The Clockwork Wolf by Lynn Viehl Page B

service to my husband, and not so much as a farewell to me. Perhaps he’ll have second thoughts.”
    I could have lied to her, but it was time the woman faced facts. “None of them will be back, milady. To return to this house after the story about Lord Bestly is printed would be the same as publicly condoning what your husband did. They’d load bricks in their pockets and jump into the bay first.”
    Her shoulders slumped a little. “I cannot acquire any new servants until after the end of my first mourning. Even then, no one will wish to serve a maniac’s widow.”
    â€œLord Dredmore might arrange something, or there are the day-service agencies in town. Their hires aren’t as respectable as live-ins, but they’ll look after you.” As was the custom I left one button unfastened and surveyed the length of her untidy night braid. If she’d never gotten dressed by herself she’d probably never touched a brush, either. “Come and sit by the vanity, and I’ll do your hair.”
    She faced me. “You, attend to my person? I think not.”
    â€œI can fetch Annie to do it, if you’d rather,” I offered. “Or the footman waiting on his wage packet.”
    â€œThere’s no one else?” When I shook my head she closed her eyes and swayed a little. “I cannot bear this. It is intolerable. It is indecent .”
    â€œDon’t dwell on it, milady. You’ll only be sick again.” I took her by the arm and led her over to the vanity, where I eased her into the chair. “I can manage something simple,” I said as I untied the end of her braid. “I won’t pin it too tight; that will only make the throbbing worse.”
    She watched me in the mirror. “How did you know I have a headache?”
    â€œI always do after I, ah, have bouts of indigestion.” I picked up a brush and began working on the ends. “We do have to talk about your husband, and how he was before he died. All right?” When she nodded, I asked, “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary with him before the incident?”
    She sat back and closed her eyes. “If you mean did he behave differently toward me, no. He spent much of the day in his study, of course, but we always shared luncheon and dinner together. Our conversations were normal. He did not mistreat me or the servants.”
    She was presenting a rather rosy image of her husband, but few wished to speak ill of the dead, who often became such angels in memory. I ran the brush through the white curtain of her hair before I reached for the pin minder. “Where was he spending his nights? At the club, or with a friend?”
    Her shoulders went rigid. “That is not your business.”
    â€œNone of this is,” I agreed. “But if your husband had a particular friend, I will have to know.”
    She pressed her fingers to her mouth before shedropped her hand. “My husband did not seek out such women. He regarded the vows of marriage as sacred, and when he felt need of conjugal intimacy, he came to me.” She caught my gaze in the mirror. “You may regard this as fantastic, Kittredge, but Terrance was an excellent man and a devoted husband.”
    She said that in her president-of-the-Rumsen-Ladies’-Decency-Society tone, which told me two things: either the late Lord Bestly had been genuinely devoted to his wife, or he had shown his deference to her by being extremely discreet. Given that she had as much personal warmth as a mountaintop in December, I’d put my stakes on the latter.
    â€œVery well, no particular friends.” I tucked a hairpin in place. “Can you recall what he did on the day before he died?”
    â€œI can’t say for the morning. I hadn’t slept well so I rose rather late that day.” She cleared her throat. “I had luncheon with Terrance at one, and we discussed the weather and gardens. I was concerned