Page 7 of Murder in Moonlight
Constance, with her laughable dislike of a stranger’s touch, had rejected the help of both the housemaid and Mrs. Winsom’s personal maid. Now, contorting herself to fasten her evening gown of deep blue silk, she thought with longing of Janey, strident vulgarity and all.
At last she caught the final hook, blew a strand of hair out of her face as she straightened with relief, and eyed her reflection in the mirror. She had looped her thick hair about her head in the soft, artfully casual style she favored for evenings, and once the flush of exertion faded from her face, she would no doubt look well enough. The deep, V-shaped neckline of her gown exposed her creamy chest and shoulders no more than was strictly fashionable. A single, modest string of pearls encircled her throat. Her only other jewelry was the gold wedding band one of her girls had found for her in a pawnshop.
Mrs. Silver never bothered with a wedding ring. No one believed in the fiction of her marital status in any case. Mrs. Goldrich needed the illusion of respectability. If only to stave off Randolph Winsom, who was becoming a shade possessive. As a result, she was reluctant to go down to dinner too early, even though the first gong had sounded. She could probably rely on Randolph’s mother not to place them together at the table, and in any case, she reminded herself, she was a past master of the art of avoidance. And of taking over-amorous young, entitled men down a peg or two.
In her own establishment, Randolph was someone she would have watched, at least initially. He was pleasant enough and not cruel by nature, but he did have a temper and a recklessness about the eyes that could cause trouble.
Constance drew on her gloves, glanced at the old fob watch on her dressing table, and decided it was time to go down.
Everyone else had already gathered in the drawing room. They probably thought she was deliberately making an entrance, and in truth, she didn’t mind.
Solomon Grey stood by the mantelpiece, a glass of sherry in his long, elegant fingers. For an instant he looked curiously alone, almost vulnerable, and then the illusion vanished as he smiled at Mrs. Winsom and made some apparently amusing remark. She laughed, gazing up at him with sparkling eyes anddelicatelyflushed skin.
So that is the way of it…At least from Deborah Winsom’s point of view.
He did not appear to notice Constance. Why should he?
Mr. Winsom, the very definition of genial host, was leaning over the back of a sofa between Ivor Davidson and Mrs. Bolton. Utter charm combined with impenetrable respectability. Only, of course, she knew otherwise. At least in his younger days, Walter Winsom had been wild to a fault.
Randolph hurried up to Constance, bearing a glass of sherry, his eyes just a little too warm as they drank her in.
“You look even more beautiful every time I see you.”
“You are kind, Randolph, but incredibly forgetful, for I look as I always do. Thank you,” she added, accepting the glass from him. She barely had time for a sip before dinner was announced and she was escorted into dinner, rather to her surprise, by her host.
Perhaps he had decided it was time to discover her intentions toward his son, whose attentions were a little too marked for mere politeness. Well, she had a good deal of discovering to do on her own account.
Throughout the first courses he made mere small talk, at which she had learned to excel with just a sprinkling of humor to dispel the tedium. It seemed to work, judging by the slight softening of his eyes, the spark of pleasure that told her he was not immune to her. Part of his charm was that he at least appeared to give his full attention to whomever he spoke to, as though he were genuinely interested in even the most mundane of remarks. She recognized the technique, one she had learned early in life.
“How did such a charming lady come to meet my graceless son?” he asked teasingly, between mouthfuls of soup.
“Didn’t he tell you?” Constance asked as though surprised. “We met at the theatre. A mutual friend introduced us—Lady Grizelda Tizsa. Perhaps you know her?”
“I do not,” he said, still smiling.
“Oh, she is a most cultured lady. A daughter of the Duke of Kelburn, I believe, married to a most interesting Hungarian gentleman. He and your son share views on politics.”
Mr. Winsom snorted. “I daresay they will both learn.”
“Very probably,” Constance agreed peaceably. Randolph affected a radical stance, probably to annoy his father. “At anyrate, Randolph and I amused each other to the extent that he escorted me the following day to an exhibition of paintings I had long wished to see. We became friends, and he invited me to join you here. I hope I was not misled by his assurance that you and Mrs. Winsom would not mind.”
“Mind?” he said, in apparent shock. “My dear lady, you are most welcome, as is any friend of our children.”
“You have been such kind hosts that I would hate to take advantage,” Constance said with a straight face.
He smiled again, and while the servants cleared the soup and brought the fish, he turned to Mrs. Bolton on his other side.
A little later, during a lull in conversation, he returned to her. “Forgive me for asking, but have you been widowed long, Mrs. Goldrich? You seem very young to have known such tragedy.”
“I am older than I tend to look, or so I am told. I have been widowed some five years now.”
“What did your husband do?” he asked with unexpected bluntness.
“He was a gentleman of leisure,” Constance said without a qualm. “A younger son, but with private means.”
“Then you were fortunate enough at least not to be left destitute by the tragedy of his early demise.”
“I do not struggle financially,” said Constance, this time with perfect truth.
