Perhaps he had known her in the past? She seemed extraordinarily comfortable with him. Hester felt a sudden, awful sinking in her stomach, as if there were nothing inside her. Of course, he must have known women in the past, probably loved them. For heaven’s sake. It was not impossible he had been married! Could a man forget such a thing? If he had really loved …?
But would Monk really love anybody? Had he that capacity in him to love utterly and totally, sharing all of himself?
Yes. For a few moments in that closed room in Edinburgh he had. It was precious, like a brilliant star inside her memory. And yet it hurt, because she could not forget or dismiss it. She could never think of him as she had before that, never completely believe the anger or the coldness, and never tell herself with any honesty that there was nothing in him she really wanted.
Drusilla Wyndham stopped talking to Monk, and had swung around to look at Hester again, her lovely eyes wide and inquiring.
“Would you care for me to wait somewhere else while you conclude your business, Miss Latterly?” she asked politely. “I do not wish to intrude, or to hold you from what else you plan for this evening. I am sure you must have friends to call upon, or family awaiting you.” It was a remark, not a question. It was also a very plain dismissal.
Hester felt her neck and shoulders tighten in anger and a bitter resentment. How dare this woman take charge like this, as if in some way she owned Monk? Hester knew him far better than she ever could. She had shared desperate battles with him, hope and courage, pity and fear, victory and defeat. They had stood beside each other when both honor and life were threatened. Drusilla Wyndham knew nothing of that!
But she might know all manner of other things. Perhaps she could even tell Monk his lost past? And if Hester loved him—no, that was absurd! If she was a true friend, an honorable person, she could not wish to deny him that.
“Of course,” she said coldly. “But there is no need to retire, Miss Wyndham. All that is confidential has already been said.” She must let her know that there were confidential things. “I wish you a pleasant evening.” She turned to Monk and saw amusement in his face, which infuriated her and sent the color burning up her cheeks.
Drusilla smiled. Perhaps she too had read Hester more accurately than she wished. She felt horribly naked.
“Good night, Mr. Monk,” she said with a forced smile in return. “I hope you have more success in the future than you have found so far.” And she went to the door and opened it before he could get there and do it for her. She stepped out into the cold street, and left him to close the door after her.
As soon as Hester had gone, Drusilla turned to Monk.
“I do hope my calling was not inopportune? I did not mean to embarrass her. The poor creature looked quite disconcerted. She said it was not a personal matter, but was she simply being polite?” Her words were concerned, but there was a sparkle in her eyes that looked close to laughter, and a glow in her face.
“Not at all,” Monk said firmly, although he knew Hester had been upset. It was quite extraordinary. He would never have suspected her of being vulnerable to such a feminine emotion as jealousy. He was angry on her behalf. It was such a gap in her armor it was uncharacteristic. And yet he was also undeniably pleased. “She had given me the information,” he said to Drusilla, stepping back so she could come closer to the fire. “She had no call, and no desire to remain. She was about to leave when you arrived.” He did not add that he was delighted to see her, but it was plain in his manner, and he meant it to be.
“Are you working on another case, beside the one you told me of?” she inquired.
“No. May I offer you some refreshment? A cup of tea? Or a cup of hot chocolate? It is a cold evening.”
“Thank you,” she accepted. “That would be most welcome. I admit I became very chilled in the hansom. It was a rash thing to do to come here, when I did not even know if you would be at home, let alone prepared to receive company. I blushed for myself, when it was rather late, and I was already halfway here. Thank you.” She handed him her cape and took off her bonnet, running her fingers delicately through the soft curls at the edge of her brow. “I admit to being interested, in a most unladylike fashion, in the story you told me of your investigation of the unfortunate man who has been missing.” She looked at him with a smile. “I have asked among the few acquaintances I have in the Geographical Society, and also in a musical society I know and a debating association, but I learned nothing, except that Mr. Stonefield attended the Geographical Society once, as a guest, and seemed a quiet and charming man who claimed too many family and business obligations on his time to attend more often.” Her glance strayed around the room, taking in the gracious but well-worn furnishings, the polished wood, the rich dark colors of the eastern carpet, the absolute lack of any photographs or personal mementos.
“The others did not know him at all,” she continued. “Except by repute, and as a most honorable man, very upright, given to charitable donations of a modest sort, a regular attender at church, and in every way a pillar of the community.” There was a vividness in her eyes and a faint flush in her cheeks. “It is very strange, is it not? I fear greatly that his poor wife is correct, and he has met with some harm.”
“Yes,” Monk agreed gravely. He stood by the mantelshelf, close to the fire. She sat in the chair opposite, her wide skirts almost touching the fender. Almost absently he rang the bell for his landlady. “Yes, I am afraid it looks more and more as if that is so.”
“What are you going to do next?” she asked, looking up at him. ?
??Surely you will try to prove it? How else can any sort of justice be done?”
“Yes, of course I will.”
There was a sharp knock on the door and his landlady appeared. She was a cheerful soul who had overcome her scruples at having an agent of inquiry in the establishment, and now took a certain kind of pride in it, suggesting all kinds of intrigue and glamour to other less fortunate keepers of similar establishments in the neighborhood whose lodgers followed more pedestrian callings.
“Yes, Mr. Monk. And what can I do for you?” She eyed Drusilla with interest. A lady of such beauty must either be in a marvelous distress or be a very wicked woman and highly dangerous. Either way, it was of the utmost interest. Not that she would repeat a word of it, of course, should she chance to overhear anything.
“Two cups of hot chocolate, if you please, Mrs. Mundy,” he replied. “It is a very inclement evening.”
“Indeed it is that,” Mrs. Mundy agreed. “Only one in dire need would be out at this hour of a winter’s evening. Two cups of hot chocolate it is, Mr. Monk.” And she withdrew to set about preparing them, her imagination whirling.
“What are you going to do next?” Drusilla asked the moment the door was closed. “How will you set about finding where he went, and finding Caleb Stone? That surely must be the answer, mustn’t it?”
“I think so,” he agreed, amused by her eagerness and, in spite of himself, somewhat flattered. She was attracted to him, no matter how modest he might want to be, that much was apparent. He found himself responding because he too found her everything which appealed to him in a woman: charming, intelligent, confident, amusing and feminine with just the hint of vulnerability which complimented him. It was not a completely unfamiliar feeling. He had no specific memory, but he responded by instinct, with assurance and quite definite pleasure.
“So you will go to the East End?” she urged, her eyes shining.
“Yes,” he said, looking at her with amusement, baiting her gently. He knew she was bored, looking for adventure, something utterly different from anything her friends could boast. She had courage, that he did not doubt, and possibly even a desire to broaden her experience and to help someone for whom she felt a certain pity. He knew what she was going to say.
“I’ll help you,” she offered. “I am a very good judge of whether someone is lying or telling the truth, and together we can speak to twice as many people as you could alone.”