Not the sort of gentleman who would frequent Mamma Lieselotte’s brothel. Or profess love to a strumpet like Elisabeth. Or see her death recompensed with more death.
Tom closed his fist around the hair. Mr. Willmott was not the blackguard he sought.
But perhaps he could lead Tom to someone who was.
“Find anything?”
Lord Cunningham threw another red hardback to the library rug. His usual frilled cravat was missing and the skin around his eyes was puffy as he shot a hollow glance her way. He wore the same clothes as last night. “You are come to admonish me, I suppose, for our less-than-congenial dinner party.”
Had she?
Contemplations rose in her. At first, she’d been angry he could be so cold, then disappointed he could inflict pain so heedlessly. Now, looking at him on his knees in front of the bookshelf, tossing medical books into a pile, some of her resentment toward him waned.
She saw a little deeper into him than she meant to.
Beyond his eloquent speeches.
His intelligent poise.
He was little—all the way through him—but she could not despise his lack of fortitude, when all it stirred within her was pity. The very reason she’d agreed to marry him in the first place.
“In answer to your question, no.” He shook a book upside down as if looking for notes tucked inside, then slammed it back into the pile. “There are no answers in these books for Violet. Nor, despite what Father would have said, in long-ago fables.”
“Perhaps you search for answers in the wrong place.”
He gave a dry laugh. “You insinuate I should beseech higher powers, doubtless. You are good like that.” He grabbed the shelf and pulled himself to his feet. “It may surprise you to know I have prayed. Perhaps most of all.”
“Then you must not lose hope.”
“Hope is only the benevolent name we give our pain.” He swooped two glass decanters from the floor. One swished with amber liquid. The other was empty. “As I am certain you did not find me for more of our poetry readings, I must conclude you have heard.”
“Heard what?”
“Lady Walpoole departed this morning. Whether she was displeased with my gentility as host or found your late-night disappearance scandalous, I suppose we shall never know. Suffice it to say, we are both to blame.”
“It does not matter anyway.”
“No.” His bloodshot eyes bore into hers. “I did not imagine it did.” After several beats of silence, he finally smiled. He lifted the decanter into the air, like the final toast old chums make before parting ways. “If this is farewell, you have chosen a deuced good time to declare it.”
“I—”
“Do not say anything.” He took a couple slow steps toward her, hair falling over his forehead, his mouth weak about the edges. “You are perfect. I wish to keep you that way. I wish to solidify your image as the spotless dove and immortalize you in my mind, as did the poets of old.” He glanced at the decanter gripped in his white-knuckled hand and smiled with rue. “The spirits talk so beautifully inside me, do they not?”
“I think you should rest. You do not appear well.”
“Perhaps you are right. Two of the servants fell ill during the night, so perhaps whatever ailment has stirred in this house is affecting me too.” He smiled. “Tomorrow, perhaps, all shall be over and we shall be well. Violet shall be better too. We will all be happy.”
She must have given him a sympathetic look, because he appeared all of a sudden as if he were about to cry.
“But we both know that is untrue.” He wiped his nose and turned away. “Even the fables do not end happily. A lesson my father taught me in the most terrible way possible.”
“It is the noses. You must remedy the noses.” Mr. Willmott hovered over the artist’s shoulder, already wearing a bit of blue and green paint on the hem of his sleeve. “Genevieve, come here at once so the man may look at you.”
The twin daughters—fourteen years old, if Tom remembered right—looked unconcerned about their father’s worries. Or the painting, for that matter.
They sulked in their stances, one holding a basket of flowers in her lap, the other draping a limp arm about her sister’s shoulder. Sunlight trickled over them, and the backdrop of oak leaves, a dense tree line, and fluffy white clouds had already made its way onto the painter’s canvas.
They whispered something, giggled, then pointed at Tom.
