Page 19 of Ghost in the Garden
Angela nodded emphatically and sailed out.
Mindful of her duties, Constance folded the scarves and put them away. Then she hung up the discarded day gown, inspecting it for stains. Only the hem needed brushing. She was tidying the dressing table when the door opened and a man sauntered in.
It could only be Caleb Lambert. Of no more than medium height, he was powerfully built and handsome in a kind of prosperous, sensual way, although his eyes were hard and his lips thin.
“So you’re the new maid, are you?” he said.
Constance straightened then dropped a curtsey while he looked her up and down unhurriedly with apparent enjoyment. “Yes, sir. I’m Silver.”
He strolled toward her. “Has Mrs. Lambert already gone down?”
“Yes, sir, just a few minutes ago.” She turned away in a bustling manner and walked up to wardrobe door where she had hung the day dress. She reached up for it and started when another larger hand got there first. Lambert stood behind her and much too close. Her flesh crawled with old memory and fresh alarm.
She had to force herself to turn to face him, to pretend she didn’t notice his nearness or his entitled and appreciative gaze, which she met directly, masking her cold fear with a small, polite smile.
“Thank you, sir. Will you excuse me? I have to clean the hem in case madam wants the gown again in the morning.”
He waited deliberately, long enough to make sure she knew he was thinking about it but didn’t have to move if he didn’t want to. And then he stepped back, and she twitched the dress and hanger from his hand and walked briskly to the door.
On the back stairs she paused, breathing deeply and waiting until she stopped shaking. She wished Solomon were here.
Chapter Five
Before his appointmentwith Constance, Solomon called on two of the most interesting acquaintances he had made since coming to England. In fact, it was their fault he had met Constance that first time, in a foggy alleyway behind Coal Yard Lane, when a body had hurtled from the roof and almost landed on top of her. His quick reflexes had saved her life when he yanked her out of the way.
Neither of them had had any idea who the other was then. But there had been a moment between them, a strange recognition, both exciting and sensual. At the time, he put it down to mere physical closeness and the relief of such a near brush with death. But it had been more than that. It was one of the few times he had seen her vulnerability. She had looked understandably startled and almost…scared. And later, with the matter in Coal Yard Lane resolved, they had all gone to this almost-hidden house off Half Moon Street to celebrate. They had not spoken to each other, and yet he had been disturbingly aware of her the whole time, even when he discovered she was the notorious courtesan Constance Silver.
When they met again, it had been unexpectedly at Greenforth Manor when she had been pretending to be a respectable widow for reasons of her own. That had been their first mystery…
He walked up the path to the home of Dr. Dragan and Lady Grizelda Tizsa and knocked on the door. This oddly matched and yet strangely suited couple were addicted to mysteries. Coming in on the edges of one of them had been something of an eye-opener for Solomon.
The door was opened not by a servant—although they had at least three—but by Dragan himself, looking supremely casual in shirt sleeves, unbuttoned waistcoat, and no necktie. He was an almost ridiculously handsome man, a refugee from the heroic struggle for Hungarian independence and democracy. Yet his looks were the least of his charms. They covered a quick mind, a staggering amount of knowledge, and a passionate idealism only slightly dented by the failure of his revolution.
“Grey,” he said in surprise, instantly opening the door wide in welcome. “Come in.”
“I hope I have not called at a bad time,” Solomon said, handing his hat to Dragan and taking off his coat.
“Not if you don’t mind the continual chaos. We’re just back from Scotland and the baby is fractious. Griz will be glad of the company, as am I.” Dragan led the way to the drawing room, which looked more like a study, dominated by a huge desk, loaded on both sides with books and notebooks and piles of paper. A guitar was propped up against a comfortable armchair. “Griz is upstairs with Alexander, but she won’t be long. Drink?”
Dragan spoke perfect English with only a slight, rather attractive accent. Solomon accepted a glass of brandy.
“I’m afraid I’ve come to ask a favor,” he said.
“Ask,” Dragan said.
“Did you read about the tenement building in St. Giles that collapsed a couple of weeks ago?”
Dragan’s lips tightened. “I did.” He waved Solomon to an armchair by the fire and sat in the one opposite.
“I have just seen some of the survivors, crammed into the building next door. Some of them have received no medical attention, and they’re in a bad way.”
Dragan frowned, his mouth twisting. “One should be able to expect more of the richest country in the world. Do you have the precise address?”
Solomon described it as best he could, adding, “I don’t know what, if anything, you can do for them, but I feel someone should at least try. I thought of you, but there may be other doctors able and willing. I will pay, but I don’t want you tell your patients that.”
“We’ll come to an arrangement after I’ve seen them,” Dragan said vaguely. “How did you get involved in the business? Through one of your charities?”
“Not really, though perhaps I should have. You may not have heard that a partner and I have set up an agency of private inquiry.”
