William Monk 02 - A Dangerous Mourning

was beneath the duties, but he knew Cyprian would respond little to an open inquiry.
    A carriage passed them too close to the curb, and its wheels sent up a spray of muddy water. Monk leaped inwards to preserve his trousers.
    “It must have been very distressing for her to find herself suddenly thrown upon the resources of others,” he said sympathetically.It was not feigned. He could imagine Fenella’s shock—and profound resentment.
    “Most,” Cyprian agreed taciturnly. “But death frequently leaves widows in altered circumstances. One must expect it.”
    “Did she expect it?” Monk absently brushed the water off his coat.
    Cyprian smiled, possibly at Monk’s unconscious vanity.
    “I have no idea, Mr. Monk. I did not ask her. It would have been both impertinent and intrusive. It was not my place, nor is it yours. It happened many years ago, twelve to be precise, and has no bearing on our present tragedy.”
    “Is Mr. Thirsk in the same unfortunate position?” Monk kept exactly level with him along the pavement, brushing past three fashionable ladies taking the air and a couple dallying in polite flirtation in spite of the cold.
    “He resides with us because of misfortune,” Cyprian snapped. “If that is what you mean. Obviously he was not widowed.” He smiled briefly in a sarcasm that had more bitterness than amusement.
    “How long has he lived in Queen Anne Street?”
    “About ten years, as far as I recall.”
    “And he is your mother’s brother?”
    “You are already aware of that.” He dodged a group of gentlemen ambling along deep in conversation and oblivious of the obstruction they caused. “Really, if this is a sample of your attempts at detection, I am surprised you maintain employment. Uncle Septimus occasionally drinks a little more than you may consider prudent, and he is certainly not wealthy, but he is a kind and decent man whose misfortune has nothing whatever to do with my sister’s death, and you will learn nothing useful by prying into it!”
    Monk admired him for his defense, true or not. And he determined to discover what the misfortune was, and if Octavia had learned something about him that might have robbed him of this double-edged but much needed hospitality had she told her father.
    “Does he gamble, sir?” he said aloud.
    “What?” But there was a flush of color on Cyprian’s cheeks, and he knocked against an elderly gentleman in his path and was obliged to apologize.
    A coster’s cart came by, its owner crying his wares in a loud, singsong voice.
    “I wondered if Mr. Thirsk gambled,” Monk repeated. “It is a pastime many gentlemen indulge in, especially if their lives offer little other change or excitement—and any extra finance would be welcome.”
    Cyprian’s face remained carefully expressionless, but the color in his cheeks did not fade, and Monk guessed he had touched a nerve, whether on Septimus’s account or Cyprian’s own.
    “Does he belong to the same club as you do, sir?” Monk turned and faced him.
    “No,” Cyprian replied, resuming walking after only a momentary hesitation. “No, Uncle Septimus has his own club.”
    “Not to his taste?” Monk made it sound very casual.
    “No,” Cyprian agreed quickly. “He prefers more men his own age—and experience, I suppose.”
    They crossed Hamilton Place, hesitating for a carriage and dodging a hansom.
    “What would that be?” Monk asked when they were on the pavement again.
    Cyprian said nothing.
    “Is Sir Basil aware that Mr. Thirsk gambles from time to time?” Monk pursued.
    Cyprian drew in his breath, then let it out slowly before answering. Monk knew he had considered denying it, then put loyalty to Septimus before loyalty to his father. It was another judgment Monk approved.
    “Probably not,” Cyprian said. “I would appreciate it if you did not find it necessary to inform him.”
    “I can think of no circumstance in which it would be necessary,” Monk agreed. He made an educated guess, based on the nature of the club from which Cyprian had emerged. “Similarly your own gambling, sir.”
    Cyprian stopped and swiveled to face him, his eyes wide. Then he saw Monk’s expression and relaxed, a faint smile on his lips, before resuming his stride.
    “Was Mrs. Haslett aware of this?” Monk asked him. “Could that be what she meant when she said Mr. Thirsk would understand what she had discovered?”
    “I have no idea.” Cyprian looked miserable.
    “What else have they