“Surely your husband has mentioned something about her, or you—”
She sat and rested her forehead on her fingertips. “If you please, I don’t wish to speak of my husband’s previous conquests. It leaves me rather faint.”
Her directness gave me hope. At last, we were breaking through.
Jack leaned forward. “Can you simply tell us, then, how long they were married?”
“Married? Delphine Bessette and my husband? Certainly not. I am his first and only wife, Mr....”
“Dorian. Jack Dorian.”
“Where have you come upon your information?”
“A relation of Delphine’s, actually.”
“From what I understood, Delphine had no relations.”
“Perhaps not, but her true-life counterpart Jane Fawley certainly did. A sister, to be precise. Apparently Delphine was merely a stage name.”
She stared between the two of us, a slight frown marring her perfect face. “You know a great deal about this woman.”
“As I’ve told you, I’m writing a ballet about her life.”
She turned that ivory face toward me. “And you? What is your interest in a dead ballerina?”
I pushed back my shoulders, chin up. “I’m helping him write his ballet.”
Her gaze passed over me thoroughly. “Unfortunately, most of what you think you know is simply not true. Delphine Bessette was little more than a fleeting thought in any man’s mind, not a permanent part of his home. No respectable man would have taken her as a wife.”
Two secret marriages. That was almost more than any woman would tolerate.
Then in a cloud of dust, a carriage rolled up the long drive behind four matched horses, rumbling closer as we watched and coming to a stop under the portico.
The lady leaned forward in her chair with a hostess smile, as if to rise and show us out, but Jack, the consummate actor, ignored the hint and pressed on. “Lady Gower, did you ever have the pleasure of meeting Miss Bessette?”
She wavered under Jack Dorian’s oblivious charm, and Icouldn’t help but think that if any of these questions had come from me, they’d have been snubbed at best. “A time or two perhaps. Nothing of any real substance.”
“Did you speak to her?”
“She was a rather elusive creature. It isn’t as if we associated with her often.” She stirred her tea and looked out at the man being handed out of the coach. “Remarkable, but rather lonely, I believe. Now if you’ll excuse me, it seems my husband has returned.” She rose again to attempt to show us out.
“Impeccable timing!” Jack’s grin pivoted her attempted dismissal as an inner door slammed in the house. “I should like to meet the man. Perhaps he’ll have a bit more insight to offer on Delphine.”
“I’m quite certain he wouldn’t.”
“Won’t hurt to ask, now that he’s arrived.”
“I’m afraid he’ll be rather tired, and won’t welcome—”
“Who do we have here?” A heavily bearded older man came out the patio doors with anything but welcome on his face. “Guests, is it, even here?”
Her white face grew paler. “Harry, these people are here to ask about Delphine Bessette. Can you imagine, after all this time?”
Something flashed in the man’s eyes, and he looked not at us, but at his wife, as if assessing her reaction—what she knew, maybe.
“They heard you were once married to her, but I assured them that wasn’t the case.” She stirred her tea rapidly. “You don’t recall much about her now, do you? It’s been so many years.”
He turned his attention back to his wife, studying her face for long moments, as if deciding what to say. “One does notforget the extraordinary. I remember what she was on the stage, how astonishing...”
