Page 11 of Murder in Moonlight
Loneliness washed over her. She was used to that—the feeling of being alone, even while the center of attention.Especiallywhen 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 ofweakness, 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 longerafford 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 blacknessall 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.
Chapter Three
“Mr. Grey,” Constancedrawled, walking toward him. “Looking for a little light reading before bed?”
Since one of his hands was inside an open drawer, her sarcasm was more than justified. He did not, however, look particularly put out, let alone guilty.
“Why? Are you?” he asked, with apparent politeness. He removed his hand from the drawer, though he didn’t trouble to close it.
“I’m not the one caught with my fingers in the—er…pie.”
“Only because I got here first.”
He was still fully dressed, and quite as elegant as he had looked earlier in the evening. Even so, Constance was not foolish enough to go too close. He was too large, and his very stillness radiated danger. She had caught him prying, poking around in a private drawer that might even have been locked. The fact that she had indeed intended to do exactly the same did not stop it being crime against hospitality and gentlemanly conduct—a transgression quite as unforgivable as her own false pretenses.
He must have been well aware of that, yet the candlelight flickering over his face from both sides revealed no embarrassment.
