‘Are you often between commissions?’
‘In the beginning, regularly.’ She chuckled. ‘As a result, I was much thinner and not so well dressed as I can now afford to be.’
‘No less pretty, though, I’d wager, if I may be so bold as to offer a compliment to compensate for demeaning your sense of professional pride. Did you always aspire to be an artist?’
‘I am never going to exhibit at the Académie des Beaux-Arts, and I have no ambition to do so. I am not the type to try to break all the rules and to starve in the process, spending my last sou on paint rather than a baguette. I have a modest talent. I was fortunate enough to study with some excellent teachers in Paris, and I needed to find a way of supporting myself, so...’ Celeste shrugged.
‘Your parents then, they are dead? You said you needed to support yourself,’ Jack explained when she raised her eyebrows at the question, ‘so I assumed...’
‘Yes. Both dead.’ Celeste stared down at her hands, frowning. Despite spending a good deal of time thinking about it, she had not the foggiest idea how to begin the search for answers which had brought her to England. She needed help, but her ingrained habit of trusting no one save herself inhibited her from seeking it. Not that, as a foreigner, she thought morosely, she had the first idea of where to start seeking.
‘Penny for them?’ Jack was looking at her quizzically. ‘Your thoughts,’ he said. ‘You were a hundred miles away again. I fear I’m boring you rather than distracting you.’
‘No, it’s not that.’ Perhaps she could ask him just one simple question to get her search underway? She really did have to make a start because there, tucked away at the back of her sketchbook, was a letter containing a puzzle she needed to solve in order to draw a line under the past and get on with her life.
‘Jack?’
He looked at her questioningly.
‘Jack, if you—if you needed to find something. Or someone. How would you go about it? I mean if you did not know where this person lived, or—or who they were, precisely. Are there people one can employ to discover such things?’
‘You mean to track down someone who has gone missing?’
She had his attention now. All of it. Though he was still lounging casually on the bench, though his expression was one of polite interest, his eyes were focused entirely on her. Celeste shifted uncomfortably. ‘Not missing precisely. Not anything at all, really. I’m speaking hypothetically.’
She risked looking up, and wished she had not. ‘Hypothetically,’ Jack said, openly sceptical. ‘Well, hypothetically, you could employ a Bow Street Runner.’
‘Is that what you would do?’
He smiled. ‘Good grief, no. Speaking hypothetically of course, I am more than equipped to solve the problem for myself, but we’re not talking hypothetically, are we?’
Realising that she was clenching her hands so tightly together that the knuckles showed white, Celeste hid them under her painter’s smock. She ought to look him in the eye, but she was sure if she did Jack would know she was lying. She was not a good liar. She was good at keeping silent. She was very good at hiding her feelings, but she was a terrible liar. ‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘Forget I asked.’
She could have bitten her tongue out, realising only at the last moment that telling Jack Trestain something didn’t matter was a sure-fire way of alerting him to the fact that it did, though he said nothing for so long that she began to hope he had done just as she asked. At least she was a step further forward. She had no idea what a Bow Street Runner was, but she could find out. She prepared to get to her feet. ‘I should...’
‘Sit down.’ His grip on her arm was light enough, but one look at Jack’s face, and Celeste thought the better of resisting him. ‘Who exactly is it you’re trying to trace? A lover? An errant husband, perhaps?’
‘I have no husband, errant or otherwise, and as to a lover— No, not since before— Since— It has nothing to do with affairs of the heart.’ She sounded defensive. She was getting upset. And Jack was not missing any of it. ‘It is nothing,’ Celeste said. ‘I regret raising it.’
Jack gave her a neutral look. ‘You know, you’d be taking pot luck by employing a Runner. Some of them are excellent chaps, but some— Frankly, I wouldn’t trust my sister alone with them. Not that I have a sister. Have you? Or a brother? Is it a sibling you’re seeking?’
‘I am not so fortunate as to possess either,’ Celeste said repressively.
Jack nodded. ‘So, it’s not your parents or a husband or a sibling you’re trying to trace. Who then?’
He was not going to give up. Celeste shook her head and folded her lips.
Once again, Jack failed to get the message. ‘Now I come to think about it, you weren’t clear if it was a person or a thing. Is it stolen property then, jewellery? Or the family silver?’
‘Mon Dieu, Jack, I wish you would leave the matter alone!’
‘You ask me for advice but now won’t tell me why. Don’t you trust me, Celeste, is that it?’
‘I don’t trust anyone. I find it is safer that way.’
‘That, if I may say so, is a fairly bleak philosophy.’
‘You may, since I suspect it is also yours.’
He looked quite taken aback. ‘Irrespective of the veracity of that statement, you would admit it is a philosophy which makes finding your missing person or whatever the hell it is rather problematic.’
‘I told you, I was merely speculating.’
‘And I told you, I don’t believe you,’ Jack said, his tone conciliatory. ‘Look, it’s obviously important to you, whatever it is. It’s clear you need help, and I assure you, you can rely on my discretion.’
All of which was most likely true, but it was such a big step to take. Celeste wrapped her arms around herself. What should she do?
‘If it’s difficult for you to tell me, imagine yourself faced with a complete stranger.’
‘Why are you so keen to— Of what possible interest is it to you?’ Celeste cursed under her breath and jumped to her feet. ‘You wish to know? Vraiment? Very well then, I will tell the truth and shame the devil. I have come to England to find out why my mother killed herself! Are you happy now?’
Jack’s face was a picture of shock. Celeste, even more shocked than he at her impulsive admission, sucked in great breaths of air.
‘I’m sorry,’ Jack said after a brief silence. ‘Celeste, I’m so very sorry.’
He reached out, as if he would put his arms around her. For a brief moment, she was tempted to accept the comfort of his embrace, and that shocked her almost as much as her blurting out the shameful truth to a man she barely knew. She pushed him away, rather too roughly, though she was beyond caring about that. Then suddenly quite drained, she sank on to the bench beside him.
* * *
Suicide. Jack could think of no subject more guaranteed to engage his attention and his sympathy. He clenched his fists. He would try his damnedest to help this woman. That would, at least, be something.
Beside him Celeste was pale, angry and on the verge of tears, though she seemed absolutely determined not to cry. She was looking at him very warily too, most likely already resenting him for forcing her to blurt out something so private and shocking.
‘You can trust me,’ Jack said once more. ‘If I am able to help you, I will.’
‘Why would you?’ she demanded baldly. ‘You’re virtually a stranger.’