Sophie looked up from her correspondence as the butler entered the conservatory, bearing a card on a silver tray. "A... visitor, madam," he sniffed, his supercilious tone showing exactly what he thought of the caller.
"I told you I was not at home this evening," she said, annoyed, picking up the card.
"The gentleman was rather – insistent, madam."
"Oh?" Sophie glanced at the white card with a little more interest. P. O'Grady, it declaimed in a simple, bold typeface. The address beneath the name was one that she recognised from recent weeks: the lair of all informers and private investigators and crooked cops. So, they'd sent an investigator after her, had they? She smiled, flicking the card onto the tea tray. Well, she knew how to deal with him. "Show him in, Harris," she ordered, returning to her letters.
Phil O'Grady dropped his hat onto the mahogany sideboard when the butler refused – politely – to take it, an indication of how long he was going to get here. He looked around the lobby with interest, noting the faded Persian rugs and the careless scatter of antiques. This neighbourhood was a touch above him; several touches, really, but he was unconcerned. He didn't want friends in these circles. Old money was usually washed in the blood of innocents; anyone who claimed otherwise was a liar.
"This way. Sir."
Phil almost smiled. The butler had it down to a fine art, that balance between cold servility and outright rudeness, and he wondered if the master of the house was any more approachable.
Probably not.
He followed the flunkey along the panelled corridor and out through a heavy set of glass and gilt doors, into what he supposed some people would call a conservatory. It was more of a winter garden, he thought, blinking at the hothouse temperature and staring round at the lilies and orchids and heavy ferns that grew within the glass walls. Above his head hung a row of cages, filled with tiny songbirds hopping from perch to perch, trilling at one another over the swish of water from the fountain in the centre of the room.
"Mr O'Grady, madam," the butler announced, deliberately mispronouncing the name.
"Thank you, Harris. You may go."
Phil turned his attention to the woman seated on the edge of chaise lounge by the coffee table. A tray of tea things lay beside her: fine bone china, a bowl of sugar cubes, a silver tea strainer. Tucked between the cup and the teapot were a pile of letters and a small gilt letter-opener. She was pretending to ignore him, finishing her letter with a studied disregard for good manners, so he carried on looking at her.
She was voluptuous, obviously not one of those women who thought to de-sex themselves by starvation into the waif-like scrawniness so beloved by the previous decade. She wore a soft woollen suit of olive green that screamed understated elegance; her kid shoes dyed the same shade. Her dark red hair was rolled into a loose pleat at the back of her neck, but one or two strands had escaped and were curling in the heat of the room.
Finally she looked up at him, laying aside her letter to regard him with appraising hazel eyes. She had a feline face, closed and secretive; and Phil felt a little uneasy suddenly as she stared at him, finding himself wondering what she was thinking.
Sophie leaned back slightly against the tiny gold cushions, assessing his worth. The dark charcoal suit was at least two years old, but had clearly been expertly tailored for him, accentuating the breadth of his shoulders and the sweep of his narrow waist, the length of his legs. The shirt she recognised as pure Jermyn Street; the shoes soft Italian leather. The dark blue silk tie defeated her, so she gave up trying to label his clothes, already categorising him: he comes into money, he loses it; cautious, but not overly so...
She noted the plain black watch at his wrist – time was merely something to be observed, not lingered over – then studied his face with the abstraction of a connoisseur. He was a beautiful man, she decided; but then, she had seen many beautiful men. Still, he was worthy of a second glance. He had savage, slightly slanting eyes the shade of polished steel and the darkest hair she'd seen, like ebony sunlight. No tame city boy, this; he carried with him the suggestion of some misplaced wild thing, out of time, out of luck.
"Mr O'Grady. What brings you here?"
Most women would have displayed more than a modicum of interest as to why a private investigator was doing the rounds, but this puss was completely unruffled. Phil realised that she was either in this foul business right up to her pretty little neck, or she was just very, very cool.
"I came to see your husband, Mrs Rayworth," he said.
Sophie smiled slowly, smoothing her skirt over her knees and watching as his eyes followed the gesture. "He is indisposed."
"What do you mean?"
She laid one hand to her white throat, fingering the double strand of pearls looped there, still smiling sweetly. "He works long hours. He needs his rest."
Phil narrowed his gaze. "And you – help him to rest?"
"It is in his best interests, don't you think, Mr O'Grady?"
He came closer, pushing one hand into his pocket. "That depends, ma'am... Let's cut to the chase. For three weeks now, your husband's car has been seen outside Baxter's – a place I am sure you are unfamiliar with -"
Sophie opened her eyes wide. "What makes you so sure?"
Phil considered her. "I would not expect a lady of your quality to acknowledge such places," he said carefully.
She chuckled. "I'm no lady, Mr O'Grady." She shifted in the chair, drawing one leg up over the other slowly with a whisper of silk stocking, and Phil's eyes darkened as the skirt rode up over her knees. This time she made no effort to adjust her dress.
"Still," he continued, "this is a matter of some delicacy."
"You're talking about the murders," she stated, as casually as if she were discussing shopping.
"Can you provide an alibi for your husband for Monday last, Mrs Rayworth?"
She stared him. "No."
Phil hid his surprise well. "I see."
"I doubt it." She got up and walked over to the birdcages behind him, setting one rocking gently so that the finch fluttered its wings. "I was out myself, Mr O'Grady. I took my husband's car and drove to Baxter's, where I smoked and drank and gambled and fucked all night."
"Did you, indeed?" He was unimpressed. "Then maybe you met an Italian gentleman there, by the name of Agnetti -"
Sophie laughed. "Yes, I did."
Phil regarded her stonily. "Then you know he is dead?"
She turned to face him, eyes blazing. "I killed him, Mr O'Grady."
There was a beat, then he said calmly, "Much as I appreciate your honesty, Mrs Rayworth, I must point out that what you claim is impossible."
She put her head to one side and looked at him, not at all offended by his words. "Why so? You think a woman is incapable of strangling a man with her bare hands?"
Another pause, in which he struggled to remember what the lurid newspaper coverage had claimed, then he recovered himself. "Frankly, yes. A woman hasn't enough power to accomplish such an act."
"She does when the man is willing," Sophie said lightly.
Phil snorted. "Try again, ma'am. I admit, you could be the honey-trap, but the murderer? No. You surely wouldn't sully your lily-white hands."
