William Monk 12 - Funeral in Blue

was going to do. For an instant he even thought of not telling her after all, but that was only his own cowardice speaking. “Imogen.”
    “Imogen?” she repeated very quietly. “Imogen . . . gambling?”
    “Yes. I’m sorry.”
    She did not seem startled or disbelieving. He had expected her to reject the possibility, had been afraid he would have to persuade her, argue, even face her anger. But she was standing quite still, absorbing the information without fighting it at all. Certainly she was not angry with him.
    “Hester?”
    For a few more moments she ignored him, still thinking about what he had told her, taking it into her mind, working out what it meant.
    “Hester?” He reached forward and touched her gently. There was no resistance in her, none of the struggle he had expected. She turned her face and looked at him. Then suddenly he realized that she had known! There was no amazement in her eyes, just a kind of relief. He had gone through this agony of decision unnecessarily. She had known about it and said nothing to him. “How long has it been going on?” he demanded roughly, drawing his hand away.
    “I don’t know.” She was looking not at him but into the distance, and someplace within herself. “Only weeks . . .”
    “Weeks? And after you discovered about Elissa Beck, you didn’t think to mention Imogen to me? Why not? Is your family loyalty to her so great you couldn’t have trusted me?” He realized as he said it how much it hurt to be excluded. He spoke from his own wound, like a child hitting back. He felt no ties of blood, that instinctive bond that was deeper than thought. Perhaps it was irrational, bone-deep, but if he had ever felt it, it was gone with all his memory. It left him alone, rootless, without an identity that was anything more than a few years of action and thought.
    He envied her. Whether she felt close to Charles or not, whether she liked or admired him, he was a chain to the past which was unbroken, an anchor.
    “I didn’t know it was gambling,” she said with a frown. “I knew there was something exciting and dangerous. I thought it was a lover. I suppose I’m glad it wasn’t.”
    “But you didn’t . . .”
    “Tell you?” Her eyes were very wide. “That I was afraid my brother’s wife was having an affair with someone? Of course I didn’t. Would you have expected me to, if you couldn’t help?”
    He did not want to, but he understood. He would have thought less of her if she had such a vulnerability for anyone else to see, even him. She was protecting her brother, instinctively, without thinking it needed explanation. She had temporarily forgotten that he had no one else but her. He had left his one sister behind in Northumberland when he came to London, however long ago that had been. He hardly ever wrote to her. A world of experience and ambition divided them, and there was no wealth of common memory to bridge it.
    “I shall have to tell Charles,” she said softly.
    “Hester . . .” He was still confused by her, wanting to help and certain that he had no idea how to. “Are you . . .” he began, then did not know how to finish. Charles already knew. He had followed Imogen. Runcorn had not discovered that yet, but when he investigated further into Elissa’s playing at the gambling house, it was more than likely that he would. Then he would know that he had praised Monk in his mind for an honesty that was partial, as if he would protect Charles Latterly but not Kristian. He would wonder why. Perhaps he understood family loyalty, or would he only see guilt?
    Monk realized with surprise that he knew nothing about Runcorn’s parents, or if he had brothers or sisters. Surely he had known before the accident? Or had he never cared?
    “Charles is already aware there is something,” Hester said, interrupting his thoughts. “I think he would rather it were gambling; most people would. It’s . . . it’s less of a betrayal. They may still love you as much as they love anyone.” She looked away a moment. “Is it only bored people who gamble like that, William? I can’t imagine wanting to, but perhaps if I did nothing but manage a house, with no children, no purpose, nothing to gain or lose, no excitement of life, no crises, I might create my own.”
    He wanted to laugh. “I’m sure you would.” Then his smile withered. His agonizing over her pain had been pointless. He was not sure if he was relieved or angry, or both. She was right about an