Juliana nodded. “It does seem unlikely anyone here is the culprit. But like you said, no avenue unexplored.”
He eyed her. A request to return to the apartment wouldn’t be taken well. Unable to get rid of her, he would have to work with the woman. Besides, these were her friends, too. Her introductions could help.
He waved a hand at the doorway. “Shall we?”
She took her skirts in one hand and turned for the room. “We shall.”
Brogan saw one familiar face. Bertie rose with a smile to come greet him, until he saw the other man angling for Brogan and Juliana. Bertie sat back down with a plop.
“Juliana.” The other man swaggered up to them in pantaloons tight enough to make Brogan wince in sympathy. The top of his head reached Brogan’s jaw, and he had the pale, sickly look that seemed in favor with toffs these days. “Who is this delightfully rough-looking man of yours? I didn’t realize your tastes ran to the laborer set.”
Juliana went stiff beside him. Before Brogan could correct the implication that they were together, she said, “Mr. Smythe, meet Mr. Duffy, an associate of my brother’s and mine. Mr. Duffy, Mr. Smythe. A poet.”
The man tutted. “We really must work on your introduction skills, dear.” He bowed his head. “I am Jonathon Smythe, poet, philosopher, artist. I’m the type of man who is always looking for a good… associate,” he said slyly. “I suffer from gout, high bile, and periodic fits of the vapors.”
Brogan looked to Juliana, wondering if this sort of presentation was normal in her circles. When she didn’t give him any indication, he turned back to Smythe. “I don’t care.”
Juliana muffled a laugh before drawing him away. “Mr. Smythe has only been a member of our common salons for eight months or so. He doesn’t know my father so no need to question him.” She grimaced. “Though I wouldn’t mind if you gave him a good whipping.”
Brogan stopped. “Why?” Had he hurt Juliana in some way? He looked back at the man and flexed his hand. Weak jaw. Delicate bones. One punch would take him out.
“He and Bertie were… good friends.” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye. “It ended badly.”
Brogan nodded. That was one suspicion confirmed. But he had neither the time nor the inclination to care about another man’s heartache. “Who here does know your father?”
“Almost everyone.” She set her shoulders and headed toward the nearest grouping of people. “I’ll make the introductions.”
And there were many introductions. So many Brogan’s head began to hurt. He pinched his temple between his thumb and forefinger as the latest artist Juliana introduced him to, a sculptor this time, told him about the newest method of casting plaster.
“And Lady Juliana’s father is a patron of yours?” Keeping his interrogations on track with this lot was as difficult as bailing water with his bare hands. Not that he could let on these were interrogations. His training at the agency had included determining when ‘friendly conversation’ worked better over direct questioning. Juliana didn’t want her acquaintances to know she suspected one of them, and he agreed.
He only wished he were better at friendly conversations. It hadn’t been a skill he’d needed in his past career. It wasn’t something most people tried to engage in with him. They took one look at his muscles and crooked nose and placed him in a different category from conversationalist.
“Well, he buys a piece here and there.” The man, James Masters, gave Juliana a kind smile.
When his funds would allow, was the implication. Just how impoverished was her father’s estate? When Brogan had first started looking for Juliana, a cursory examination had shown that Lord Withington, while not wealthy, was far from wanting. But perhaps his finances deserved a closer look. Money was the strongest motive for murder.
“I can’t wait to see your latest piece.” Juliana squeezed Masters’s arm. “You will let me know when it’s finished?”
“Of course.”
“Mr. Duffy is also an artist,” Juliana said.
Brogan looked around. There had to be another Mr. Duffy here. She couldn’t be referring to him.
“Do you have one of your sculptures with you?” She pointed at his coat pocket. “I know you keep your work in there at times.”
Mr. Smythe sidled up. He’d been circling them like a shark for the past half hour. The man didn’t seem to know how to take an insult and move on. “Oh, do show us. I’m always on the lookout for new talent.”
“No.” Juliana should know how absurd this was. That artists and poets wouldn’t esteem a bit of whittling. But she nodded to him, encouraging, as though in her mind a man who scratched away on stray bits of wood was in the same league as a professional sculptor.
He sighed, and dug his hand into his pocket. He held up the miniature stallion, its hind legs still hidden in the wood.
Mr. Smythe didn’t try overly hard to hide his snort of laughter behind his hand. “You whittle? That’s your great artform?”
“I never claimed it was art.” He rubbed his thumb over the horse’s mane. It was coming along nicely, however.
“It is art.” Juliana turned to Masters. “Sculpture takes many forms, isn’t that right, James?”
