The Housekeepers(69)

“I am willing to discuss…arrangements. Compensation. If that’s what it takes, to…” He paused, as if choosing the best phrasing. “Send you on your way.”

Mrs. King pushed the paper back toward him. “Perhaps you might give me some information instead.”

“I’m sure I don’t have any information for you.”

“Dear me,” said Mrs. King. “I haven’t told you what I want yet.”

He tutted with impatience. “Really, I cannot tell you how tedious I find this business. It’s one thing to smooth over a gentleman’s indiscretions. It’s quite another to find them popping up and causing trouble. Although I’ve seen it before, of course. Dying men are always troubled by their bastards.”

Mrs. King looked over Mr. Lockwood, the soft parts of him, the pale ghost-white skin at his throat. “I’m nobody’s bastard,” she said evenly.

“Good gracious, I wish you’d put that in writing. Better still, sign the affidavit saying so.”

Mrs. King studied him. “Mr. de Vries had a very lengthy discussion with me before he died.”

Mr. Lockwood’s eyes glittered. “Did he? I thought you might say that. Did he make you all sorts of fantastical promises? Offer cash gifts and special heirlooms? Do tell me. I must have missed them in his letter of wishes.” He held her gaze. “His will doesn’t mention you at all.”

“You don’t think my testimony matters?”

“No, I do not. Nor would a court of law.”

“Well, we’re not in court, Mr. Lockwood. We needn’t pick and choose what we call admissible.”

“Indeed not. Though, if we were, you’d need a witness. Have you one of those? Was someone with you during this scintillating conversation?”

Mrs. King felt a prickle of annoyance. “No,” she said flatly, revealing no emotion.

Mr. Lockwood closed his eyes again, just for a moment. “Well,” he said, in a weary voice, “then really we’ve nothing further to discuss.”

Mrs. King touched the affidavit with her fingernail. “I’m perfectly happy to put my name to something, Mr. Lockwood. It’s just the tone of this paper I can’t abide. All this talk of slander, of libel, of scandal. Not my cup of tea at all. Let’s work up something more straightforward, and I’ll sign it in a heartbeat.”

The air shifted. He smelled danger. “Oh?”

“Write me a few lines now, if you like,” said Mrs. King. “Something like, ‘I am not the bastard child of Wilhelm de Vries. I never thought I was. I never heard the same.’”

She saw a muscle leaping at the corner of his mouth.

“Shall I fetch a pen and ink?” she said, pleasant.

“I’m not sure,” he said, “that I trust you, Mrs. King.”

“Heavens, I’m as honest as the day. You needn’t worry about that. And while we’re talking about truth telling, I had one little, tiny question. It’s somewhat related.” She took care with the next words. This was the heart of the matter. “Do you have my father’s marriage certificate?”

Lockwood’s back stiffened. She saw his brow crease. Confusion.

“Mr. Lockwood?”

Silence. She’d got him off-balance. “Do you, or don’t you?” she said. “You ought to have all the family papers.”

Lockwood took a small breath. Then he said, “What do you mean?”

“Dear me. I suppose I shall have to go back to the register office again.”

“Whatever do you want to do that for?”

Mrs. King had two choices. She could rile him for the fun of it, but that could lead to unpredictable outcomes. She could play for time, but that would test her own patience, too. She decided to rile him.

“That’s a conversation I’d rather have with Miss de Vries.”

“Why?” His eyes were glued to hers.

“It’s a personal matter.”

He leaned back in his chair, weighing that. There was something coarse in Mr. Lockwood, underneath his gloss and gleam. You could tell by looking at his hands. Calloused, with blackened nails.

“I’d advise you to talk to me,” he said.

Mrs. King smiled. “No.”

Then Mr. Lockwood got up. “Tell me at once,” he said, voice low. There was a tiny bit of spittle at the edge of his mouth. It glistened.

“Be calm, Lockwood,” she said.

He stepped closer. “Mind your manners. I’ll ask you again.” He licked his lips, a quick, reptilian move.

Mrs. King could feel her lungs expanding, contracting, entirely steady. Mr. Lockwood bent over and put his arms on her chair.

“Don’t do that, Mr. Lockwood,” said Mrs. King. His breath was too sweet. It smelled of vanilla and honey. It turned her stomach.

“Then answer my question.”

“I really won’t.”

His front teeth were very straight and even. But she could see the ones at the back, a jumble of black and silver. “Do you want me to drag it out of you?” he said.

Mrs. King stared at him. “I wouldn’t advise it.”

“Stand up.” He reached out and grabbed her arm.

Mrs. King shoved him hard in the chest. He stumbled backward, eyes widening in shock.