“We can always say you are chilled,” he supplied.
She cleared her throat, her slender fingers whitening against the dark superfine of his coat. “Before we depart, perhaps you can enlighten me as to the evening’s…program.”
Perhaps the opiates would have been a better choice, he thought darkly. Instead, he said, “You strike me as an intelligent woman, Miss Woolcott, so surely you must surmise the tenor of the evening, judging from what you saw last evening.”
Her chin moved up a fraction. “We shall take dinner with the other guests…”
Except that they had already finished with the charade of food. Strathmore guessed they would be deep in their cups and ready for their play to begin. Miss Woolcott’s inquiries highlighted his dilemma now that he’d decided he would not kill her. As was his norm, he made a quick decision. “Indeed,” he lied crisply.
“Who are these guests, Alexander, this august circle of Wadsworth’s?” Dwarfed by his jacket, she said his name carefully. Her tone was light but her words flickered with tension, reminding him that he didn’t know her and couldn’t presume her mood or predict her actions. Hers was an unusual temperament, equal parts volatility and reticence. Why she was important to Faron, or more specifically, why her death was important to Faron, mattered little, he reminded himself. The story, like so many other stories, was ultimately insignificant.
The large four-poster bed with its heaped pillows loomed in the background. Strathmore had already dismissed the idea that Julia Woolcott was the Frenchman’s former lover. His instincts were infallible, and the woman had clearly known no man. That she would come to a sordid end disturbed him, and suddenly, he fought an overwhelming urge to quit the opulent room and the baroque plans awaiting Julia Woolcott at his hands.
Her low voice cut through his thoughts. “I have decided my wisest course will be to make the rounds, meet Sir Wadsworth’s guests, and then plead a headache as an excuse to bid a quick good night and make a hasty retreat.”
He glanced at her sharply, the back of his neck tightening. The ticking of the ormolu clock on the mantle seemed louder. “I shouldn’t have thought you interested in the identity of Wadsworth’s guests, Miss Woolcott.”
“Then you supposed incorrectly,” she said stiffly.
How utterly resolute she looked, despite her absolute fragility. He could crush her if he so chose. Swathed in his coat and barefoot, she seemed no older than a child and she exuded a ridiculous vulnerability that set his teeth on edge. It occurred to him she might be foolish enough to search for Faron among Wadsworth’s coterie. Why? He said carefully, “As I mentioned earlier, knowledge can be dangerous. At evenings such as this, discretion is highly advisable.”
“Discretion? In this instance, isn’t that the same thing as looking for a curate among a den of thieves? Since you are so reluctant to divulge the reason for my being here at Eccles House, I have little choice but to find answers on my own.”
Her gaze sharpened and he was suddenly beset by an image of her behind the camera’s lens. He had, of course, witnessed examples of the craft of daguerreotype, but his experience had not included encounters with women brandishing lenses, shutters, and related paraphernalia. With one hand still on the lapel of his evening coat, she continued to examine him with what he could only call a practiced eye, reflexively coiling her hair into a simple knot at the base of her neck. The woman was not in the least vain, he noted, and recalled his mother, whom he hadn’t given a thought in years. Outrageously beautiful, monstrously flighty, and monumentally empty-headed, Lady Alicia Broughton Strathmore had led his father in an evil dance.
Miss Woolcott fastened her hair with a final twist of her free hand, not bothering to look for a mirror. “You are, I take it, exceedingly comfortable with the mores of such events,” she said, “but then, of course, why else were you chosen to be my escort?” She huffed away from him, sweeping up a pair of slippers from a cushioned settee. Still clutching the lapels of his coat over her breasts, she slid her narrow feet into first one and then the other shoe.
Why indeed? Strathmore smiled tightly. He was beginning to believe she might prove more valuable to him alive than dead. Perhaps Julia Woolcott would lead him to Faron. The strategy held a strong appeal, suddenly.
“Let’s be done with this, shall we, Miss Woolcott?” He proffered his arm, his muscles tensing against the cool of her hand where it rested on the cambric of his evening shirt.
“And all will be well?” She turned her face to his, her skin as finely grained as silk, her wide eyes as shuttered as a camera’s lens.
“You have my word,” he lied smoothly. And judging by her small smile, they both knew it.
“Here you are at last,” boomed a surprisingly little man, almost as rotund as he was tall. “Keeping our Miss Woolcott to yourself, you devil. Now you know that is simply not permitted.”
Reluctantly, Strathmore handed Julia to Sir Simon Wadsworth, who proceeded to settle her into one of the salon’s deep chairs. Around them elegantly attired couples perched on sofas or chairs, some braced against the richly paneled walls, all sipping from delicate crystal flutes filled with champagne. To the last one they exuded a look of louche boredom, unimpressed, despite the lavish surroundings and the impeccably attired footmen catering to their every whim.
After several discreet introductions, Wadsworth fixed his eyes, underscored with heavy, purple pouches, upon Julia. “Now, my dear, I heard of the contretemps yesterday which, I take it, has been resolved to everyone’s satisfaction. Unfortunate that you missed yesterday’s entertainments.”
She bowed her head slightly, feigning embarrassment. “Most assuredly,” she murmured. “I was overcome by the strain of travel,” she demurred then lifted her gaze to glance admiringly at her surroundings. Her gaze fixed on the hall’s enormous panels, each depicting a different scene from Greek mythology. There was winsome Persephone, a beauteous Diana, spear raised. And in the far corner, Hera staring off angrily into the clouds.
Wadsworth chuckled meaningfully. “The strain of travel? I thought perhaps a little lovers’ quarrel? Adds spice, does it not?” he continued. “Regardless of the reason for your absence yesterday evening, I am pleased that you’re quite recovered, dear girl.”
“Miss Woolcott tends to high spirits at times,” added Strathmore and then for good measure, “It’s her penchant for drama that attracted me to her in the first instance, I believe.”
Wadsworth’s eyes bulged with anticipation. “A highly spirited filly, eh? Hot blooded? But clearly not an actress, what with that innocence about her. From the countryside, eh?” he speculated, clearly pleased. The countryside, in his experience, offered discreet but reliable entertainments. Governesses turned out on the doorstep because of an ill-advised affair with the scion of the family or even, he licked his lower lip in anticipation, fallen daughters of ministers, or young widows impoverished by hard times. This one had that look about her, a debauched innocence what with those lips and legs. “I encouraged everyone to find an escort with the proper, shall we say, temperament for our little soiree.” He leered enthusiastically, his short-sightedness an excuse to move in closer to Julia. “Well done, Strathmore.”
Julia’s shoulders stiffened. Whether from first hearing his family name from his unflattering description of her temperament, or from Wadsworth’s proximity, Strathmore wasn’t sure. But he did know, instinctively, that it was his opportunity to set the groundwork for what was to come. Word would get back to Faron that Julia Woolcott was given to fits of pique, perhaps even possessed of an ungovernable temper.
Julia lowered her lashes, hiding a blaze of awareness. Strathmore. The name meant something to her as it did to most of England. Although it was most likely his older brother who came readily to mind, not the younger scion who had decamped for exotic climes over a decade ago.
“I much appreciated the invitation from Lord Strathmore,” she said, coolly addressing Wadsworth. “It does one good to get out and about, does it not?