The Lord and the Banshee (Read by Candlelight #13) - Gillian St. Kevern Page 0,8

never let me forget it.”

Thomas squeezed his hand. “What did you see?”

“A shadow. On the grass. As if someone looked down on us from above. I looked up and saw the stone give.” Pip pursed his lips. “It makes little sense, unless the stone falling was deliberate.”

An attempt on Pip’s life? Thomas set his jaw. Whoever was behind the attempt had messed with the wrong man. He—and Julian—would teach them the error of their ways. “We’ll send Julian up there tomorrow. He’ll identify who was on the roof.” The dinner bell sounded below. He stood. “Having imposed my company on our hosts uninvited, I cannot be late for dinner. Shall we?”

As they descended the stairs, Pip stroked Thomas’s arm. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Thomas patted Pip’s shoulder, not trusting himself to reply. The thought of Pip navigating his investigations without him there was intolerable. He thrust the memory of Mereweather’s diagnosis from his mind. There must be another way.

5

The castle might have been Connaught’s, but his great-aunt presided at dinner. The servants all deferred to Mrs O’Flaherty in bringing out the courses. If Connaught resented her command, he made no sign of it. His primary concern was that his wine glass remained full.

Thomas realised his jaw was clenched. He applied himself to his meal. Connaught was no more objectionable than many young men in his position. He, at least, had the excuse that he’d not been raised with any expectation he would inherit Connaught Castle.

Dinner conversation was light, the subject of the banshee avoided by mutual design. Pip asked Julian what London amusements might interest O’Flaherty, and he hit on the theatre—a warm subject.

“I wonder if the London theatre matches its high reputation. I fancy that we don’t do so badly in New York,” Connaught said. “I’d wager some of our recent productions are the equal of anything produced on the West End.” His tone was combative, and his shoulders squared, braced for a fight.

His attitude roused Cross’s contrarian instincts. He suppressed his urge to snap. “You will not find any argument on that score from us. We are acquainted with one of your leading actresses.”

Pip leaned forward. “Have you seen Miss Wilson’s performances? I am biased, but I believe that as a comic actress she has no equal.”

Connaught blinked. “Comic actress, yes, but comedy does not possess the same scope as tragedy.”

“Now, there we disagree, great-nephew,” Mrs O’Flaherty said. “Tragedy and comedy both possess challenges for the actress. Tragedy has more scope to convey a depth of emotion, yet carries with it the risk of straying into melodrama and farce. One must toe the line between two unpalatable extremes. A comedienne must master not only the art of acting, but her timing must be perfect, and her enunciation clear. The delivery matters as much as the line.”

Cross reconsidered Great-Aunt Beatrice. “You speak as one very well acquainted with the theatre, Mrs O’Flaherty.”

She pressed her lips together. “I have an interest in the performing arts.”

“Mama was an actress before she married,” Stella interposed. “She was rather good at it.”

“An actress!” Pip looked upon his hostess with fresh interest. “I thought you had a very striking voice.”

Mrs O’Flaherty shook her head. “The result of careful training rather than natural talent. I was competent in a supporting role, but lacked the skill necessary to command a leading role.”

“You mustn’t be too modest,” Pip told her. “Even a supporting role requires a lot of skill to pull off.”

“I should have loved to see her perform.” The eyeglasses she wore exaggerated the size of her eyes, making the enthusiasm in Miss O’Flaherty’s gaze an alarming sight.

“I would have disappointed you, my dear.” Mrs O’Flaherty shook her head. “The best my reviews ever said about me was that my performance was ‘adequate.’”

Connaught lolled back in his chair, his wineglass in hand. “Faint praise! I do not wonder you retired upon your marriage.”

“If I were an actress I should never retire,” Miss O’Flaherty said. “It seems to me the most wondrous career—to take on so many roles, to reinvent yourself anew each time, and the excitement of travel and the camaraderie of the theatre! No, I should not like to give that up.”

“Not this again, Stella.” Mrs O’Flaherty’s frown deepened. “The gruelling pace of rehearsals on top of travel robs both of any charm, and the tedium of learning one’s part… Add to that, the opprobrium the actress faces from the wider public! No, I will never allow my daughter to take to