Belgrave Square

by Anne Perry

  Emily stood still, turning to face Charlotte.

  “You know something of importance that you are not telling me. I imagine it is to do with the murder of the usurer. I think you had better tell me now.”

  Charlotte looked at Emily’s steady blue eyes. If she were to persuade her, nothing less than the truth would serve.

  “Only indirectly,” she replied, moving to one side as another footman passed by with a tray of glasses of chilled champagne. She lowered her voice still further; it would not do to be overheard. “In investigating some others who are being blackmailed, or might be—of course they deny it—he discovered that they all belong to one of the secret societies, and that the society demands of its members a loyalty ahead of their honor or conscience, even if that should be contrary to the law.”

  “How can it be? What do you mean?” Emily was worried, but still failed to understand.

  “Police,” Charlotte whispered fiercely. “Some of the members are police, and they have been corrupted, turned their backs on certain crimes …”

  “But that is their own choice,” Emily argued, unconsciously shifting her position a little and putting her hand to the small of her back. “What would the society do if they refused? Blackmail them? In those circumstances one would be very glad to be thrown out. And they run the risk of being reported for attempts at corruption.”

  “You have been standing long enough.” Charlotte noticed the gesture and understood it with sympathy. She could well remember the backache of pregnancy. “Come, sit down. There is a seat over there.” And without giving Emily time to reply, or to demur, she took her arm and walked over towards the wooden garden bench.

  “I am afraid it is nothing so pleasant,” she answered, smiling with artificial sweetness at a fat lady whose name she should remember. “They do not forgive betrayal, and that is apparently how they see it.” They sat down and arranged their skirts. “And you seem to have forgotten that the membership is secret,” she went on. “So you do not know if perhaps your own superior is a member also. Or your banker, your physician, your lawyer, the next police officer you should meet. Certain members, and Thomas does not know who, exercise discipline, which can be extremely nasty. Incriminating evidence may be placed where the police will find it, and scandal and prosecution may result.”

  Emily’s face darkened. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. Thomas is very distressed by it.”

  “But it may not be the same society,” Emily reasoned. “There are totally philanthropic organizations also, and from what Jack said, this one is extremely dedicated to good works. Their secrecy is a matter of not wishing to boast, and because certain kinds of justice can be effected only if their enemies are unaware of who fights their cause. Lord Anstiss is a member, because it was he who invited Jack to join.”

  “Of course yours may not be the same society as Thomas is concerned with,” Charlotte agreed. “Is ‘may not’ good enough for you?”

  “No…”

  Before she could add anything further she was interrupted with great good humor by a lady with a magnolia-trimmed hat and a booming voice. She greeted Emily effusively as if they had been the closest of friends, was introduced to Charlotte with a beaming smile, then proceeded to monopolize the conversation with memories of a function she and Emily had recently attended.

  Charlotte excused herself, catching Emily’s eye and nodding politely to the lady with the magnolias. Then she rose and walked along the path towards the gazebo and a magnificent bed of azaleas.

  Her next encounter took her totally by surprise. She had seen Great-Aunt Vespasia in the distance and, anticipating the pleasure of speaking to her, had set out across the grass, lifting her skirts with one hand to avoid soiling them. She was within two or three yards of her when she saw that she would interrupt a meeting that was about to take place. Vespasia was very upright, her shoulders slender and stiff under exquisite pale pink silk and Chantilly lace, a magnificent triple rope of pearls hanging to her waist. She was wearing a hat almost as big as a cart wheel, lifted rakishly at one side, her silver hair coiled to perfection, luminous pearls dropping from her ears, her chin high.

  The woman approaching her was also of a good height, but very lush of figure, with creamy white skin and auburn hair. Her features were lovely in a very classic manner and she was gorgeously dressed to flatter the striking attributes with which nature had endowed her. And from the expression on her face she was not unaware of the stir she caused. There was a supreme confidence in her and not quite an arrogance, but most definitely an enjoyment of her power.

  The middle-aged man beside Vespasia, clean shaven with a ruddy face and broad brow, affected introductions between the two women well within Charlotte’s hearing.

  “Lady Cumming-Gould, may I present Mrs. Lillie Langtry—”

  Vespasia’s eyes widened, her silver brows arched and her very slightly aquiline nose flared infinitesimally.

  “To seek permission now seems a trifle late,” she said with only the barest edge to her voice, and a definite lift of amusement.

  The man flushed. “I—er—” he stammered, caught off guard. He had thought well of himself. Most people had envied him his acquaintance with the Jersey Lily. Indeed he had bragged about it to some effect.

  Vespasia turned to Mrs. Langtry. She inclined her head with very deliberate graciousness. She had been the greatest beauty of her day, and she deferred to no one on that score.

  “How do you do, Mrs. Langtry,” she said coolly. She was an upstart. She might be the Prince of Wales’s mistress, and Lord knew who else’s, and have beauty and even wit, but Vespasia would not be introduced to her as if she could in a few years climb to that eminence Vespasia had taken a lifetime to achieve. That required also intelligence, patience, dignity and discretion. “I hope you are finding the London season enjoyable?” she added.

  Mrs. Langtry was taken aback.

  “How do you do, Lady Cumming-Gould. Indeed, thank you, it is most enjoyable. But it is not my first season, you know. Indeed, far from it.”

  Vespasia’s eyebrows rose even higher. “Indeed?” she said without interest. One would have thought from her expression she had never heard of Lillie Langtry. She looked her up and down, her eyes lingering for a moment on her neck and waistline, where so often age tells most unkindly. “No—of course not,” she amended. “It must be simply that our paths have not crossed.” She did not say “nor are they likely to in the future,” but it hung in the air delicately suggested.

  Lillie Langtry was the most famous of London beauties sprung from nowhere, and she had been rebuffed before and had overridden it with grace. She was not going to be stopped in her triumph by one elderly lady, no matter who.

  She smiled tolerantly. “No, perhaps not,” she agreed. “Do you dine very often at Marlborough House?” She was referring to the Prince of Wales and his friends, as they all knew.

  Vespasia was not going to be bested. She smiled equally icily.

  “Not quite my generation,” she murmured, implying that they were Mrs. Langtry’s, although they were at least a decade older.

  Mrs. Langtry flushed, but battle had been joined, and she did not retreat either.

  “Too much dancing, perhaps?” Mrs. Langtry looked at Aunt Vespasia’s silver-topped cane.

  Vespasia’s eyes glittered. “I care for the waltz, a delightful dance, and the lancers and the quadrille. But I fear some of the modern dances are not to my liking—the cancan, for example …” She left her distaste hanging in the air.

  Mrs. Langtry’s lips tightened. The cancan’s scandalous reputation was well known. It was performed by prostitutes and women of other unspeakable occupations in places like Paris, and even there it was illegal. “You dine with Her Majesty, perhaps?” she suggested, still smiling. They both knew that ever since Prince Albert had died twenty-eight years before, the Queen had ceased to entertain. Her mourning was so profound as to have caused open criticism in the land that she did not d
o her duty as monarch.

  Vespasia raised her eyebrows. “Oh no, my dear. Her Majesty does not entertain anymore.” Then she added gently, “I am surprised you did not know that. But still—perhaps …” She left it trailing in the air, too unkind to speak aloud.

  Mrs. Langtry drew in her breath but at last a retort failed her and she forced a wintry smile, relying on beauty and youth alone, which were sure cards in any game. And certainly she was an exceptionally beautiful woman.

  Vespasia had filled her time richly and she did not rue its passing, or regret that which was past. She inclined her head graciously.

  “Most—interesting—to have met you, Mrs. Langtry.” And she swept away before victory could in any way be turned into defeat, leaving Charlotte to bring up the rear as she chose.

  She caught up with Vespasia, opening her mouth to comment, then changing her mind and assuming an air of total innocence as though she had observed none of the exchange. Charlotte swapped a little polite conversation, suppressing her laughter and seeing the bravado in Vespasia’s eye.

  Then balancing a glass of champagne and wishing she knew how to manage a cake elegantly at the same time, and knowing she did not, she made her way to where Emily was talking animatedly with Fitzherbert and Lord Anstiss. Odelia Morden stood desultorily a little to one side, her blush-pink gown and parasol delicate as apple blossoms, white ribbons on her hat and white gloves immaculate. She looked more feminine even than Emily. Charlotte felt a little twist of sorrow for her. She seemed isolated, uncertain what to say or to do.

  Charlotte joined the group. Fitz made way for her quickly as though she had rescued him from a sudden silence.

  “How nice to see you, Mrs. Pitt. I am sure you are acquainted with Lord Anstiss?”

  “Indeed.” Charlotte dropped the slightest of curtseys. “Good afternoon, Lord Anstiss.”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Pitt.” He smiled back at her. He was a more dynamic man than she had remembered. She was aware not merely of an acute intelligence in his glance, but of an energy within him, a restlessness of interest seeking new knowledge, hungry for experience, curious and powerful, and a needle-sharp humor. He was not a man she would have challenged. The thought of him as a friend was exciting, as an enemy something which raised a prickle of fear.

  Apparently she had interrupted a conversation. It was resumed without niceties, and she was absorbed into it easily, which was in itself a kind of compliment.

  “We made up a party to see it,” Fitz was saying with a smile. “I must admit I was most keen. Madame Bernhardt has such a reputation …”

  “I believe she is to do Joan of Arc next year,” Anstiss said, his eyes bright. “In French.” He glanced at Odelia.

  “I should enjoy that,” she said quickly. “I think my French is well enough.”

  “I am sure.” He inclined his head very slightly. “After all, we are familiar with the story, and there is something extremely satisfying about watching a drama well played out towards a predestined end of which we are acutely aware. It has a piquancy.”

  She seemed aware that he had a meaning deeper than that on the surface, but not what it might be.

  “I did see Henry Irving last week,” Fitz offered cheerfully. “He was quite excellent, I thought. Captured the audience completely.”

  “Indeed.” Anstiss seemed unconvinced. “Mrs. Pitt? Have you seen anything of interest lately?”

  “Not at the theater, my lord.” She suppressed a smile, but saw the quick leap of humor in his eyes. Then as quickly it was gone, and he turned to Fitz again.

  “I imagine you will be marrying soon?” He looked in Odelia’s direction. “Are you planning the Grand Tour as a honeymoon? You could leave in a month or two and still be returned long before a general election.” He shrugged. “Unfortunately one must think of such things. I apologize for raising the subject. It seems indelicate, but however graceful and amateur we may wish to appear, politics is a very professional affair, if we wish to succeed.” His words were pleasant, his voice quite light, but there was steel beneath it, and Fitz was not the only one to realize it. An answer was required, if he wished Anstiss to consider him for selection.

  Beside Charlotte, Emily drew in her breath sharply.

  Fitz raised his eyes slowly, his face losing the casual interest and the ease disappearing. Odelia waited motionless, except that her fingers curled tightly on the handle of her parasol.

  “Of course,” he said slowly. “The art is to make the work look like a hobby, an interest undertaken for its own sake, and the skill like an art, something a gentleman might do to fill his time.”

  “Oh quite,” Anstiss agreed with a smile that touched only his lips; his eyes did not flicker. “But we have enough dilettante politicians already. We need men who are committed.”

  The last trace of lightness disappeared from Fitz’s eyes. He knew he could no longer evade making an irretrievable statement, a date he would have to abide by, regardless of either his own emotions or Odelia’s.

  Anstiss was waiting.

  Emily opened her mouth to prompt Fitz, then changed her mind, realizing she would intrude in something too serious for such comment to be anything but misplaced.

  “I—” Fitz began, then stopped, his face pale. He turned himself to meet Odelia’s gaze. It was a long, painful look, his face puckered in a mixture of apology and shame.

  No one else moved, but Anstiss’s brows darkened and the skin across his cheekbones became tighter.

  Fitz drew in his breath slowly. The ghost of a smile returned to his lips, but it was bravado. There was no joy in it.

  “I value my career, such as it is, and I wish to serve politics wholeheartedly, if I am given the opportunity, but I do not intend to allow it to dictate my personal arrangements, or those of my family. I shall marry when it best suits all those who are concerned.” He met Anstiss’s eyes squarely, although there was still regret and courtesy in his voice. “I hope that does not sound less than civil. It is not meant to.”

  There was no answering warmth in Anstiss. His brows drew together, his lips narrowed.

  Emily looked at Fitz, then at Odelia. A slow wave of emotion spread up her face, compassion, anxiety, and suddenly Charlotte knew it was not unmixed with guilt. So much hung in the balance, the inflections of Fitz’s words, whether he had the courage or the depth of feeling to cast away all that he was so close to winning, Anstiss’s reaction, Odelia’s—and on all of it depended Jack’s future as well.

  Emily avoided Charlotte’s eyes and stepped forward, taking Odelia’s arm.

  “Come, let us leave them to talk politics. Tell me of your own thoughts—would you care to do the Grand Tour? I did, you know, and there is much that is fascinating, and I would not have missed, but my goodness it can be uncomfortable at times. I found I am not cut out for physical adventure. Do you know, in Africa I saw—” And the grisly account of what she saw was lost as the two of them drifted away, leaving Fitz alone with Anstiss and Charlotte.

  “Very tactful,” Anstiss said dryly without glancing at Emily’s back, although his meaning was quite apparent. “A woman of considerable poise—most necessary for a man who has any hope of surviving in politics.” There was no compromise in his eyes, hard, bleak light gray. “I take it from your reluctance that you have reservations about marrying Miss Morden? Surely you are not still thinking of that wretched Hilliard girl? Very pretty, but not remotely possible as a wife.”

  A flash of anger sparked in Fitz’s face.

  Anstiss ignored it. He had no need to tread warily. He held the patronage and he knew it.

  “Whatever her morality, Fitzherbert—and it is open to question, even at the most charitable interpretation—her reputation is ruined.”

  “I beg to differ,” Fitz said with freezing civility. “There has been a little whispering, largely by the idle and ill informed.”

  “By society,” Anstiss snapped. “And whatever your opinion of them, or of their intelligence, you would
do well to remember it is they who will put you in Parliament—or keep you out!”

  A pink flush spread up Fitz’s cheeks, but he was stubborn in his convictions.

  “I do not wish to owe my success to those who would grant it to me at the same time as they tear down the reputation of a young woman about whom they know nothing.”

  “My dear Fitzherbert, they know she was publicly accused of being Carswell’s mistress, and she made not the slightest effort to deny it. On the contrary, she said nothing at all, and fled the scene—which is a confession of guilt. Not even a fool would deny that.”

  Fitz’s face was unyielding, but he had no argument. Whatever his belief, the facts were as Anstiss had said. He was painfully unhappy, but he refused to give ground. He stood upright, head high, lips tight.

  “Can you give me a date when you will marry Miss Morden?” Anstiss said levelly, his voice courteous and cold. “Keep Miss Hilliard as a mistress if you wish, only for God’s sake be discreet about it. And wait a couple of years—she’ll still be in the business.”

  “That is not my standard of morality, sir,” Fitz said stiffly. His face was hot as he was hideously aware of how pompous he sounded, and how offensive, but unable to retreat. “I am surprised that you should suggest such a thing.”

  Anstiss smiled sourly. “It is not mine either, Fitzherbert. But then I have no amorous interest in Miss Hilliard. You have made it apparent that you do. I am telling you that is the only arrangement with such a woman that society will accept.”

  Fitz stood ramrod straight.

  “We shall see.” He bowed. “Good day, sir.”