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“Indeed,” said Emma, gazing across the crowded room at Madame Renata, who was sedately seated
on a divan. In honor of it being Christmas morning, she had left behind her turbans and jewels in lieu
of more traditional dress and, in fact, blended in perfectly with the other ladies at Geraldine’s holiday
brunch. She turned smilingly to accept a plate of tidbits from Fleanders, Geraldine’s crusty old beau,
and then resumed her conversation with Michael Weaver, a rising young politician they had all
befriended on a recent case in Bombay. Geraldine’s parties always seemed to bring together bizarre
collections of people, for she moved among every stratum of London society with ease, and courted
friends with varying political and religious views. Emma smiled, wondering what would happen if
the famously conservative Weaver managed to engage the famously eccentric Madame Renata in
genuine conversation. Or if the blustery Fleanders knew the true history of Michael’s sister Adelaide,
who had now joined him on the window seat and was laughing heartily at one of his jokes. With one
wrong word placed here or there, the peace of this Christmas morning might shatter as easily as the
icicles dropping from the eaves outside.
“What will happen to Dorinda?” Emma said, turning back to Rayley, for her contemplation of
Madame Renata reminded her that the mystic had been unable to muster an image of Dorinda’s fate.
All darkness, is that what she had said?
Rayley shrugged, although in truth his feelings on the subject were not as casual as the gesture
implied. “The problem, of course, is that when you attempt to drive someone mad, you often go with
them.”
“Shutting someone in a room with paint and a group of portraits is not the same thing as actively
trying to kill them,” Emma pointed out. “It wasn’t as if she attacked LaRusse with a gun or knife.
With good legal representation –“
Rayley nodded. “She won’t hang, if that is what you are asking. Her parents are wealthy enough to
make sure she has that proper council and besides, the Edenbridge constable was open to the
suggestion that LaRusse Chapman’s death might be called a suicide. Which I suppose it could be,
although there on that stairwell, I must tell you that the lines between murder, accident, and suicide
seemed rather blurred to me. But the local man, Brown by name, is primarily concerned with
gathering enough evidence to bar the door to Hever Castle and claim the place is under investigation
as a crime scene. If my read of the fellow is correct, he will make sure that this investigation moves
as slowly as possible, concluding only in the spring, or whenever he is certain the colonists have
abandoned the property and moved on.”
“So Dorinda will more likely be confined to an asylum than a jail.”
“More likely.”
A pall had fallen upon them both with this last conversational shift, so Rayley looked around the room
for a subject to lighten the mood. There were plenty of possibilities, but he settled on Gage, who was
circulating with a tray of champagne. He was in full livery for once, evidently in acknowledgement
of the holiday season.
“You are the total lady of leisure this morning,” Rayley said. “I take it you no longer help Gage at
Geraldine’s parties?”