Page 29 of A Dangerous Mourning (William Monk 2)

“No sir, I merely wanted to ask you more about your family.”

“Oh.” Cyprian started to walk again and Monk fell in beside him, back towards the park. Cyprian was dressed extremely fashionably, his concession to mourning in his dark coat over the jacket above the modern short waistcoat with its shawl collar, and his top hat was tall and straight sided. “Couldn’t it have waited until I got home?” he asked with a frown.

“I just spoke to Mrs. Moidore, sir; in Green Park.”

Cyprian seemed surprised, even a trifle discomfited. “I d

oubt she can tell you much. What exactly is it you wish to ask?”

Monk was obliged to walk smartly to keep up with him. “How long has your aunt, Mrs. Sandeman, lived in your father’s house, sir?”

Cyprian winced very slightly, only a shadow across his face.

“Since shortly after her husband died,” he replied brusquely.

Monk lengthened his own stride to match, avoiding bumping into the people moving less rapidly or passing in the opposite direction.

“Are she and your father very close?” He knew they were not; he had not forgotten the look on Fenella’s face as she had left the morning room in Queen Anne Street.

Cyprian hesitated, then decided the lie would be transparent, if not now, then later.

“No. Aunt Fenella found herself in very reduced circumstances.” His face was tight; he hated exposing such vulnerability. “Papa offered her a home. It is a natural family responsibility.”

Monk tried to imagine it, the personal sense of obligation, the duty of gratitude, the implicit requirement of certain forms of obedience. He would like to know what affection there was beneath the duties, but he knew Cyprian would respond little to an open inquiry.

A carriage passed them too close to the curb, and its wheels sent up a spray of muddy water. Monk leaped inwards to preserve his trousers.

“It must have been very distressing for her to find herself suddenly thrown upon the resources of others,” he said sympathetically. It was not feigned. He could imagine Fenella’s shock—and profound resentment.

“Most,” Cyprian agreed taciturnly. “But death frequently leaves widows in altered circumstances. One must expect it.”

“Did she expect it?” Monk absently brushed the water off his coat.

Cyprian smiled, possibly at Monk’s unconscious vanity.

“I have no idea, Mr. Monk. I did not ask her. It would have been both impertinent and intrusive. It was not my place, nor is it yours. It happened many years ago, twelve to be precise, and has no bearing on our present tragedy.”

“Is Mr. Thirsk in the same unfortunate position?” Monk kept exactly level with him along the pavement, brushing past three fashionable ladies taking the air and a couple dallying in polite flirtation in spite of the cold.

“He resides with us because of misfortune,” Cyprian snapped. “If that is what you mean. Obviously he was not widowed.” He smiled briefly in a sarcasm that had more bitterness than amusement.

“How long has he lived in Queen Anne Street?”

“About ten years, as far as I recall.”

“And he is your mother’s brother?”

“You are already aware of that.” He dodged a group of gentlemen ambling along deep in conversation and oblivious of the obstruction they caused. “Really, if this is a sample of your attempts at detection, I am surprised you maintain employment. Uncle Septimus occasionally drinks a little more than you may consider prudent, and he is certainly not wealthy, but he is a kind and decent man whose misfortune has nothing whatever to do with my sister’s death, and you will learn nothing useful by prying into it!”

Monk admired him for his defense, true or not. And he determined to discover what the misfortune was, and if Octavia had learned something about him that might have robbed him of this double-edged but much needed hospitality had she told her father.

“Does he gamble, sir?” he said aloud.

“What?” But there was a flush of color on Cyprian’s cheeks, and he knocked against an elderly gentleman in his path and was obliged to apologize.

A coster’s cart came by, its owner crying his wares in a loud, singsong voice.

“I wondered if Mr. Thirsk gambled,” Monk repeated. “It is a pastime many gentlemen indulge in, especially if their lives offer little other change or excitement—and any extra finance would be welcome.”