Winifred Stanford-Jones sat staring out into the rain. The steady pounding was soothing. At least it wasn’t someone’s voice asking her again to explain the events of that night. How could she explain what she didn’t know? How could she make them understand that she simply had no recollection after falling asleep that night in her lover’s arms?
She had met Laura Radcliffe three months earlier. It was a rainy Tuesday afternoon in mid-July, and they found themselves both standing in front of the same painting at the Royal Academy of Art—a Gustav Klimt that had recently come from the Exposition Universelle. Pallas Athene.
“It’s her eyes, don’t you think? She defies you with that stare,” Laura had said.
But Winifred was mesmerized by something other than her eyes. It was the gold of the headdress, the gold of the scales of her armor, the staff that she held.
“It’s about power. That’s what draws you in,” she replied.
Their eyes met in tacit understanding. They had then continued to wander through the hall, critically appraising each other as well as the art. There was a final Klimt on display that also caught Winifred’s eye. Silver Fishes. It was the dark hair that drew her in. Just like Laura’s, she thought, all dark and tangled.
A week later Winifred and Laura were lovers.
But how long ago this now seemed; it felt as if a lifetime had passed since their last evening together—although it was scarcely two days. The time since Laura’s death had become a blur of questions.
Lord Wrotham had cross-examined her sharply about all the particulars—although her recollections were so hazy she could hardly give him any.
“Where did you dine?”
“I think it was Les Oiseux, the restaurant on—”
He had held up his hand. “I am well aware of it. And you dined there until?”
“About ten o’clock, I think.”
“And then…?”
“We attended a private salon, held…well, I’m not supposed to—”
“Miss Stanford-Jones. This is getting extremely tedious. I must know everything.”
“Well, at Madame Launois’s. Are you familiar with…?”
“I am aware of that establishment. I do not, of course, frequent it.”
“No…of course you don’t.”
Winifred almost smiled. The conversation was becoming so stilted and formal—as if the real nature of the questioning that must occur was so distasteful it should be avoided until all common courtesies had been exhausted. She knew then she had to admit everything.
“Lord…I mean…well, Lord Wrotham, then—I have to tell you now that I remember nothing after that salon. Nothing at all. I remember the tableau—it was a Roman bacchanal feast scene. We drank loads of champagne. Cocktails, too. There was a lot of smoke and—”
“What about drugs?” Lord Wrotham interrupted her.
Winifred fiddled with the enamel box she had hanging about her neck on a fine gold chain. Lord Wrotham’s eyes never left hers.
“I…I don’t really…”
“I think we can dispense with the false naïveté, Miss Stanford-Jones. As I said, I am well aware of Madame Launois’s reputation.”
“Then you know that women only frequent the lower rooms. We aren’t allowed upstairs, though I hear the bedrooms are most…luxurious.”
Lord Wrotham sniffed with distaste.
“An opium den and brothel. So tell me then, what did you ladies indulge in on the ground floor? Opium? Morphine? Cocaine?”
“Whatever took our fancy,” Winifred replied lightly, though her eyes flickered with annoyance at Lord Wrotham’s tone.
“But that night I had only a little opium,” Winifred continued. “Laura wasn’t in the mood. She wanted champagne.”
“So after you had the champagne…” Lord Wrotham prompted.
“Well, there were a lot of people,” Winifred continued. “And Laura wasn’t impressed. It was too much of a crush. So we left—probably about one in the morning—and Laura came back with me. We fell asleep and then…nothing. Honestly, I remember nothing until I awoke and saw her…just so still…next to me…and the blood, of course. The blood was…all over the sheets. And everything was so cold.” Her chin quivered, and she tried to hold back her tears.
“What time was this? What time did you awaken?”
“It must have been about four o’clock,” Winifred said, regaining herself.
“Did something wake you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Voices. An unusual sound. Anything.”
“No. Although I think maybe I woke up because of the cold. The window was open. It was so cold. That was what woke me, I think. Yes. That was probably what did it.”
“Was the window open when you went to sleep?”
“I can’t recall.”
“Think, girl—think! Do you realize that in the absence of any other plausible story, the police are going to assume it was you—even if it was in some opium-induced delirium or drunken stupor?”
Winifred flushed angrily.
“Is there anything else you can tell me?” Lord Wrotham demanded. “Any information at all that may help your case?”
Winifred shook her head and looked away.
Lord Wrotham’s eyes narrowed before he spoke again. “The police will be going through all this with you in great detail, so are you quite sure there is nothing else you should add? Nothing else you should tell me that could affect the case at all?”
There was an uncomfortable silence. Winifred continued to avert her gaze.
After a moment Lord Wrotham sighed impatiently. “You must understand how this looks.”
“I know. I know,” Winifred muttered.
“Yes, but do you know who Laura’s father is? For God’s sake, girl, do you want to join your friends in Holloway Prison?”
Ursula could wait no longer. She’d paced the hallways for nearly a week since that dreadful night and not a word from Winifred or Lord Wrotham. She had been left to stew in ignorance long enough.
Indeed, Ursula Marlow was far more resourceful than some might perceive. It was over a year since she’d left Oxford, and all her plans to be a serious journalist had come to nothing. Just that morning she had received a note from Ladies’ Home Journal saying they would be delighted if she would write a piece on the latest Parisian fashions. Despite studying political history, Ursula was merely a society girl to the magazines and journals she had approached. Her father now demanded that she find herself a husband, and even the mere mention of her undertaking any form of employment sent him into a rage. He had indulged her enough by allowing her to attend university. Nevertheless, Ursula continued to secretly apply for positions and send out query letters in vain. This morning’s post plunged her into a deep depression, made all the worse for Winifred’s lack of communication. Ursula restlessly prowled the house, driving Mrs. Stewart, the housekeeper, to distraction.
The Marlow family establishment was usually a model of efficiency. Ursula’s father counted himself fortunate that he did not have the “domestic troubles” many of his friends and neighbors had. Apart from Mrs. Stewart and Biggs, the butler, there were only five other members on the domestic staff. There was Julia, Ursula’s lady’s maid; Cook (whom everyone, in awe, only ever called “Cook”); two housemaids (Bridget and Moira); and Samuels, the footman and driver. Mrs. Stewart and Biggs both prided themselves on the smooth running of the household. Ursula’s behavior today, with her demands and counterdemands, fidgets and musings, upset the normal daily routine, causing considerable consternation belowstairs (and much relief when she finally left the house).
After a luncheon of gammon with parsley sauce, Ursula settled on a course of action.
Once resolved, she hastened upstairs to get dressed.
She instructed Julia to dress her carefully, with the warning that today she needed to look particularly impressive. After many a silk tunic and gored skirt had been discarded and draped over the Japanese silk screen in Ursula’s bedroom, Julia anxiously peered over Ursula’s shoulder and surveyed the final results in the mirror.
“Well now, don’t you look grand? Bonny as always, I’m sure.”
Ursula scrutinized her reflection, ignoring Julia’s chatter. While the white linen shirtwaist blouse with its square neck and flared sleeves pleased her, she wasn’t entirely happy with the diamond butterfly brooch that Julia had pinned to the collar. It made her look young and naïve. Ursula tried to quell her nerves. She knew that getting information out of Lord Wrotham would be difficult. To help Winifred she had to appear to be calm and sophisticated. Ursula decided a plain bar brooch would be more appropriate. Julia scurried over to the rosewood dressing table to open Ursula’s silver jewelry box while Ursula smoothed down her skirt, sucked in her waist, and continued to appraise herself in the mirror. Nervously, she drummed her fingertips on the heavy twill of her skirt. Julia stood by waiting for the assessment, holding a wide black satin sash in her hand. Ursula nodded, and Julia wrapped the sash around her, fastening it at the front with a large enamel pin. Ursula then chose a wide-brimmed black velvet hat which Julia secured by means of a large silver-and-amethyst hatpin. It was severe and plain. Ursula took a deep breath. She was satisfied.
“Tell Biggs to arrange to have the motorcar brought ’round.”
“Miss, you’re never going to drive—”
“No. No. Of course not. Tell Biggs that Samuels must drive me.”
“Of course. Can I ask…whether…whether you might be visitin’ his lordship in chambers?”
“And if I was, Julia?” Ursula responded, staring at Julia through the mirror’s reflection.
“Nothin’. It’s just…” Julia replied, her voice trailing off.
Ursula bit her lip. She had little time for Julia’s trepidations, but privately she, too, felt uncomfortable. She didn’t like feeling an obligation to any man, least of all a man like Wrotham.
Ursula walked slowly down the staircase, lost in her thoughts. She had been only three years old when her mother had died, and at times she felt her absence acutely. Her father, Robert Marlow, was a self-made man. He believed in the power of commerce above all else. Any other faith he might have had was lost the moment tuberculosis claimed his vivacious wife. His latest indulgence, a new motorcar (a Silver Ghost Rolls-Royce, which Ursula had promptly christened “Bertie”), was designed to show the world just how far he had come, from the backstreets of Blackburn to the grand houses of Chester Square.
As Samuels brought Bertie around to the front of the house, Ursula felt a desperate urge to get behind the wheel. Everything seemed to be taking an absolute age—as if time had deliberately slowed just to thwart her.
Samuels sat in the front and Biggs came outside to open the rear door, a tartan blanket in one hand.
“Really, Biggs!” Ursula exclaimed. “You’d think I was a fifty-year-old invalid!”
Biggs had no need to reply.
She sighed and accepted the proffered blanket. Biggs gave her a pointed look. Ursula could almost read his mind. Although he would never dream of voicing his concern over the propriety of her visiting Lord Wrotham unannounced, he was clearly vexed. Robert Marlow may have pulled himself up by the bootstraps, but he was still aware of those in society who regarded him as nothing more than a “damnable upstart.” Mindful of this, he demanded that his daughter maintain the standards of a proper lady. Ursula sighed again. No doubt the Marlow house would ring forth that night with yet another argument on the proprieties of womanhood, and no doubt Biggs would hear this with satisfaction, as he sat by the open fire in the kitchen reading the Daily Mail.
Ursula stepped into the back of the car and with a rueful smile tucked the blanket around her legs.
“What will you do when I finally land myself a husband?” she asked Biggs. “You can’t follow me everywhere with blankets and pillows.”
“When Miss Marlow does find herself a suitable husband, I’m sure we will think of something…. Just so you know—your father is due back from his trip up north at six o’clock. Dinner will be at the usual time.”
Ursula laughed despite herself. “Right ho! Thanks for the warning. No need to worry, though, I’ll be home well before then.”
Biggs closed the car door and tapped on the roof, signaling Samuels it was time to depart.
Oxford had been Ursula’s dream, a refuge from the profligacy and materialism of London. That she should marry well was not lost on her. Now that she was twenty-two, she was expected to attend all the modish parties, wear all the latest fashions, and make only polite conversation (neither too witty nor too indiscreet) at the frequent afternoon soirees held by her father’s great friend and confidante Mrs. Eudora Pomfrey-Smith at her Chelsea home. Ursula was to be wooed and won, but, much to everyone’s chagrin, she had so far refused to comply, preferring to dream of past debates in the Junior Common Room of Somerville College rather than winning the hand of one of the many chosen admirers who frequented Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith’s parlor.
The London streets were crowded with cars and carriages. The roadworks in Piccadilly Circus filled the side lanes with acrid steam. Newspaper sellers carrying large posters shouted out the latest headlines, while a man with a sandwich board advertising Tomkins & Co. Gentlemen’s Tailors paced up and down the pavement.
As they weaved their way through the city, trying to avoid pedestrians, horses, and bicycles, Ursula adjusted her hat and tucked back the stray hairs that insisted on coming loose. One of her chief vanities was her long auburn hair. She loved how, when loose, it tumbled down her back in seaweedy strands and curls. As a girl she’d imagined herself posing for a painting as the enchantress Morgan le Fay, head thrown back, casting her spells.
How silly those girlish dreams seemed now.
The car slowly wended its way toward the Embankment. They passed the WSPU duplicating office on the Strand, where Ursula volunteered one day a week. She and Winifred had spent many an hour standing behind a trestle table cranking out copies of hand-bills. The memory made her smile briefly until she remembered the look on Winifred’s face the last time she saw her, stricken and pale among the dark shadows. Inevitably, the image of Lord Wrotham also intruded, and she tried to push it out of her mind as quickly as she could.
Ursula first met Lord Oliver Wrotham at one of Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith’s soirees. She was only eighteen at the time and was immediately struck by his indifference to her. He clearly had not been invited as a potential suitor. She had heard of him, obviously, as her father spoke of his young legal adviser now and again (especially when trade-union matters were concerned—which was more and more often these days). Up until this time, however, the rare visit by Lord Wrotham to the Marlows’ Belgravia home resulted in his being hastily ushered into her father’s study or the library. Ursula would rush downstairs to catch a glimpse, but the most she had ever seen was the back of a tall, dark-haired man as he passed through the doorway.
This particular soiree had an Indian theme. Mrs. Eudora Pomfrey-Smith (“Dolly” to her close friends) was particularly fond of themes. She was also fascinated by transcendentalism and the possibility of communing with the dead. She had once suggested a séance for Ursula, to try to contact her dead mother, a proposition that had made Ursula’s father promptly explode with anger, and it was never mentioned again. The themed parties now took a more subdued and less morbid tone. The servants were instructed to wear suitable costumes (the footmen in turbans, the serving girls with orange silk flowers in their caps), and guests were invited to “dress appropriately.” For Ursula this meant she was allowed to wear a raw silk Fortuny dress of dark crimson with a matching garland of silk flowers in her braided upturned hair.
“Ursula, my dear.” Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith swept before her. “I simply must introduce you to someone. Now then, tidy your hair—that’s it—and for God’s sake smile. You spend too much of your time with your nose buried in books, I daresay. Your eyes look positively squinty! Stop frowning and chin up—come on now!”
Ursula allowed Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith to lead her across the room to where a tall man, in his early thirties, stood talking to Ursula’s father in hushed tones. As she approached, her father placed a hand on this man’s arm, and their conversation ceased. Ursula was used to seeing a flushed face and a hesitant smile whenever she was introduced, so the cool, appraising gaze from this man’s blue-gray eyes was unsettling.
“Lord Wrotham, my daughter, Ursula.”
She returned his stare without a smile.
“Ursula, you’ll have heard me speak of Lord Wrotham, I’m sure. Now you finally have the chance to meet.”
Lord Wrotham inclined his head slightly. “It is indeed a pleasure.” Yet his tone seemed to indicate something to the contrary.
Ursula smiled coolly. “I am always interested to meet Papa’s business associates. Tell me, was it you who helped put those poor strikers out on the streets? One hundred men. With families. I hear most have not found other occupations, and their wives can be seen lining up outside the factory gates in Blackburn begging for food.”
Ursula’s father sighed.
Lord Wrotham replied, with a ghost of a smile, “I did indeed assist your father with his recent trade-union troubles. I am proud to say that the matter resolved itself entirely to our satisfaction. If we had met the unionists’ demands, the Blackburn factory would have been forced to close as uneconomical. Then, my dear, all three hundred workers would be out on the streets.”
The sound of Samuels switching off the car engine outside the Tudor Gate to the Inner Temple brought Ursula’s thoughts abruptly back to the present. She caught sight of Tom Cumberland, the manager of her father’s dockside warehouses and one of Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith’s chosen suitors, heading toward Bouverie Street, his coat collar turned up against the wind. Ursula groaned and slid down in her seat. Tom ran frequent messages for his employer from the dockyards, and Ursula did not wish to be seen. The thought of explaining her presence to him was too much. Besides, she generated far too much gossip belowstairs as it was.
Tom passed by quickly, and Ursula clumsily got out of the rear seat, declining Samuels’s assistance and instructing him to “wait here for my return.”
She smoothed her skirt, checked her hat, and then proceeded to walk into the quadrangle, conscious of the curious glances she was eliciting from the steady stream of black-suited men walking from room to room across the flagstones. Some were in wigs and gowns, others (clerks, she presumed) in single-breasted suits. Puffed-up and straight-backed, they passed by her with supercilious stares. Ursula returned their gaze and straightened herself up. She passed a gilt-edged sign bearing the names of the barristers by stairwell and floor. On the left was written LORD OLIVER WROTHAM, KC—ROOM ELEVEN. She hurried up the stairs.
Ursula squeezed past a crush of people outside room six, and headed up to the third floor, where she knocked sharply on the black-lacquered door with the number 11 emblazoned on it in gold leaf. A small man with a graying beard and a balding head answered. Lord Wrotham’s clerk eyed Ursula warily.
“I’m afraid Lord Wrotham is not receiving visitors at this time. If you are a prospective client, you need to see your solicitor, and I must advise you that his lordship is currently much engaged. He is accepting no new cases at the moment—”
Ursula had to interrupt him. “I am Ursula Marlow. You must be”—she glanced quickly at the doorplate—“Mr. Hargreaves. Be so kind as to inform his lordship that I wish to see him immediately.”
Mr. Hargreaves didn’t move.
“You are no doubt aware of the valuable and lucrative relationship Lord Wrotham has with my father,” Ursula continued. “So I feel confident that you will convey my message to Lord Wrotham with great…haste.”
Mr. Hargreaves still made no move.
“I do not believe that his lordship is expecting any member of the Marlow family today,” he said slowly.
Ursula was unimpressed. “Kindly inform him that, nonetheless, a member of the Marlow family is here to see him—and that the matter is of some import.”
“His lordship is currently engaged in very important pretrial matters.”
“Mr. Hargreaves, are you deliberately trying to delay me?”
He eyed Ursula again. She felt a flush rise in her cheeks, but she met his gaze with a resolute stare.
“Please come in and wait,” he said finally. “I will see if Lord Wrotham can meet with you.”
“Thank you.”
Ursula entered the doorway and was led down a narrow hall lined with bookshelves filled with leather-bound law reports.
“Please wait here.” Hargreaves directed her to an armchair in the far corner of a room at the end of the hallway. Behind the armchair was a row of wooden filing cabinets, and on the clerk’s table stood a tall stack of paper bundles, each tied with pink ribbon, in a wire tray.
Hargreaves knocked on a door to the right of the table and then exited silently, leaving Ursula to sit down and try to compose herself. She had rehearsed the conversation in her mind earlier in the day (all morning, to be exact), but now she couldn’t recall how she intended to start or finish—not even the questions she had so carefully thought out. Her mind was blank.
She had fully expected Lord Wrotham to keep her waiting. Fully expected that he would refuse to discuss the case with her or would send a message to this effect via his clerk. Instead, however, he appeared in the doorway almost immediately. Ursula hadn’t even time to check that her hat was still on straight. He seemed surprised. Perhaps a little unnerved. Vulnerable, even. It was as though she, suddenly trespassing on his domain, had caught him unawares.
“Miss Marlow,” he said. “This is indeed a…well…unexpected, nevertheless.”
“I am here to discuss the Stanford-Jones case. Has any progress been made?” Ursula heard herself speak quite clearly and forcefully, even though she felt her last shred of confidence waning under the guarded stare that met hers. She had always thought of Lord Wrotham as a tall and aristocratically thin man (all taut spine and stiff upper lip), but now he seemed arched and gaunt. His hair, normally combed back smoothly in place, was beginning to fall forward across his eyes. He had the look of someone who had just received a shock and was still recovering.
“Good heavens!” Ursula cried out involuntarily. “What on earth has happened?!”
Her mind leaped to all sorts of conclusions. Freddie dead in a gutter…. Her father murdered in his train compartment…. Her imagination needed very little encouragement to run away with itself.
Lord Wrotham raised his eyebrows. His composure was quickly returning. “Happened?”
“Have you had bad news? Has something happened to Freddie?”
“Freddie?”
“Winifred.”
“Miss Stanford-Jones?…No, nothing else has happened to her as far as I’m aware.”
“Then what?” Ursula asked. “You look as if you’ve received the most awful news.”
Lord Wrotham ran his long fingers though his hair, smoothing it back into place.
“Please, Miss Marlow,” he replied. “Spare me the dramatics and come inside.”
Ursula followed Lord Wrotham into his richly furnished office. Above his leather-top desk hung a magnificent tapestry, like an Edward Burne-Jones painting, only intricately and beautifully woven. The scene depicted an ethereal-looking woman stepping forth from the shadows of a tower, the scales of justice precariously balanced in her hands. The tower was dark and covered in ivy, while the lady was bathed in a soft golden light as she emerged from an archway. Ursula had expected to find Lord Wrotham in a stark, austere room with nothing but a framed copy of his degree from Oxford’s Balliol College on the wall.
She looked around further, trying to adjust herself to each new element she encountered. There was an antique terrestrial globe mounted on a pedestal, a stuffed blue-and-yellow bird encased in glass, and a display cabinet containing some kind of illuminated manuscript that was almost hidden in the corner. In her mind, with his streamlined and finely cut features, Lord Wrotham was like a machine in which every fragment, every muscle, seemed efficient and unyielding. That he should have chosen to surround himself with objects of such rich sensuality unsettled her.
In the center of the room were two leather armchairs for clients.
“Please take a seat,” Lord Wrotham said.
Ursula removed her hat and gloves and sat down.
Lord Wrotham calmly walked over to the far side of the room, replacing a red and tan book on its shelf.
“Tea?” he asked, turning toward her.
Ursula shook her head. “I guess we must start with the usual pleasantries,” she said. “But I feel that under the circumstances…”
Lord Wrotham walked in front of her and reached down to open a silver cigarette box on his desk.
Ursula was piqued but determined to remain calm. “I want an update on the Stanford-Jones case,” she said. “As you refused to answer my letters and I had no response to my calls, I believed that a personal visit was in order.”
“Indeed.” Lord Wrotham lit the cigarette and sat down behind his desk.
Ursula noticed there was another doorway, almost obscured by the tapestry above Lord Wrotham’s desk. The door opened a fraction and then shut quickly. Mr. Hargreaves, no doubt.
There was a long, cold pause. Lord Wrotham did not speak. Ursula smoothed her skirt, trying to control her anger.
The clock on the mantel struck half past two. Lord Wrotham reached into his waistcoat and pulled out a fob watch. He flicked open the case to double-check the time.
“You have an appointment?” Ursula asked, irritation growing in her voice.
“I am due back in court at three.”
“But of course,” she murmured, her jaw starting to clench from the effort of having to remain civil. Impatience and frustration were starting to get the better of her. The door opened again, as if on cue, and the balding head of Mr. Hargreaves appeared. Hargreaves coughed, to which Lord Wrotham responded with a peremptory nod of his head.
Ursula caught a glimpse of the anteroom with its mirror, washbasin, and stand. Lord Wrotham’s wig and gown were hanging on a coatrack. Hargreaves sighed and closed the door.
“My apologies,” Lord Wrotham said calmly. “Mr. Hargreaves is not known for his subtlety.”
“Nor his manners,” Ursula responded dryly. “He certainly made it quite clear that I had no business being here.” She shifted in her seat.
“Now then, about that tea…” Lord Wrotham began to say.
Ursula rose to her feet. She’d had just about enough of the small talk.
“Have you or the police questioned Miss Stanford-Jones about what happened?” she asked, her lace-up ankle boots making a taptap sound on the polished floor.
“Please sit down,” he said more sternly.
“Pray remember,” she replied tartly, “that I am not one of your dogs. You do not need to wave your hand and command me to sit. I am quite capable of deciding whether to sit or stand on my own.”
She cast him a defiant look, but Lord Wrotham, taking a slow draw on his cigarette, appeared not to notice.
She was still standing when he finally said, “Miss Marlow, naturally my colleagues at the Metropolitan Police have had a number of discussions with Miss Stanford-Jones. Unfortunately, I am not at liberty to disclose—”
“Then what are you at liberty to disclose?!” Ursula interrupted crossly.
“My dear,” he began smoothly, “you must understand—”
Lord Wrotham stopped in midsentence. Deciding to take a different tack, Ursula had walked over to his desk, come around to his side, and sat down on the edge, less than a foot away from him. In her doing so, her skirt brushed lightly against the back of his left hand. Lord Wrotham sat stock-still. Ursula sensed the power in her trespass, and it was intoxicating. Lord Wrotham lifted the cigarette to his lips and let it hover for a moment in midair. He raised an eyebrow slightly. Ursula leaned forward.
“I was rather hoping that you would have more information,” she said with the merest hint of a smile.
“Really?”
“Yes—I felt sure that you would have had something for me.” She stared at him, acutely aware of the narrow space between them—of the starched edge of his collar and smooth skin of his throat—so close. He smelled of tobacco and bergamot. A heady combination.
“I have nothing that can answer the real question you have,” Lord Wrotham said, his voice dispelling the tension.
“And what question is that?”
“Whether she really murdered that girl.”
Ursula rose quickly. She had trespassed too far.
“Lord Wrotham…” Ursula began, raising a hand to her throat to steady the indignation in her voice. “I can assure you that Miss Stanford-Jones is entirely innocent! I know her! There is no way she could ever be capable of such a thing!”
“Miss Marlow,” Lord Wrotham replied, extinguishing his cigarette with a light rap on the edge of the silver ashtray, “I have seen dozens of cases where people have done the very thing no one thought them capable of. Prima facie, even you must admit, the evidence against Miss Stanford-Jones doesn’t look good.”
“Looks can be deceiving,” Ursula retorted.
“I suggest you leave that for the Metropolitan Police to decide,” he responded dryly.
“Surely there must be something—anything—to mitigate the circumstances?”
“Well, attending Madame Launois’s establishment certainly wasn’t one of them.”
“Madame Launois?” Ursula frowned. She felt as if she were suddenly under cross-examination.
Lord Wrotham’s eyes bore into her.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she answered frankly.
Lord Wrotham leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands. Ursula suspected he had been trying to draw her out and was irritated.
“What about this establishment?” Ursula demanded. “Could it be that someone there had a motive for murdering poor Laura?”
Lord Wrotham shrugged. His interest seemed to have waned as quickly as it had flared.
“Surely there must be something!”
With a quick glance at the clock on the mantel, Lord Wrotham rose to his feet.
Ursula tried to keep her frustration in check. Clearly, as far as Lord Wrotham was concerned, their interview was over. Ursula remained seated for a moment, tapping her fingers along the brim of her hat, before she got up from the chair.
Their gazes met. Lord Wrotham took a step closer. Ursula drew back slightly. Wary.
Lord Wrotham extended his hand to draw her toward the door.
“Mr. Hargreaves will show you out.”
“I’m sure he will,” Ursula replied tersely.
“Miss Marlow, you are far too young and inexperienced,” Lord Wrotham said as he opened the door for her, “to be involved in such a sordid mess. I advise you to leave well enough alone.”
Ursula’s eyes narrowed. Lord Wrotham held the door open, and out of the corner of her eye she could see Mr. Hargreaves straightening his black waistcoat.
“I’m sure you must have plenty of other amusing diversions,” Lord Wrotham continued with what was now unbridled condescension. “For your father’s sake, why don’t you just run along home and forget all about Miss Stanford-Jones.”
Of all the things Lord Wrotham had expected in response from Ursula, the sharp slap to his face was not one of them.