Chapter Two

S olomon continued his explorations alone. Constance had already given him valuable insight into his host, as much by what she did not say as by what she did. He would not think of what he had learned about her—if anything—except that somehow she surprised him. The silent, exquisite woman he had saved by instinct in Coal Yard Lane was today overawed by neither her surroundings nor her company. Now he wondered if she had been so then either.

She had said she was not pursuing Randolph, and yet she was clearly his guest here. What the devil was she up to?

It was, of course, none of his business. He had come to learn certain facts from Walter Winsom, things he might deny if asked by letter, simply through distrust and suspicion of a stranger.

The orangery was pretty and swelteringly hot. Enclosed as they were, the trees did not smell as they should to him, although they bore plenty of fruit. From there, he walked outside into a fragrant herb garden. Following the path he came on to a wider one that, judging by the horsey smell drifting on the air, led to the stables.

He paused to glance back at the house from this angle and was intrigued by the outside of the old wing. Although it must have been the other way round, it looked curiously tagged on to the main part of the house, the short leg of an L shape. There was no door that he could see, and the windows, though still glazed, did not gleam. They looked curiously blank, as if they had been boarded from the inside. It seemed a waste to him to leave such space unused, especially if the servants lived in the usual cramped accommodation in attics and basements.

But it was not his house.

He walked on, took a detour down another short path, and found dog kennels. A gaggle of hunting dogs were playing and sniffing in the paddock beyond their indoor shelter, although they suddenly started barking and streaming back inside.

The reason seemed to be the man trudging down the path with two pails. He nodded civilly to Solomon. “Afternoon.”

Before Solomon could speak, a bark that was more of a thunderous roar startled him, and a black shadow reared up in a separate cage.

The man gave a crooked, almost malicious smile. “Don’t mind Monster. He can’t get out.”

Monster appeared to be a bull mastiff with large teeth and slavering jaws.

“I’m very glad to hear it,” Solomon murmured. “What does he hunt? Lions?”

“He doesn’t get the chance. He’s Mr. Randolph’s pet.”

“Pet,” Solomon repeated.

“Nearly took the kennelman’s throat out,” said the man with some relish, opening the main kennel to pour the contents of one pail into the trough within. “He refused to have anything more to do with him, so now I have to feed the brute. I’m Hudson, the gamekeeper.”

“Solomon Grey.” He never minded introducing himself to servants. “Why doesn’t Mr. Randolph feed him if the dog’s his pet?”

“Oh, he does sometimes. Tied up with guests just now. Mr. Randolph’s the only one he likes. Won’t let anyone else near him.”

The dog glared balefully at Solomon, drawing back its slobbering lips before transferring its attention to Hudson’s pail. He barked again, vibrating the ground beneath Solomon’s feet.”

“Best leave me to it,” Hudson advised. “He particularly don’t like strangers.”

*

The visiting ladies at Greenforth made a virtue out of not bringing their personal maids with them, claiming they did not need them. Constance, who knew the real reason was the house’s lack of accommodation for servants, could have used the practical help in hooking and unhooking her gowns—she had no husband to perform the task for her. But she had no real choice in her decision to come without the girl. Janey still looked and sounded what she was—Covent Garden ware, pulled from a life on the streets when she grew too ill to earn. While regaining her health, Janey was still loud, mouthy, and utterly indiscreet.

Constance, with her laughable dislike of a stranger’s touch, had rejected the help of both the housemaid and Mrs. Winsom’s personal maid. Now, contorting herself to fasten her evening gown of deep blue silk, she thought with longing of Janey, strident vulgarity and all.

At last she caught the final hook, blew a strand of hair out of her face as she straightened with relief, and eyed her reflection in the mirror. She had looped her thick hair about her head in the soft, artfully casual style she favored for evenings, and once the flush of exertion faded from her face, she would no doubt look well enough. The deep, V-shaped neckline of her gown exposed her creamy chest and shoulders no more than was strictly fashionable. A single, modest string of pearls encircled her throat. Her only other jewelry was the gold wedding band one of her girls had found for her in a pawnshop.

Mrs. Silver never bothered with a wedding ring. No one believed in the fiction of her marital status in any case. Mrs. Goldrich needed the illusion of respectability. If only to stave off Randolph Winsom, who was becoming a shade possessive. As a result, she was reluctant to go down to dinner too early, even though the first gong had sounded. She could probably rely on Randolph’s mother not to place them together at the table, and in any case, she reminded herself, she was a past master of the art of avoidance. And of taking over-amorous young, entitled men down a peg or two.

In her own establishment, Randolph was someone she would have watched, at least initially. He was pleasant enough and not cruel by nature, but he did have a temper and a recklessness about the eyes that could cause trouble.

Constance drew on her gloves, glanced at the old fob watch on her dressing table, and decided it was time to go down.

Everyone else had already gathered in the drawing room. They probably thought she was deliberately making an entrance, and in truth, she didn’t mind.

Solomon Grey stood by the mantelpiece, a glass of sherry in his long, elegant fingers. For an instant he looked curiously alone, almost vulnerable, and then the illusion vanished as he smiled at Mrs. Winsom and made some apparently amusing remark. She laughed, gazing up at him with sparkling eyes and delicately flushed skin.

So that is the way of it… At least from Deborah Winsom’s point of view.

He did not appear to notice Constance. Why should he?

Mr. Winsom, the very definition of genial host, was leaning over the back of a sofa between Ivor Davidson and Mrs. Bolton. Utter charm combined with impenetrable respectability. Only, of course, she knew otherwise. At least in his younger days, Walter Winsom had been wild to a fault.

Randolph hurried up to Constance, bearing a glass of sherry, his eyes just a little too warm as they drank her in.

“You look even more beautiful every time I see you.”

“You are kind, Randolph, but incredibly forgetful, for I look as I always do. Thank you,” she added, accepting the glass from him. She barely had time for a sip before dinner was announced and she was escorted into dinner, rather to her surprise, by her host.

Perhaps he had decided it was time to discover her intentions toward his son, whose attentions were a little too marked for mere politeness. Well, she had a good deal of discovering to do on her own account.

Throughout the first courses he made mere small talk, at which she had learned to excel with just a sprinkling of humor to dispel the tedium. It seemed to work, judging by the slight softening of his eyes, the spark of pleasure that told her he was not immune to her. Part of his charm was that he at least appeared to give his full attention to whomever he spoke to, as though he were genuinely interested in even the most mundane of remarks. She recognized the technique, one she had learned early in life.

“How did such a charming lady come to meet my graceless son?” he asked teasingly, between mouthfuls of soup.

“Didn’t he tell you?” Constance asked as though surprised. “We met at the theatre. A mutual friend introduced us—Lady Grizelda Tizsa. Perhaps you know her?”

“I do not,” he said, still smiling.

“Oh, she is a most cultured lady. A daughter of the Duke of Kelburn, I believe, married to a most interesting Hungarian gentleman. He and your son share views on politics.”

Mr. Winsom snorted. “I daresay they will both learn.”

“Very probably,” Constance agreed peaceably. Randolph affected a radical stance, probably to annoy his father. “At any rate, Randolph and I amused each other to the extent that he escorted me the following day to an exhibition of paintings I had long wished to see. We became friends, and he invited me to join you here. I hope I was not misled by his assurance that you and Mrs. Winsom would not mind.”

“Mind?” he said, in apparent shock. “My dear lady, you are most welcome, as is any friend of our children.”

“You have been such kind hosts that I would hate to take advantage,” Constance said with a straight face.

He smiled again, and while the servants cleared the soup and brought the fish, he turned to Mrs. Bolton on his other side.

A little later, during a lull in conversation, he returned to her. “Forgive me for asking, but have you been widowed long, Mrs. Goldrich? You seem very young to have known such tragedy.”

“I am older than I tend to look, or so I am told. I have been widowed some five years now.”

“What did your husband do?” he asked with unexpected bluntness.

“He was a gentleman of leisure,” Constance said without a qualm. “A younger son, but with private means.”

“Then you were fortunate enough at least not to be left destitute by the tragedy of his early demise.”

“I do not struggle financially,” said Constance, this time with perfect truth.

He smiled slightly. “Randolph tells me we may thank you for drawing him away from…the excessive pleasures one may discover in the capital.”

Well, that was a first. “Oh, I don’t believe he was so very bad. Young men have always sown their wild oats.” She met his gaze with a conspiratorial twinkle. “Didn’t you?”

He twinkled back merrily. “Perhaps.”

And still did, she suspected, though perhaps with more circumspection.

He leaned closer, confiding, “Between ourselves, it was why my father sent me to the West Indies, where I discovered my gift for entrepreneurship. So perhaps it was no bad thing.”

“How long were you there?” she asked.

“Two, almost three years. I left England in 1828 and took ship home from Jamaica in 1831 when the slave revolt broke out. I like to think I returned a better man. I settled down to marriage and worked hard and never looked back.”

“What an uplifting story. Did you not work hard before you went to Jamaica?”

“No, I toyed with things. And with people,” he said regretfully.

Her heart gave a jolt. “In what way?”

The twinkle came back. “In ways I cannot talk about to a lady.”

She would have liked to dig deeper, but he was already turning once more to Mrs. Bolton.

Still, the conversation left her with much to think about. He had owned up to bad behavior in his past, to toying with people. And they had reached enough of a rapport that in a day or two, she could refer back to it, and perhaps reach the truth.

More than that, she could not help liking him. He might have been a thoughtless, selfish youth, but he had grown into a man she might well grow to admire. And that filled her with warmth.

*

Solomon was a patient man. Quite aside from Constance Silver’s inexplicable presence here, Greenforth was a house of secrets. He could feel it in his bones. But did Walter Winsom hold the secret Solomon had come for?

At dinner, he was seated between Mrs. Winsom, who had chosen him to escort her to the dining room, and her younger daughter Ellen, who was clearly curious by nature.

“Have you truly just come from Jamaica, Mr. Grey?” she asked, wide-eyed.

“I came five years ago from Jamaica.”

“What did you do there?”

“I grew sugar and cotton and coffee.”

She smiled. “With your own fair hands, Mr. Grey?”

“Sometimes, when we were short of laborers. I owned the plantation. It was in my interests to make it work however I could.”

Her gaze was very direct and disapproving for so young a lady. But then, her parents were still involved in the anti-slavery movement. “Even with slave labor? Did you own slaves, Mr. Grey?”

At least she didn’t say, as many had, Were you a slave, Mr. Grey?

“No,” he replied. “By the time I inherited, the slaves had been freed.”

“But you received compensation from the government for the loss of your property ?”

“My father did,” he said evenly. “Was it helpful to us? Yes, to a point. Do I approve of slavery in any shape or form? No.”

“And yet your fortune was founded on the practice.”

“So was yours, most probably, in some part, shape, or form. One cannot change what was done in the past, only try to be better.”

She blinked. “Then you pay your workers a living wage now?”

“Don’t allow my daughter to catechize you, sir,” Mrs. Winsom said on his other side, frowning direly beyond his shoulder at Ellen. “You are hardly responsible for the slave trade and all its ills!”

“There is an argument that we are all responsible,” Solomon said mildly. By then, he was aware of others around the table listening in without appearing to. Opposite him, Ivor Davidson was smiling with rather malicious amusement.

“Did you mistreat your slaves?” Ellen asked with a defiant glare at her mother. “Before they were freed?”

“If you mean physical mistreatment, no, I didn’t, though I know it happened elsewhere. But, of course, the whole practice was abuse.”

She seemed to accept that, a frown tugging at her brow as she gazed at him searchingly. “You are sympathetic. Perhaps you have slaves among your ancestors.”

He smiled slightly because she had, very probably, addressed the elephant in the room. His African ancestry was as obvious as his European, if one cared to look.

“Ellen!” exclaimed her mother, sacrificing the polite custom of only addressing one’s immediate neighbors at the table.

“Indubitably,” Solomon said. “My grandfather—er…freed himself, and farmed in the hills. My mother was very fiercely free, but still chose to marry my father.”

“How romantic,” Ellen exclaimed, her eyes shining.

Solomon let it go. It was romantic, after all. Recriminations and prejudices did not change that.

“Why did you leave Jamaica?” Ellen asked a little later.

“To see the world and to make money,” Solomon replied promptly. “There is little profit in plantations nowadays, so I moved into shipping and other ventures. London is really the center of the world’s trade.”

“That’s what Papa says.”

It was what “Papa” had to say about his time in Jamaica that truly interested Solomon. His chance came after dinner, when the ladies had withdrawn and decanters of port and brandy were being passed around the table. The strong scent of cigar smoke filled the room.

Solomon had hoped for a more relaxed atmosphere without the distraction of the women, but despite the alcohol and tobacco, he still sensed an edge. Whether that was because Solomon was an outsider or because there was tension among the others, he did not yet know.

Opposite him, Ivor Davidson gazed broodingly up the table to his host.

Randolph, who had perhaps indulged in too much wine at dinner and was onto his second generous port, passed the decanter on to him. “Cheer up,” he murmured. “He only does it because he can, you know. Once you’re aware of his power, he might change his mind.”

Davidson curled his lip, though whether at Randolph or the subject of his remarks—presumably Walter Winsom—was not clear.

At the other end of the table, Bolton was talking animatedly to his host, his posture both urgent and confiding, until abruptly, Winsom addressed the room at large on the subject of horse racing, leaving Bolton cut off in mid-sentence. It was the first sign of ill nature that Solomon had seen.

A little later, returning from the cloakroom, Winsom sank into the chair next to Solomon’s and poured some brandy into a fresh glass before topping up Solomon’s.

“Tell me about Jamaica,” he said. “Do you miss it?”

“Yes,” Solomon said truthfully. “I miss the sunshine and the colors. The sheer brightness. Do you?”

“I did at first, though I left in a hurry, and it was a good time to go.”

“How so?”

“It was during the slave revolt of 1831. I don’t suppose you remember it.”

“I was ten years old. I remember it vividly.”

“It must have been terribly frightening for you as a child. Was there violence at your estate?”

“Some. We were to the southwest of the island.”

“I was mainly in the east and I did not own slaves, but yes, that was when I realized there was no money in Jamaica anymore. At least, not for me. Plus, the violence appalled me, both that of the rebels and of the men who put them down. I could not see my way to deal with such immorality. I joined the Anti-Slavery League as soon as I got home.”

“Had you much to do with slaves when you were there?”

“In the sense that I was supposed to be learning to manage a plantation, yes. But I was young and foolish, and more interested in enjoying myself.”

“In what way?”

Winsom winked. “Ladies, you know. I was sorry to leave them, but the violence was certainly a wake-up call to me. I had to think seriously about what was right and wrong. And about what I was doing, and what I wanted to do in the future.”

“Which port did you leave from?”

Solomon’s question was a bit abrupt, but he could feel hope draining away from him.

“Port Royal, in the autumn of 1831.”

Solomon picked up his glass, holding Winsom’s gaze. The date was all wrong, if it were true. “And your ship? It wasn’t the Gallant , was it?”

Winsom frowned. “No, I don’t think so. So long ago, I barely remember…It was a merchant vessel, some bird’s name or other. Hawk or Albatross or something. Cormorant ?” He shook his head. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, just an old mystery. Around the time of the revolt, a boy was seen being dragged on to the Gallant against his will. I wondered if you had seen anything, that’s all. It was something of a cause célèbre for some time.”

“No, all the violence I saw was ashore. I saw nothing like that.”

Solomon shrugged as if he didn’t care. He still wasn’t sure he believed him.

“Why was the boy being dragged?” Winsom asked, apparently thinking about the matter. “Didn’t he want to leave?”

“I don’t suppose he did. His family was still on Jamaica. It might have been a forcible rescue. Or the story might be made up. Either way, the boy was never seen again on the island.”

“That is sad.” Winsom smoothed his brow and leaned forward to clink glasses. “Too sad for an evening with friends. Shall we rejoin the ladies?”

*

If Constance had not been aware of the approaching male voices, she would still have known from the sudden excitement of the other women that the gentlemen were about to join them.

It was like her own exclusive establishment when her salons full of girls heard the ringing of the doorbell. In this situation, the agitation felt both odd and wrong, for apart from young Ellen, all these women were married and perfectly used to seeing their husbands. The reason behind the tension could only be anticipation of someone else’s husband. Or one of the unattached men—the young, dramatic Randolph Winsom, the forceful Ivor Davidson, or Solomon Grey.

Interestingly enough, it was Grey that drew all female eyes without his having to try. So she was not the only woman attracted by his mere presence. And there was the novelty, of course. None of them except Mrs. Winsom had met him before today—just how had that meeting come about?

“What about some music?” Mr. Winsom said jovially. “Ellen, entertain us with the piece you were playing the other day.”

Obligingly, Ellen went to the piano. Ivor Davidson followed her to turn her music for her. A brief spurt of irritation crossed Mrs. Winsom’s face. Constance wondered if she had anything against Davidson, or just thought Ellen too young. Though a quick glance at the elder daughter, already married and apparently expecting her first child, reminded her that Miriam Albright must have been married when she was barely eighteen years old. She was younger than Randolph, who was still only twenty.

Ellen glanced up at Davidson a few times, but he did not appear to notice. He gazed at the music, turned the pages at the right time, and behaved with perfect courtesy.

Ellen played very prettily, though she shyly refused to sing.

“Good thing,” said her brother with a grin as she stood up from the piano. “Constance, you sing for us. You have a lovely voice.”

Although irritated—she wished to be free to listen and learn and ask questions—there was little Constance could do except comply gracefully. She had hardly been brought up with such accomplishments, but as soon as she could afford it, she had made it her business to learn them, part of her strategy to move into the higher end of the oldest profession, and it had been useful before now. Many Society hostesses might have envied the refined entertainment of Mrs. Silver’s lower salons, to say nothing of her guest list.

To her own accompaniment on the piano, she sang a French air she had learned from a naval officer, remembering to alter the words subtly in case anyone understood. Only Solomon Grey showed a glimmer of amusement, but then, he probably spent a lot of time on the docks. Next, she sang a jollier English song that made everyone smile, then stood up to make way for Mr. and Mrs. Albright, who performed a duet they had clearly been practicing.

“You are a lady of much talent as well as charm,” Davidson murmured, sitting down beside her. “What on earth do you see in poor old Randolph?”

“Is he poor?” Constance murmured. “He is certainly a gentleman.”

Davidson, taking that to mean he was not, flushed. “It was a joke,” he muttered. “I’m very fond of Randolph. Of all the Winsoms. What is your connection to them?”

“Oh, I have none but friendship,” Constance said, smiling, and pretending to listen with pleasure to the Albrights’ duet.

Loneliness washed over her. She was used to that—the feeling of being alone, even while the center of attention. Especially when the center of attention, because she was always playing a role. No one ever saw beneath her roles. She could not afford that they did.

But she despised the weakness of self-pity. With an effort, she threw it off like an annoyingly damp cloak and raised her hands to applaud the performance.

*

Her moment of weakness, brief as it had been, was a warning she did not ignore. The strain of keeping up her pretense, of trying to worm information without appearing to be more than politely curious, was beginning to tell. On top of which, Randolph was becoming embarrassingly attached, and now Solomon Grey’s arrival, with his knowledge of her true identity, added to her stress.

In short, she was not sure she could keep up this nonsense for the full week. She had already been here two days. She needed to know one way or another, and she could no longer afford to be polite about it. Different methods were called for, after which she could invent some summons home, return to London, and be seen no more by the Winsoms.

Unless she discovered something that required a little more action on her part. She was no longer sure what she wanted the truth to be. Not that her desires mattered—the truth was absolute.

And yet, when everyone retired to their respective bedchambers, and Walter Winsom bade her goodnight, she thought his eyes were warmer than before, and just a little puzzled, surely as if he sensed some familiarity about her, wondering about the rapport springing up between them.

She could not take advantage of it. His family and friends stood close by, and she could not ask for privacy at this time of night.

Not that it was late by Constance’s standards. Country hours were early. She smiled and carried on upstairs with her candle.

She did not undress, merely read a little, paced a little, gazed out of the window at the countryside, and waited for the house to quieten. In the distance, an owl hooted. A dog howled plaintively, probably Randolph’s ferocious pet longing for another throat to bite.

It was after midnight when she crept out of her room with a single candle and flitted along the passage to the stairs. The whole house was in silent darkness, yet she had the feeling, as she sometimes did when she seemed the only person in the world who was awake, that it was alive and watching her, and ready to protect its own.

Perhaps I count as “its own.”

Did she want to? She could decide that after she knew the truth.

In the large hall at the foot of the stairs, her candle flame did not penetrate far. She paused, peering into the blackness all around her. She could see no lights under doors, though gradually, she realized the darkness was not absolute either. Moonlight shone through the cupola above and through the windows on either side of the front door.

Somewhere in the house, a board creaked, and another. The old house was settling for the night. Or objecting to her presence. Ignoring both fancies, she turned and made her way toward the library.

What if he is in there? What if someone else is?

It was always a possibility, which was why she had her excuse ready. So she did not hesitate, merely opened the door, quietly, yet as if she had every right to be there.

The curtains were not drawn, and moonlight drizzled through the long windows, casting an eerie silver glow over the carpet and the armchairs and the shelves of books on either side.

Constance was already moving toward the largest desk, where she had twice seen her host at work, when she realized someone was already there.

Her free hand flew to her throat as though to stifle the rising cry of startlement.

A tall man stood very still behind the desk. The moonlight did not quite reach him, but a candle at his side illuminated him quite well enough.

Solomon Grey.