Free Black Silk by Judith Ivory Page A

left a measured pause, then lowered his voice, a trick that made his height and sharp good looks a little menacing for a moment. “Knowing Henry, however, and how we feltabout each other, it is more likely a box full of adders. I should be very careful, if I were you, about opening it.”
    His eyes shifted away from her. Submit found herself speaking to the side of his face. He watched the dancers through the archway in the ballroom. “Henry never did anything to anyone,” she insisted, “that wasn’t based on the best of motives—”
    He answered this with a perfect, blatant non sequitur. “How lucky you are to be leaving London.” He didn’t even look at her. “It’s been an ugly May.”
    “Pardon me?”
    “London. You said you were leaving. Where are you going from here?”
    Submit blinked. She wanted to smile at the bluntness—the rudeness—with which he had dropped the topic of concern to her. “I, ah—there’s an inn at Morrow Fields. I’ve hired a driver, who’s waiting outside.”
    “Ah. How nice. Just far enough to be rural.” His thumb absently stroked his vest over the outline of a watch—he was wearing about ten of them—as if he could tell time in this manner. “And close enough to make by midnight. Too bad the weather isn’t better for travel.”
    The traditional English conversational refuge: the weather. The rain outside on the stoop whipped up to a light patter suddenly, as if to give his absurd digression some validity. Submit would have none of it. “Well, yes,” she said, “and I had rather a devil of a time getting here. Lord Netham—”
    “Please. You may call me Graham, if you like. We’re cousins.”
    Again, she fought an urge to smile in disbelief. She was taken aback by his familiarity, then completely undone. “Look here—” she said, and he did.
    He turned to her, smiling warmly and directly into her eyes. Briefly, he touched her shoulder. For one quick second, there were all the vibrations of sincerity, friendliness, an incredible personal charm. Where he touched her, chills—surprising, involuntary—ran down her arm. She drew the case to her chest again. Then his coffee-black eyes lifted away, above her head. She realized he was scanning the entrance room, looking for someone, anyone he might honestly want to talk to.
    “Excuse me,” he said. “I’ll send someone to fetch your coat.”
    Submit was staggered, amused, confounded. To keep him from going, she had to lay a hand on his arm. “No,” she said. “And I think you should take this. Henry would want you to.”
    “Henry?” He glanced down. At the mention of the name again, his expression soured. He frowned.
    “Henry Channing-Downes. Your guardian. My husband.”
    “Yes, of course. You have my condolences, madam.” There was a pause before he added, “For losing him, that is.”
    She wasn’t very inclined to thank him. Submit could not remember when she had had a more difficult or perplexing conversation. She blundered along for a few phrases more, speaking of Henry briefly, formally, holding the man’s arm. Then she happened to catch a look at the box, still in her hand. It occurred to her suddenly that anyone this evasive, this desperate to get free, knew what the box contained. Her smile from a moment ago broke fully onto her face.
    Submit didn’t move, made no further offer of the case, asked no further questions. She let a silence grow between them, standing on the knowledge that Graham Wessit was acquainted with—had perhaps even enjoyed—a boxful of embarrassing pictures.
    Oddly, it was her silence that Graham finally heard. Hewas quietly stewing over Henry, looking for a way to dismiss the mention of him. In fact, he was looking about the room, looking for an excuse to dismiss this disappointing woman altogether, when out the corner of his eye he saw her smile. His inattention had cost him any hint as to why.
    But he could not have missed the effect. She had small teeth and, he