by Anne Perry
Then she told him what she proposed to do next.
Ballarat agreed to see her with reluctance.
“My dear Mrs. Pitt, I am sorry you have been caused such distress, believe me,” he protested. “But there is really nothing I can do for you.” He rocked backwards and forwards on the soles of his feet and stood again in front of the fire. “I wish you wouldn’t harrow yourself in this way! Why don’t you go and stay with your family until, er ...” He stopped, realizing he had painted himself into a corner.
“Until they hang my husband,” she finished for him flatly.
He was acutely uncomfortable. “My dear lady, that is quite—”
She stared at him, and he had the grace to blush. But she had not come to antagonize him, and giving free rein to her feelings was self-indulgent and stupid. “I’m sorry,” she apologized with difficulty, swallowing her loathing of him because his fear was so much greater than his loyalty. “I came to tell you I have discovered something which I felt I must tell you immediately.” She ignored his exasperated expression and went on. “The woman in pink who was killed in Seven Dials was not the same woman in cerise whom Dulcie saw in the York house and Miss Adeline Danver saw on the landing in the Danver house. That woman is still alive, and is the witness that Thomas was looking for.”
A twinge of pity touched his face and vanished again. “Witness to what, Mrs. Pitt?” he asked with an effort at patience. “And even if we could find this mysterious woman—if she exists—it would hardly help Pitt. The evidence is still there that he killed the woman in Seven Dials, whoever she was.” He sounded eminently reasonable, certain of his lightness.
“Yes it is!” Charlotte’s voice was rising and there was a sharp note of panic in it in spite of herself. “Someone dressed that woman in a pink dress and killed her to protect the real Cerise, and to get rid of Thomas at the same time. Don’t you see?” she asked, her tone scathing with sarcasm. “Or do you imagine Thomas pushed the maid out of the window as well? And presumably killed Robert York too—God knows why.”
Ballarat put his hands up ineffectually, as if he would pat her, then saw the passion in her eyes and backed away instead. “My dear lady, you are overwrought. It’s very understandable, in your circumstances, and believe me, I have the deepest pity.” He drew breath again and steadied himself. Reason must be paramount. “Robert York was killed by a burglar, and the maid fell quite accidentally.” He nodded. “It does happen sometimes, unfortunately. Extremely sad, but not in the least criminal. And really, my dear lady, Miss Adeline Danver is quite elderly, and I believe not the most reliable witness.”
Charlotte stared at him in disbelief at first, and then with sickening comprehension. Either he was frightened of all the unpleasantness, the anger, the blame if it were true and there really was treason in the Foreign Office—or else he was part of it! She looked at his rounded jowls, his blustery complexion, his lidless brown eyes, round as buttons. She could not believe he was a brilliant enough actor to seem so much the ambitious man tricked and caught out of his depth. For a second that passed like a ripple of wind over the surface of a pond, she was sorry for him; then she remembered Pitt’s bruised face and the fear she had seen in his eyes.
“You are going to feel very foolish when this is all over,” she said icily. “I had thought you had more love for your country than to allow treason to flourish merely because up-rooting it might prove distasteful, and embarrass certain people whose favor you would like to keep.”
Ballarat’s face mottled purple as a turkey cock, and he took a step forward. “You insult me, madam!” he said furiously.
“I’m glad!” She glared at him with scorching contempt, cutting off his words. “I had feared I merely spoke the truth; prove the wrong and no one will be happier than I. In the meantime I believe what I see. Good day, Mr. Ballarat.” She walked out without looking back, leaving the door open behind her. Let him come after her and close it himself.
She knew what she must do. Ballarat had left her no choice. Had he promised to investigate she would have left it, but now there was nothing else she could think of. There was a ruthlessness in it of which she would not have thought herself capable, but it was shocking to her how easily it came, because she was fighting to protect those she loved more than herself, whose pain she could not bear as she might have her own. Her response was primal and nothing to do with the mind.
Charlotte had understood that look in Loretta’s face in the doorway of the conservatory. She was in love with Garrard Danver—totally, obsessively in love, which was not hard to believe. He had a grace, an individuality that was unusual. And he would be a challenge to most women; there was something elusive in him, the suggestion of great passion beneath his rather brittle shell and self-protective humor, if only one could find the secret of touching the heart or the soul inside. To lovely Loretta, bored with the charming but controlled Piers, the hint of something much wilder might be irresistible.
And obviously Garrard had loved only Cerise. All that hunger and flood of emotion, all Loretta dreamt of awakening herself, had been plain in his face when for a moment the sight of Charlotte outlined in the half light, and the flame of the dress, had stirred an anguished memory.
She must get them all together and press and press until someone broke. Garrard was the weakest link. He was afraid—she had seen that in his face too—and repelled by Loretta’s hunger for him. Charlotte could remember when a man had once felt such a lust for her and Caroline had blindly thought him suitable as a husband. Charlotte had been nearly hysterical when left alone with him briefly. It had seemed ridiculous later; Caroline had been angry, not understanding. It was years ago now and the incident had vanished from her mind, until she saw Garrard’s face in the lamplight and the peculiar mixture of horror, embarrassment, and revulsion brought it back with such precision that it made her skin crawl.
Garrard was the one she must press with all the force she had.
But there was no way within her power to make the Yorks invite the Danvers, the Ashersons, and herself, and no one else. They might not ever do it—certainly not within the few remaining days before Pitt would be arraigned and brought to trial. To have such a gathering in Emily’s house would be inexplicable, and Jack had no facilities either, although Emily would willingly have financed the event. No, the answer lay with Aunt Vespasia, and surely she would be willing.
Accordingly Charlotte abandoned the public omnibus and recklessly took a hansom cab to Aunt Vespasia’s house. Having paid the cabbie and released him, she climbed the shallow steps up to the front door and rang the bell. She had been here many times before and the maid showed not the slightest surprise at seeing her.
Vespasia received her in the boudoir, which was full of light and space, sparsely furnished in cream and gold with touches of deep green. A great green fern in a jardinière stood against one wall. Only the steeply banked fire saved it from chill.
Vespasia herself looked more fragile but she still had the perfect bones of the amazing beauty she had been forty, even thirty years ago. She had aquiline features, heavy-lidded eyes under arched brows, and coiled hair like old silver. She was dressed in dark lavender, with a high fichu of Brussels lace at her throat.
“How are you?” Charlotte asked immediately, and it was not merely good manners, or the need for help. There was no one outside her family, and few within it, she cared for as much as she did for Aunt Vespasia.
Vespasia smiled. “Quite recovered—and probably far better than you, my dear,” she said frankly. “You look pale, and considerably fatigued. Sit down and tell me how you are progressing. What may I do to help?” She looked beyond Charlotte to the maid, who hovered in the doorway. “Tea please, Jennet, and cucumber sandwiches and some cakes— something with whipped cream and sugar icing, if you please.”
“Yes m’lady.” And Jennet disappeared, closing the door softly.
“Well?” Vespasia demanded.
When Charlotte left, her plans were
perfected down to the finest detail. She felt immensely better for the food, and realized she had not been eating as she should—either she’d forgotten or she had no heart for it. Aunt Vespasia’s determination eased a great deal of the despair tightening inside her. She had very gently encouraged Charlotte to let go of the self-control which had kept her dry-eyed and rigid for so many days. Charlotte wept fiercely, with abandon. Naming all her fears, rather than forcing them down inside her like black devils, had robbed them of some of their horror; now that she had spoken them aloud and shared them, they no longer seemed unconquerable.
When Aunt Vespasia sent a handwritten letter two days later to say that the dinner was arranged and the invitations accepted, it was time to prepare Jack for the last and best gamble of all. Emily knew of it also, in as much detail as Charlotte dared tell her in a rather oddly coded letter, delivered by Gracie by omnibus.
Jack was far more nervous than Charlotte had expected when he collected her at quarter to seven on the evening of the dinner. But as soon as she was settled in the carriage and had a chance to weigh her thoughts, she realized that this was her own blindness. Just because he had done all he could right from the beginning, never questioning Pitt’s innocence or Emily’s harebrained plan to go to the Yorks’, did not mean he had no emotion under his rather casual exterior. After all, he was born and bred in a society where manner was all; one very quickly became out of fashion if one either loved or offended, and real emotions were apt to embarrass, which was even worse. They could disturb the peace of mind, unsettle, spoil the pleasure, and that was inexcusable. If Jack were worth anything, then of course he was nervous. He probably had a sick fluttering in his stomach just as she did, and a racing heart, and hands that were clammy no matter how often he wiped them.
They did not speak on the journey. They had made all the plans they could, and there was no time for trivia. It was bitterly cold, a rare winter night when the ice was crackling hard on the road and in the frozen gutters. The keen wind off the sea had blown the fog clear, and even over the city the smoke did not obscure the stars, which seemed to hang low as if someone had exploded a chandelier across the sky.
Vespasia had chosen Charlotte’s gown for the evening, and had obtained it for her, disregarding her protests. It was of deep ivory cream satin, touched here and there with gold, the bodice scattered with pearls. It was quite the most flattering garment she had ever worn, low-cut and with a beautiful bustle. Even Jack, who had wined and dined with the great beauties of the age, was startled and impressed.
They were shown into Vespasia’s withdrawing room and found her seated by the fire on a high-backed chair as if she were a queen receiving court. She wore gun-metal gray with a choker of diamonds and pearls, and her hair above her arched brows was coiled like a wrought silver crown.
Jack bowed and Charlotte, without thinking, dropped a curtsy.
Aunt Vespasia smiled; there was deep conspiracy in it. The situation was desperate, but there was also exhilaration going into battle.
“England expects that every man will do his duty,” Aunt Vespasia whispered. “I believe our guests are about to arrive.”
The first to come were Felix and Sonia Asherson, looking agreeably surprised to be there. Vespasia Cumming-Gould was something of a legend, even to their generation, and they knew of no reason why they should be among the very few invited to her house. What had seemed in Sonia to be an unbearably placid complacency, in this light appeared merely the rather regular cast of her features and an expression of politeness.
Felix appeared frankly interested. He could be extraordinarily charming when he wished; he knew how to flatter without words, and his infrequent smile was devastating.
Aunt Vespasia was nearly eighty. As a child she had seen the celebrations after the victory of Waterloo; she remembered the Hundred Days and the fall of Napoleon. She had danced with the Duke of Wellington when he was prime minister. She had known the heroes, the victims, and the fools of the Crimea, the empire builders, statesmen, charlatans, artists, and wits of the greatest century in the history of England. She was happy to play with Felix Asherson and kept the smile on her own lips flawlessly unreadable.
The Danvers were shown in ten minutes later. Julian seemed perfectly at ease; he felt no compulsion to show off or to push himself into the conversation. Charlotte decided Veronica might well be fortunate.
Garrard, on the contrary, was quick to speak, his face drawn, his hands moving nervously as though stillness were an unbearable strain. Charlotte instinctively scented the kill, and hating herself for it made no difference at all to her intentions. The choice lay between Garrard Danver and Pitt. It was no choice at all.
Harriet Danver was also far from comfortable. She looked more fragile than she had on previous occasions, although it was possible that was due to her wearing a shade of smoky lavender which echoed the shadows in her pale skin and made her eyes look even larger. Either she was very much in love and finding the pain unendurable, or there was some other knowledge or fear preying on her mind.
Aunt Adeline was dressed in topaz and gold, which suited her very well. There was a slight flush on her cheeks, which robbed them of their usual sallowness. It was several minutes before Charlotte realized Adeline felt vastly complimented to be invited to Aunt Vespasia’s home, and the occasion had excited her greatly. Charlotte felt a sharp spear-thrust of conscience. She would dearly like to have abandoned this, but it was not possible.
Last to come were the Yorks, Veronica ethereal and magnificent in black and silver, sweeping in with her head high and color in her cheeks. She checked herself almost before she was through the door at the sight of Charlotte standing close to Julian Danver. His admiration for her was extremely obvious; and it was equally obvious, just for an instant, that Veronica had never before appreciated what a potential rival Charlotte might be. Little Miss Barnaby from the country was a considerable beauty, when she chose! Veronica’s greeting had lost several degrees of warmth by the time they met in the center of the floor.
For once Loretta also looked less sure of herself; her aplomb was a shadow of her old certainty. As always, she was meticulously groomed, exquisitely feminine in golden peach, but the fluidity had gone, the wound Charlotte had seen in the conservatory was still raw. She did not look at Garrard Danver. Piers York was grave, as if aware of tragedy without knowing its nature or direction; either that, or he chose to ignore it. His face lit when he saw Vespasia, and Charlotte realized with surprise that they had known each other for years.
All the customary greetings were made, petty courtesies exchanged, but already the undercurrents had begun to pull, to tear and distort.
For half an hour they talked of the weather, the theater, figures of fashion and politics. They all seemed to be enjoying themselves except Garrard and Loretta. If Piers had any reservations he was too practiced to reveal them.
Charlotte found her attention wandering. She must not begin yet; she would wait until dinner. Begin too early and she could dissipate the very tension she was seeking to build. They must all be seated, facing each other, with no escape except the violent act of physically leaving a hostess’s presence. Only illness could excuse that.
The moments dragged by, the inane conversation fell word by word as she watched their faces and planned. Felix was enjoying himself, even with Harriet, and gradually she lost her pallor and joined in. Sonia was swapping gossip with Loretta. Veronica was flirting with Julian, looking in his eyes, ignoring Charlotte. Vespasia smiled and spoke to each of them in turn, drawing out small, self-revealing comments, and now and again her eye caught Charlotte’s with the faintest nod.
At last dinner was announced and they went in, two by two, taking the places Vespasia had set for them with meticulous forethought: Harriet next to Felix Asherson and opposite Jack, so he could see any expression in their faces; Julian next to Charlotte; and most important, Loretta and Garrard next to each other, under the chandelier, so no flicker of muscle, no shadow
in their eyes could escape Charlotte directly opposite.
Soup was served, lobster bisque, and conversation flagged. Next came the fish, deviled whitebait, then the entree of quenelle of rabbit. When they were just beginning the removes of quarter of lamb, Aunt Vespasia regarded Julian Danver with an agreeable smile. “I understand you are quite a rising star in the Foreign Office, Mr. Danver,” she said. “A most responsible situation, not without its dangers.”
He looked surprised. “Danger, Lady Cumming-Gould? I assure you, I seldom leave the extremely comfortable and eminently safe rooms of the Foreign Office itself.” He smiled at Veronica quickly, then back again at Vespasia. “And even if I were posted abroad to some embassy, I would insist on it being in Europe.”
“Indeed?” Her silver eyebrows rose. “In what country’s affairs do you specialize?”
“In the affairs of Germany, and its interests in Africa.”
“In Africa?” she asked. “I believe the kaiser has some imperial designs there, which may inevitably conflict with ours. You must be involved in delicate negotiations.”
His smile remained. All the other conversation had stopped and faces were turned towards him.
“Of course,” he agreed.
The corners of Vespasia’s mouth curled upwards very slighdy. “And do you never fear betrayal, or even some slight, quite honest mistake that could hand the advantage to your opponents—your nation’s opponents?”
He opened his mouth to reply, dismissing her fears; suddenly the words died and a shadow touched his face. Then he banished it.
“One has to be careful, of course, but one doesn’t speak of state matters outside the Foreign Office itself.”
“And of course you know exactly whom to trust.” Charlotte made it more of a statement than a question. “I imagine treason begins little by little. First a small confidence elicited, perhaps by someone in love.” She glanced at Harriet and then back at Felix. “Personal loyalties can make such a mess of morality,” she said quietly, aware of what she herself was doing even at this moment, aware of friendship, the unwritten laws of hospitality—and of love that overrode them all. It was not that she thought she was right, or that love excused it, simply that it was elemental, as an animal protects its own.