Page 2 of Murder in Moonlight
Although he must have been approaching fifty, he had the demeanor and the energy of a man twenty years younger. He possessed a full head of dark hair, only graying slightly at the temples, and a firm-featured countenance with gleaming blue eyes. The man almost crackled with vitality—one of those larger-than-life characters who drove their own success.
He advanced on them, holding out his hand to Solomon. “You must be Mr. Grey. You are very welcome at Greenforth, sir, very welcome indeed.”
“My husband, Mr. Winsom,” Mrs. Winsom murmured. “And yes, Walter, this is indeed Mr. Solomon Grey, lately of Jamaica.”
Mr. Winsom shook his hand vigorously. “Wonderful! I look forward to reminiscing with you. Come and join us for tea! Unless you would rather go to your room first and make yourself comfortable?”
“I am perfectly comfortable, thank you,” Solomon said, and received another beaming smile.
Mr. Winsom led the way into a sunny room at the side of the house, from where French doors led out onto a terrace. Tea was clearly about to be served there, for a white cloth had been spread over a round table, with teacups, saucers, and plates awaiting distribution.
Two ladies in elaborate, wide-skirted gowns were chatting together. One stood with her hands on the balustrade, her back to the window. The other, seated at the table, was an attractive woman, who broke off her conversation to turn toward them.
“Ladies, meet our newest guest, Mr. Grey,” Winsom said, bowing his wife and Solomon through the doors ahead of him. “Sir, Mrs. Bolton, one of our oldest friends.”
“How do you do, Mrs. Bolton?” Solomon murmured, bowing to the lady at the table.
“Delighted to meet you, Mr. Grey,” Mrs. Bolton replied. She did not offer her hand. More reserved than her hosts, she was beautiful in a cool, detached kind of way. Solomon knew she was the wife of Winsom’s banking partner, Thomas Bolton.
“And this is Mrs. Goldrich, one of our newest,” Winsom added.
The second lady turned unhurriedly, and Solomon forgot to breathe.
By any standards, she was dazzling. Thick, golden-blonde hair with just a hint of red, like an early sunrise, framed a face of distinctive yet delicate beauty. Large, direct eyes of an unusual shade, more green than blue. Almost translucent skin, and sensual lips that seemed to have an extra, delicious upward curve when she smiled. Which she did now as she advanced on him, stretching her hand gracefully toward him.
“How do you do, Mr. Grey?” she said in a low, perfectly modulated voice. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
A lie. Two lies, in fact. She could not possibly have been pleased to see him, and she was not making his acquaintance for the first time, even if she had never actually spoken a word to him before. Moreover, her name, to the best of his knowledge, was not Goldrich, and she was a most unlikely guest in such a respectable house.
She was Constance Silver, London’s most notorious courtesan.
Did she know he could denounce her?
Oh yes.Her eyes were bold, and yet contained a spark of something that might have been defiance or plea or some mixture of the two. Without doubt, she recognized him.
Solomon did not need Constance Silver’s favor. He did, however, wish to ingratiate himself with his hosts. Surely, Winsom had not brought her here under his wife’s nose?
Solomon took the courtesan’s soft fingers and bowed over them. “Mrs. Goldrich. Enchanted.”
Something in her eyes changed. Before he could analyze it, a quick, impetuous footfall interrupted them, closely followed by an irritable sound that might have been a growl.
Like a dog watching another cur steal his bone,Solomon thought with amusement. Releasing Constance Silver’s hand, he turned to face the new arrival—a young man of surely no more than twenty years, black haired like his father and just as dramatically handsome, although his looks were somewhat spoiled by his sulky mouth, which veered toward petulance, and by the unfriendly glimmer of his eyes.
“Our son, Randolph,” said Mrs. Winsom proudly. “Randolph, meet Mr. Grey, who completes our party this week.”
Randolph nodded curtly, retaining enough manners to mutter, “Pleased to meet you,” before almost barging between Solomon and Constance Silver and handing her into a chair beside the one he had clearly chosen for himself.
So that was it, Solomon thought cynically. Constance had found a gullible youth to sink her claws into. He wondered what the boy’s parents thought of that. No wonder she had changed her name.
He was given no time to dwell on the issue, however, for the rest of the party arrived and had to be introduced before they sat down.
“I gather you are just come from Jamaica, Mr. Grey?” Mrs. Bolton said as everyone sipped their tea.
“Notjust. I settled in London some five years ago.”
“I understand the climate in Jamaica is insalubrious.”
“To some. I was used to it, being born there. But I wished to spread my wings a little.”
