wasn’t simply good manners or English reticence, Benjamin concluded. Uncle Arthur’s innate authority and air of command was affecting these strangers just as they did his family. One simply didn’t demand what the hell Uncle Arthur thought he was doing.
Steaming plates were put before them. Eating reduced the necessity of talking. Benjamin addressed his beef and roast potatoes with what might have appeared to be enthusiasm. The sooner he finished, the sooner he could excuse himself from this awkward occasion, he thought. He was about halfway through when his uncle spoke. “No doubt you’re wondering why I’ve invited you—the four of you—this evening, when we aren’t really acquainted.”
Knives and forks went still. All eyes turned to the host, with varying degrees of curiosity and relief.
“You have something in common,” he went on. “We do.” He looked around the table. “Death.”
Astonishment, and denial, crossed the others’ faces.
The older man nodded at Benjamin. “My nephew’s wife died in childbirth four years ago. He mourns her still.”
In one queasy instant, Benjamin was flooded with rage and despair. The food roiled dangerously in his stomach. How dared his uncle speak of this before strangers? Or anyone? All Benjamin asked was that people let him be. Little enough, surely? His eyes burned into his uncle’s quite similar blue-gray gaze. Benjamin saw sympathy there, and something more. Determination? He gritted his teeth and looked away. What did it matter? The pall of sadness that had enveloped him since Alice’s death fell back into place. He made a dismissive gesture. No doubt his tablemates cared as little for his history as he did for theirs.
Uncle Arthur turned to the man on his left. “Frith’s parents were killed in a shipwreck eight months ago on their way back from India,” he continued.
The stocky viscount looked startled, then impatient. “Quite so. A dreadful accident. Storm drove them onto a reef.” He looked around the table and shrugged. “What can one do? These things happen.”
Benjamin dismissed him as an unfeeling clod even as his attention was transfixed by his uncle’s next bit of information.
“Sir Roger lost his wife to a virulent fever a year ago.”
“I didn’t lose her,” this gentleman exclaimed, his thin face reddening with anger. “She was dashed well killed by an incompetent physician, and my neighbor, who insisted they ride out into a downpour.”
He looked furious. Benjamin searched for sadness in his expression and couldn’t find it. Rather, he looked like a man who’d suffered an intolerable insult.
“And Compton’s sister died while she was visiting a friend, just six months ago,” his uncle finished.
The youngest man at the table flinched as if he’d taken a blow. “She was barely seventeen,” he murmured. “My ward as well as sister.” He put his head in his hands. “I ought to have gone with her. I was invited. If only I’d gone. I wouldn’t have allowed her to take that cliff path. I would have—”
“I’ve been widowed for ten years,” interrupted their host gently. “I know what it’s like to lose a beloved person quite suddenly. And I know there must be a period of adjustment afterward. People don’t talk about the time it takes—different for everyone, I imagine—and how one copes.” He looked around the table again. “I was aware of Benjamin’s bereavement, naturally, since he is my nephew.”
Benjamin cringed. He could simply rise and walk out, he thought. No one could stop him. Uncle Arthur might be offended, but he deserved it for arranging this…intolerable intrusion.
“Then, seemingly at random, I heard of your cases, and it occurred to me that I might be able to help.”
Benjamin noted his companions’ varying reactions: angry, puzzled, dismissive. No one, not even his formidable uncle, could make him speak if he didn’t wish to, and he didn’t.
“What help is there for death?” said Sir Roger. “And which of us asked for your aid? I certainly didn’t.” He glared around the table as if searching for someone to blame.
“Waste of time to dwell on such stuff,” said Frith. “No point, eh?”
Compton sighed like a man who despaired of absolution.
“Grief is insidious, almost palpable, and as variable as humankind,” said their host. “No one who hasn’t experienced a sudden loss can understand. A black coat and a few platitudes are nothing.”
“Are you accusing us of insincerity, sir?” demanded Sir Roger. He was flushed with anger, clearly a short-tempered fellow.
“Not at all. I’m offering you the fruits of experience and years of contemplation.”
“Thrusting them on us, whether we will or no,” replied Sir Roger. “Tantamount