he’d released
the portrait to a dealer. Probably Madison and Perry, the gallery across from
Windsor Square. They merchandise the cast-off art of people from a certain
class.” Gerry’s frown evaporated and she nodded with vigor, suddenly sure of
herself. “If a group of Whistlers is on its way to Paris I can’t imagine the
Blout portrait wouldn’t be among them. It was quite the sensation.”
“I say, Geraldine,
you claim to scarcely know Isabel Blout and yet you deliver up the full story
like bread on a plate. You should gossip more. You have the gift.” Trevor
refolded Rayley’s letter and returned it to his pocket. “I’ll follow up with
the portrait. There should be a record somewhere of any Whistlers acquired for
exhibition.”
“But how does all
this relate to your friend? Is Isabel causing trouble in Paris now?”
“Apparently Rayley and
the lady have become acquaintances. How they might have met, I can’t say.”
“What are you going
to tell him?” Geraldine asked. “He is doubtless awaiting your reply.”
Trevor clasped his
hands in front of his face, exhaled into the hollow of his palms. Perhaps it truly
was no more than idle London gossip on the hoof, bearing its way toward Paris
and making it impossible for a desperate woman to reinvent herself in a new
city. It wasn’t hard to picture. A pretty young wife fleeing her aging
husband, the French displaying portraits of British women drawn by an American,
a new world order clashing against old values, the endless dance of sex and art
and nationalism and money.
But something in the
situation niggled at him. Trevor selected a biscuit from the tray on
Geraldine’s tea table, nestled himself more comfortably among the cushions on
her divan. He would report what Geraldine had said, but he still didn’t
understand why Abrams had asked him for a history of Isabel Blout in the first
place. So he had met her socially, so he had found her – as apparently had so
many other men before him – attractive. What of it? Evidently something was
niggling at Abrams as well.
“It’s just
speculation, darling, silly Mayfair chatter,” Gerry said, wiping a crumb from
her plump cheek. “Probably more motivated by envy of the woman’s beauty than a
fair analysis of her character. You don’t have to share every detail with
Rayley.”
“No, Rayley isn’t
frivolous. If he asked me to learn her history, he must have had a reason.” Trevor
looked up, his gaze locking with that of Geraldine. “I’m going to tell him to
stay away from her.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Paris
April 23
3:14 AM
Rayley awakened in
darkness so complete that it seemed to have closed over him like water. He’d
been having a bad dream, he surmised, since his hands were clutching the
bedspread and his forehead was velvet with sweat. He tried to remember, but
the dream was fading even as his eyes fluttered open, leaving behind only the
vague sense that he had been lost in a series of hallways, looking for a way
out.
He sat up on the
edge of the bed, pausing a moment for the vertigo to pass. Yesterday’s autopsy
must have shaken him more than he’d been willing to admit at the time. Graham’s
body had lain on the marble slab of the mortuary table looking quite pristine
at first, yielding no immediately obvious wound which would explain his death. It
was only in Rayley’s second pass over the body that he had caught them, the
four very slight bruises forming a crescent pattern around the side of the
man’s mouth, nearly lost in the stubble of his beard. Rayley placed his own
hand over Graham’s lips, shuddering only slightly at the coolness of the man’s
flesh and his impulse was immediately rewarded. The bruises lined up
perfectly with the tips of his fingers.
Of course the fact
that someone had placed a hand over the man’s mouth, even roughly enough to
cause bruising, hardly explained his death.
the portrait to a dealer. Probably Madison and Perry, the gallery across from
Windsor Square. They merchandise the cast-off art of people from a certain
class.” Gerry’s frown evaporated and she nodded with vigor, suddenly sure of
herself. “If a group of Whistlers is on its way to Paris I can’t imagine the
Blout portrait wouldn’t be among them. It was quite the sensation.”
“I say, Geraldine,
you claim to scarcely know Isabel Blout and yet you deliver up the full story
like bread on a plate. You should gossip more. You have the gift.” Trevor
refolded Rayley’s letter and returned it to his pocket. “I’ll follow up with
the portrait. There should be a record somewhere of any Whistlers acquired for
exhibition.”
“But how does all
this relate to your friend? Is Isabel causing trouble in Paris now?”
“Apparently Rayley and
the lady have become acquaintances. How they might have met, I can’t say.”
“What are you going
to tell him?” Geraldine asked. “He is doubtless awaiting your reply.”
Trevor clasped his
hands in front of his face, exhaled into the hollow of his palms. Perhaps it truly
was no more than idle London gossip on the hoof, bearing its way toward Paris
and making it impossible for a desperate woman to reinvent herself in a new
city. It wasn’t hard to picture. A pretty young wife fleeing her aging
husband, the French displaying portraits of British women drawn by an American,
a new world order clashing against old values, the endless dance of sex and art
and nationalism and money.
But something in the
situation niggled at him. Trevor selected a biscuit from the tray on
Geraldine’s tea table, nestled himself more comfortably among the cushions on
her divan. He would report what Geraldine had said, but he still didn’t
understand why Abrams had asked him for a history of Isabel Blout in the first
place. So he had met her socially, so he had found her – as apparently had so
many other men before him – attractive. What of it? Evidently something was
niggling at Abrams as well.
“It’s just
speculation, darling, silly Mayfair chatter,” Gerry said, wiping a crumb from
her plump cheek. “Probably more motivated by envy of the woman’s beauty than a
fair analysis of her character. You don’t have to share every detail with
Rayley.”
“No, Rayley isn’t
frivolous. If he asked me to learn her history, he must have had a reason.” Trevor
looked up, his gaze locking with that of Geraldine. “I’m going to tell him to
stay away from her.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Paris
April 23
3:14 AM
Rayley awakened in
darkness so complete that it seemed to have closed over him like water. He’d
been having a bad dream, he surmised, since his hands were clutching the
bedspread and his forehead was velvet with sweat. He tried to remember, but
the dream was fading even as his eyes fluttered open, leaving behind only the
vague sense that he had been lost in a series of hallways, looking for a way
out.
He sat up on the
edge of the bed, pausing a moment for the vertigo to pass. Yesterday’s autopsy
must have shaken him more than he’d been willing to admit at the time. Graham’s
body had lain on the marble slab of the mortuary table looking quite pristine
at first, yielding no immediately obvious wound which would explain his death. It
was only in Rayley’s second pass over the body that he had caught them, the
four very slight bruises forming a crescent pattern around the side of the
man’s mouth, nearly lost in the stubble of his beard. Rayley placed his own
hand over Graham’s lips, shuddering only slightly at the coolness of the man’s
flesh and his impulse was immediately rewarded. The bruises lined up
perfectly with the tips of his fingers.
Of course the fact
that someone had placed a hand over the man’s mouth, even roughly enough to
cause bruising, hardly explained his death.
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