It would seem scandal in the newspapers was more of a threat than the police. Good to know for future reference. I smiled sweetly at the butler. He scowled at me as I passed.
The footman led the way up the marble staircase. Our footfalls were deadened by a thick crimson and gold carpet. A chandelier with dozens upon dozens of crystal teardrop pendants hung in the stairwell, but it wasn’t lit. There was enough light coming through the large front windows that the gas ones weren’t needed. Once we were out of sight of the butler, Mr. Adams glanced at me over his shoulder. “I’m impressed. Would you have followed through on your threat?”
“Of course,” I lied.
He smiled. “Pity you weren’t Victor’s friend back when he and I were conning the toffs. We could have done with a girl like you.”
“Thisgirlis not interested in conning anyone,” I bit off.
“Is that right?” He indicated the door ahead. “Tell that to his lordship after you get the information you wantout of him.”
He knocked and Lord Wrexham bade us enter. Mr. Adams announced me then discreetly closed the door again, leaving me staring at a man seated at the desk, writing in an appointment diary. With his head bent I couldn’t see his face. I schooled my features so that when he finally looked up, I showed no shock at the sight of the disfiguring lesions.
Now that I was up close, I could see the red-brown lumps were sores, not warts. Lord Wrexham would have been a handsome middle-aged man without them, despite his receding blonde hair. His eyes were extraordinarily blue and piercing.
“What do you want?” he snapped.
“I have a few questions I hope you can answer.”
“I mean what do you want in exchange for not printing your filth?” He opened the top drawer of his desk and removed some bank notes. He smacked them down on the desk. “This is all I have. Take it and go.”
I steeled myself. “I don’t want money. My price is answers. I’m writing about the life and death of Pearl Westwood and I think you can fill in some gaps for me. In exchange I will keep your name out of the article.”
He sat back and settled his clasped hands over his paunch. He regarded me levelly, without a hint of self-consciousness over his appearance. “Hasn’t interest in her waned yet? She was just an actress, for God’s sake.”
“The public’s interest in her life is insatiable, more so now than when she was alive.”
“You’ll be writing entire books about opera singers and actresses next.” Lord Wrexham indicated I should sit then he handed me a piece of paper. “I want an assurance that my name will not appear in any article you write, nor alluded to in any fashion. Is that clear?”
I wrote the statement, signed and dated it.
He read it before setting it aside. “What do you want to know?”
This could be easier than I expected. “You were at Pearl’s funeral. Why?”
He blinked in surprise. “I cared for her once. I wanted to say goodbye.”
“When were you together?”
“We began seeing one another early ninety-five and the relationship ended nearly two years later.”
“Who ended it?”
“I don’t remember.”
I waited, but he didn’t add to his answer. “When did you last see her?”
“When our liaison ended.”
“That’s not true.”
He bristled. “Are you calling me a liar?”
“Pearl Westwood called on you between Christmas and the New Year.”
His nostrils flared but he didn’t deny it.
“What did you talk about?” I asked.
