“Of course.” A young man around the same age as Bella wandered into the room. He looked a little weary, as though he had had his fill of condolence visitors and was already at the end of his tether.
Constance couldn’t help smiling sympathetically at him.
He looked slightly taken aback but quickly shook hands with Solomon. “How do you do, sir? How kind of you to call again.”
“I would not have so intruded, except that my wife wished to pay her respects to your mother. She too is involved with some of the same charities as your father.”
The boy bowed, flushing slightly as though caught out in rudeness. He seemed exhausted by grief. “How do you do, Mrs. Grey? We are most grateful for your condolences.”
“One feels obliged to keep traditions,” Constance said, “and some people find it a comfort. For myself, I feel it an imposition and somewhat insolent that strangers purport to understand one’s own immeasurable grief. Be assured we are thinking of you, though. I believe we should impose no longer, Solomon. But we shall attend the memorial service, of course.”
“It’s tomorrow afternoon,” Anthony said, “in Hanover Square.”
“Please pass our sincere sympathies to your mother and sister too,” Constance said, pulling on her gloves. She had never intended to inflict her presence on the St. John ladies, though she could not help a powerful curiosity about the lady of the house. “Goodbye, Mr. St. John.”
Cordell escorted them to the door, without disturbing the servants, and returned Solomon’s hat. “Well done,” he breathed.
Chapter Twelve
Constance could notwait to get back to the office to read the purloined letter, so she dragged it out of her reticule as soon as the carriage began to move.
“There was no time,” she said without looking up, though she felt Solomon’s gaze upon her. “Here,” she added, holding out Veronique’s bills to him. “What do you make of these?”
The letter was dated in the autumn of the previous year and came from someone called George Lorimer, who appeared, from the lack of formality, to be an old friend and neighbor in the county of Berkshire. Most of it was homely news about his family and an amusing tale about the village innkeeper. The name Neville was only mentioned once, and as if in answer to a query previously sent by St. John. It wasn’t all she had hoped for, but it was better than nothing, so she read it aloud.
“Sadly, I have heard nothing of Neville for over fifteen years, but do let me know when you find the old reprobate. When do you come down to the country next? We all look forward to seeing you and the family. Ever your friend, George Lorimer.”
She looked up to meet Solomon’s interested gaze. “So hedidknow Nevvy!”
“If it’s the same Neville, which does not seem terribly likely on the face of it. It’s a common enough name.”
“Worth investigating, though,” she said, slightly deflated.
“Absolutely,” he agreed, and flapped Veronique’s invoice between his fingers. “What am I looking for in this? It looks like daylight robbery, but presumably the St. Johns agreed to it, since it’s been paid.”
“What are all these sundries? A few gloves and reticules should not cost as much as one already ridiculously expensive evening gown. AndallVeronique’s bills are like that, so it’s not just a one-time payment for all the hats and gloves in Bella’s trousseau.”
“Are they indeed?” Solomon stared at it again. “Do you go to fashionable dressmakers like this Veronique?”
“No.” She sighed. “I have my own woman who is not remotely fashionable, but she is very good at following my ideas and does excellent work. But you’re right, I don’t know what the wealthiest expect to pay. The dressmakers I spoke to yesterday, including Veronique herself, certainly threw around eye-watering prices in my hearing, but nothing like this. We need to speak to a wealthy aristocrat…”
“And Bella,” Solomon said. “We need to be sure before we start accusing someone of blackmail, but if it’s true, it’s a clever way of doing it without leaving any evidence. At worst, Veronique has overcharged, which is hardly a crime.”
“She could have been blackmailing any of them,” Constance said excitedly. “Most men just seem to wince and pay the bills. This was a special occasion, and we know St. John was happy to indulge his daughter. What if he was killed to stop him going to the police about Veronique?”
“Veronique herself?” Solomon said consideringly. “Or…surely St. John’s own family could not have done it simply to avoid the possibility of scandal coming out?”
“You’d be surprised the lengths people will go to in order to remain outwardly respectable. Though, to be frank, I can’t imagine what Bella could have done in her short and shelteredlife that would be worthy of blackmail. She doesn’t seem the type to seduce the footman or try to elope with the stable boy.”
“Some affair of her mother’s?” Solomon suggested dubiously.
