A Suitable Vengeance (Inspector Lynley, #4)(144)

Still standing by the open door, Denton looked from her to the street as if trying to recall whether he had actually asked her in. He kept his hand on the doorknob and shifted from foot to foot, appearing caught between a need to protest the solecism of this visit and the fear of someone’s wrath should he do so.

“His lordship’s asked—”

“I know,” Lady Helen said. She felt a brief flicker of guilt to be bullying Denton, knowing that his determination to protect Lynley was motivated by a loyalty that spanned nearly a decade. “I understand. He’s asked not to be disturbed, not to be interrupted. He’s not returned one of my calls these last two weeks, Denton, so I quite understand he wishes not to be bothered. Now that the issue is clear between us, please tell him I wish to see him.”

“But—”

“I shall go directly up to his bedroom if I have to.”

Denton signalled his surrender by closing the door. “He’s in the library. I’ll fetch him for you.”

“No need. I know the way.”

She left Denton gaping in the hallway and went quickly up the stairs to the first floor of the house, down a thickly carpeted corridor, past an impressive collection of antique pewter, winked at by half a dozen Asherton ancestors long since dead. She heard Lynley’s valet not far behind her, murmuring, “My lady…Lady Helen…”

The library door was closed. She knocked once, heard Lynley’s voice, and entered.

He was sitting at his desk, his head resting in one hand and several folders spread out in front of him. Lady Helen’s first thought—with some considerable surprise as he looked up—was that she had no idea he’d begun wearing spectacles to read. He took them off as he got to his feet. He said nothing, merely glanced behind her to where Denton stood, looking monumentally apologetic.

“Sorry,” Denton said. “I tried.”

“Don’t blame him,” Lady Helen said. “I bullied my way in.” She saw that Denton had moved one step into the room. With another he would be close enough to put his hand on her arm and escort her back down the stairs and out into the street. She couldn’t imagine him doing so without Lynley’s direction, but just in case he was considering the idea, she headed him off. “Thank you, Denton. Leave us please. If you will.”

Denton gawked at her. He looked at Lynley, who nodded sharply once. He left the room.

“Why haven’t you returned my calls, Tommy?” Lady Helen asked the moment they were alone. “I’ve telephoned here and the Yard repeatedly. I’ve stopped by four times. I’ve been sick with worry about you.”

“Sorry, old duck,” he said easily. “There’s been a mass of work lately. I’m up to my ears in it. Will you have a drink?” He walked to a rosewood table on which were arranged several decanters and a set of glasses.

“Thank you, no.”

He poured himself a whisky but did not drink it at once. “Please sit down.”

“I think not.”

“Whatever you’d like.” He offered her a lopsided smile and tossed back a large portion of his drink. And then, perhaps unwilling to keep up the pretence any longer, he looked away from her, saying, “I’m sorry, Helen. I wanted to return your calls. But I couldn’t do it. Sheer cowardice, I suppose.”

Her anger melted immediately. “I can’t bear to see you like this. Walled up in your library. Incommunicado at work. I can’t bear it, Tommy.”

For a moment, the only response was his breathing. She could hear it, shallow and unevenly spaced. Then he said, “The only time I seem to be able to drive her from my mind is when I’m working. So that’s what I’ve been doing, that’s all I’ve been doing. And when I haven’t been on a case, I’ve spent the time telling myself that I’ll get over this eventually. A few more weeks, a few months.” Shakily, he laughed. “It’s a bit difficult to believe.”

“I know. I understand.”

“God, yes. Who on earth could know better than you?”

“Then why haven’t you phoned me?”

He moved restlessly across the room to the fireplace. No fire demanded his attention there, so he gave it instead to a collection of Meissen porcelain plates on the overmantel. He took one from its stand, turning it in his hands. Lady Helen wanted to tell him to have a care, the plate might well shatter under the strength with which he gripped it, but she said nothing. He put the plate back. She repeated her question.

“You know I’ve wanted to talk to you. Why haven’t you phoned me?”

“I haven’t been able to. It hurts too much, Helen. I can’t hide that from you.”

“Why on earth should you want to?”

“I feel like a fool. I should be stronger than this. None of it should matter. I should be able just to slough it off and go on.”

“Go on?” She felt all her anger return in a rush. Her blood heated in the presence of this stiff-upper-lip attitude which she’d always found so contemptible in the men she knew, as if schooling and breeding and generations of reserve condemned each of them to a life of feeling nothing. “Do you actually mean to tell me that you’ve no right to your sorrow because you’re a man? I don’t believe that. I won’t believe that.”