Free Death on Beacon Hill by P.B. RYAN Page B

quarters, but
Beacon Hill
?”
    “Yes, indeed,” Will said diplomatically.
    “It’s not the same neighborhood it used to be,” she said. “And not because of what happened to Mrs. Kimball. My own husband was accosted the other night just a few doors down from our house on Beacon Street by some gutter-crawler from...well, I can only assume the North End, or perhaps Fort Hill. Mr. Pratt wouldn’t give up his wallet, so this...ruffian took a bludgeon to him. Did you see his eye? Did you?”
    “I did,” Will said. “Gives him a rather dashing air, I think.”
    “Oh, my dear William,” she giggled. “You were always such a card. Dare I hope you’ve returned to Boston for good? It would so please your dear mamá.”
    He hesitated, his fingers tightening reflexively on Nell’s arm. “We shall see what the future brings.”
    “Oh! I’ve a splendid idea.” Mrs. Pratt smacked Will on the chest with her fan. “You must join us for dinner tomorrow evening. Yes, indeed. Mr. Pratt’s gone and invited some client he ran into yesterday, so I don’t see why I might not ask you, especially since your parents and Harry will be coming.”
    “You don’t say.”
    “Yes, and your brother Martin, too, if he doesn’t have too much studying—you know how he is. I do hope he can come. He and Emily used to get along so well when they were young. Don’t you think they’d be just perfect for each other?”
    “Er...”
    “Oh, do come. It would smashing to see all the Hewitts together again at one table. I shall die if you refuse.”
    “Mustn’t have that.” To Nell’s utter shock, considering his estrangement from his family, he added, “I say, you don’t mind if I bring Miss Sweeney?”
    Nell and Winifred Pratt both stared at Will for a long, excruciating moment. “Why...no, not at all,” said Mrs. Pratt, her smile riveted in place. “Of course not. Lovely idea. Lovely. Shall we say seven o’clock?”
    “We shall be there,” Will said.
    “Well, then...yes. Very good. I, er, I shall save my good-byes until later. You
are
going to the graveside service.”
    “I’m afraid not,” Will said before Nell could answer in the affirmative. “Miss Sweeney is unwell. The heat, you know.”
    “Oh, dear, yes,” said Mrs. Pratt, her fan fluttering to life again. “My, yes. This blasted heat. Well, then. Lovely running into you. Absolutely lovely. I shall see you tomorrow, then.”
    Will bowed as she turned away. “Looking forward to it.”
    “I’ll thank you not to speak for me,” Nell told Will when Mrs. Pratt was out of earshot. “I had every intention of going to the cemetery. I haven’t had a chance to talk to Mr. Pratt yet—or Maximilian Thurston. Or—”
    “It shouldn’t be much trouble to arrange an interview with Mr. Thurston, given the extent to which he appears to relish the art of discourse. As for Orville Pratt, you’ll be a guest in his home tomorrow evening. You can talk to him then.”
    Watching the Pratts’ driver delicately wedge his rotund mistress into the Landau, Nell said, “What were you thinking, asking her if I could come?”
    “Can’t Nurse Parrish put Gracie to bed tomorrow night?”
    “I don’t mean that. Don’t you realize what they’ll think?” she asked. “They’ll think I’m your...that we’re...”
    Will shook his head, smiling. “Poor, conventional Cornelia. Still a slave to the opinions of others.”
    With an exasperated sigh, she said, “This is what I was talking about before. You’ve never given your reputation a second thought, so you don’t seem to grasp how critical mine is to me.”
    “Nell, the rumors that have got you so fretful arose because people assume you’re meeting me on the sly, leading them to conclude that we’re engaged in a clandestine liaison of a, shall we say, impure nature. But if I were to court you openly—”
    “
Court
me?” Courtship implied the prospect of matrimony, not remotely an option for Nell, who, at sixteen, had