Dorchester Terrace

by Anne Perry

  CHARLOTTE WAS DELIGHTED WHEN Pitt came home and told her of the invitation to dine with Blantyre and his wife. It was a social occasion that promised to be most enjoyable. However, of much more importance to her was the relief she saw in Pitt over the fact that someone had finally listened to his concerns.

  For years he had shared with her much of what he had done. She had been of help to him in many cases, especially those concerning people of the class into which she had been born, and he had not. To begin with, he had considered it meddling, and had been afraid for her safety. Gradually he had come to value her judgment, especially her observation of people, and her strength of character, even if he still feared for her safety in some of her wilder interventions.

  Emily too had involved herself, demonstrating both courage and intelligence. But that was in a past that now seemed distant; they were much further apart than they used to be. She did not blame Emily for feeling a greater loyalty to Jack than to her sister. She herself gave her first passionate and instinctive allegiance to her husband. But the knowledge still carried a sense of loss, a longing for the laughter and the trust, the ability to talk openly about all kinds of things, trivial or important, which had always been part of her life and her relationship with Emily. There was no one else she would trust in the same way.

  But she forced it from her mind and smiled at Pitt. “That will be excellent. It will be lovely, and a decent excuse to wear a new gown I have bought for myself, rather than one borrowed from Emily or Aunt Vespasia. I have a very fashionable one, in a curious shade of blue. It will be more than equal to the occasion.”

  She saw Pitt’s amusement.

  “Adriana Blantyre is very beautiful, Thomas. I shall have to do my best to not be constantly overshadowed!”

  “Is she brave and clever as well?” he asked with sudden gentleness. “Or funny and kind?” He did not add the rest of what he implied. She knew it, and felt the blush of self-consciousness creep up her cheeks, but she did not lower her eyes from his.

  “I don’t know. I liked her. I look forward to knowing her a little better.” Then suddenly she was serious again. “Thomas, does Blantyre matter to you? Is he going to help you?”

  “I hope so,” he replied. “Jack arranged it.”

  A hurt inside her slipped away. “Good. Good. I’m glad.”

  She wished he were free to tell her what troubled him, apart from the burden of taking on Narraway’s job. She wanted to assure him that he was equal to it, but such assurances would be meaningless, because she had very little idea what it was that bothered him in the first place. She did not know whether his skills matched Narraway’s, or even if they ever could. They were very different from each other. Until their experience in Ireland, she had thought of Narraway as intellectual, and happy to be alone. Whether that was natural to him or he had learned it, it had become his habit. Only when he lost his position in Special Branch had she seen any vulnerability in him, any need at all for the emotional warmth of others. How blind she had been. It was something she thought of now with a dull ache of guilt. She preferred to put it from her mind. That would be easier for Narraway too. He would not wish to think she remembered every emotion in his face, perhaps regretted now. Some things should remain guessed at, but unspoken.

  Regardless of such moments, there was a professional ruthlessness in Narraway that she believed would never be natural to Pitt. Indeed, she hoped it would not.

  That was part of the difficulty. Two of the things she loved most in Pitt were his empathy and his love of justice, which would make leadership and its terrible decisions more difficult for him.

  She had not yet found any way in which she could help him. Blind support was all she could offer, and it had a very limited value. It was, in some ways, like the love of a child; in the dangerous and painful decisions, he was essentially alone.

  She looked at him now, standing in the middle of the kitchen as Daniel came in with his homework, and she saw the deliberate change of expression as he turned to his son. She knew the effort it cost him to put aside his worry, saw his hands clenched in frustration even as he smiled at Daniel and they spoke of history homework, and how best to answer a complicated question.

  “But how is that the Holy Roman Empire?” Daniel asked reasonably, pointing to the map in his schoolbook. “Rome is way down there!” He put his finger on the middle of Italy. “It isn’t even in the same country. That’s Austria. It says so. And why is it holier than anywhere else?”

  Pitt took a deep breath. “It isn’t,” he said patiently. “Have you got a map of where the old Roman Empire used to be? I’ll show you where it became the Eastern and the Western Empires.”

  “I know that, Papa! And it wasn’t up there!” He put his finger on Austria again. “Why is all that bit part of the Holy Empire?”

  Charlotte smiled and left Pitt to do his best with conquest and Imperial politics. No one else had ever been able to give a morally satisfying answer, and she knew Daniel well enough to expect a long argument.

  CHARLOTTE DRESSED FOR THE dinner as she had done in her early twenties, before her marriage, when her mother had been trying desperately, and unsuccessfully, to find her a suitable husband.

  She had chosen a color and style that flattered the warmth of her skin and the hints of auburn in her hair. The cut of her dress showed the soft curves of her figure to their best advantage. It was fashionable enough to feel up to date, but not so much that in a few months it would be outmoded. She had Minnie Maude help her coil and pin her hair so it had no chance of slipping undone. To have one’s hair falling out of its coiffure would be deemed just as disastrous as having one’s clothing fall off! And rather more difficult to put right again.

  In the lamplight, she was not sure if she observed one or two gray hairs, or if it was only a nervous imagination. Her mother, many years her senior, had only a few. And of course there was a remedy for it. Apparently iron nails steeped in strong tea for fifteen days make an excellent dye for darker hair! Rinsing the hair in tea was, she considered, good for it every so often anyway.

  She wore very little jewelry. This was not only as a matter of style, but also because she owned very little, a fact she did not wish to make obvious. Earrings were sufficient. There was natural color in her face, but she added a little rouge, very, very discreetly, and put a tiny dab of powder on her nose to take away the shine. Once she was satisfied that it was the best she could do, she would forget it entirely and focus on whoever she was speaking to, listen with attention, and answer with warmth, and if possible, a little wit.

  They had hired a carriage for the evening. To keep one all the time was an expense they could not afford, nor was it needed. If that day were to come in the future, perhaps it would be after they had moved to a house with stables. It would be exciting to make such an upward climb in society, but it would also force her to leave behind a place in which they had known much joy. Charlotte was perfectly happy not to have such a burden at the moment. She sat back in her seat, smiling in the dark as they were driven through Russell Square, its bare trees thrashing in the heavy wind. They turned left up Woburn Place, past Tavistock Square, open and windy again, then along the shelter of Upper Woburn Place and into the flickering lamplight of Endsleigh Gardens.

  The carriage stopped and they alighted at the Blantyres’ house, where they were welcomed in by a liveried footman. He showed them immediately to a large withdrawing room where a blazing fire shed red and yellow light on leather-upholstered chairs and sofas, and a carpet rich in shades of amber, gold, and peach. The gaslamps were turned low, so it was difficult to see the details of the many paintings that decorated the walls. In a quick glance all Charlotte noticed was their ornamental gold frames, and the fact that they seemed to be mostly land- and seascapes.

  Adriana Blantyre came forward to welcome them, a step ahead of her husband. She was dressed in burgundy velvet. Its glowing color emphasized the fairness of her face and the amazing depth of her eyes. She looke
d both fragile and intensely alive.

  Blantyre himself greeted Charlotte with a smile, but his glance returned to his wife before he offered his hand.

  “I’m so pleased you could come. How are you, Mrs. Pitt?”

  “Very well, thank you, Mr. Blantyre,” she replied. “Good evening, Mrs. Blantyre. It is such a pleasure to see you again.” That was not merely good manners. On the brief occasions she had met Adriana, she had found her to be quite different from most of the society women she knew. She possessed a sparkling energy and a dry sense of humor that lay more in what she did not say than in any quick ripostes.

  They sat and talked casually: light comments on the weather, the latest gossip, rumors that were of no serious consequence. Charlotte had time to look at the paintings on the walls, and the very beautiful ornaments that graced the mantel and two or three small tables. One was a porcelain figurine of a woman dancing. It had such grace that it seemed as if, at any moment, it would actually move. One of the largest ornaments was a huge statue of a wild boar. It stood with its head lowered, menacing, yet there was a beauty in it that commanded admiration.

  “He’s rather fine, isn’t he?” Blantyre remarked, seeing her gaze. “We don’t have boar here anymore but they still do in Austria.”

  “When did we have them here?” Charlotte asked, not really because she wanted to know, but because she was interested in drawing him into conversation.

  His eyes opened wide. “An excellent question. I must find out. Have we progressed because we no longer have them, or regressed? We could ask that question of a lot of things.” He smiled, as if the possibilities amused him.

  “Have you hunted boar?” Charlotte asked.

  “Oh, long in the past. I lived for several years in Vienna. The forests around there abound with them.”

  Charlotte gave an involuntary little shiver.

  “I imagine you would greatly prefer the music and the dancing,” he said with certainty. “It is a marvelous city, one where almost anything you care to dream of seems possible.” He looked for a moment at Adriana, and there was an intense tenderness in his face. “We first met in Vienna.”

  Adriana rolled her dark eyes and a flash of amusement lit her expression. “We first danced in Vienna,” she corrected him. “We met in Trieste.”

  “I remember the moonlight on the Danube!” he protested.

  “My dear,” she said, “it was the Adriatic. We didn’t speak, but we saw each other. I knew you were watching me.”

  “Did you? I thought I was being so discreet.”

  She laughed, then turned away.

  For an instant Charlotte thought it was out of modesty, because the look on Blantyre’s face was openly emotional. Then she caught something in the angle of Adriana’s head, the light catching a tear in her eye, and felt that there was something she had missed entirely, far deeper than the words conveyed.

  A few minutes later they were called to the dining room, and its lush, old-fashioned beauty took all Charlotte’s attention. It was not the least bit English; there was a simplicity to the proportions, which lent an extraordinary grace, and a lush warmth to the coloring.

  “Do you like it?” Adriana asked, standing close behind her. Then she apologized. “I’m sorry. If I ask, how could you possibly say you did not?” She gave a rueful smile. “I love England, but this room carried the memory of my home; I want people here to like what I used to know and love as well.” Without waiting for an answer, she moved away to take her place at the foot of the table, while Blantyre sat down at the head.

  The meal was served by footmen and a parlormaid, silently, and with a discretion born of long practice. First there was a clear soup, followed by a light fish, and then the main course of lamb in red wine sauce. The conversation moved easily from one subject to another. Blantyre was a highly entertaining host, full of anecdotes about his travels, especially his time in the capitals of Europe. Watching his face, Charlotte saw an undisguised enthusiasm for the individuality and culture of each place, but a love for Austria that superseded all the others.

  He spoke of the gaiety and sophistication of Paris, of the theater and art and philosophy, but his voice took on a new intensity when he described the Viennese operetta, the vitality of it, the music lyrical enough to make everyone wish to dance.

  “They have to nail the chairs and tables to the floor,” he said, almost seriously. He was smiling, his eyes staring into the distance. “Vienna’s always in my dreams. One minute you cry there, the next you laugh. There is a unique richness in the blend of so many cultures.”

  Adriana moved very slightly, and the change in the light on her face made Charlotte look toward her. For a moment, she saw pain in Adriana’s eyes, and in the shadows around her mouth, which was still too young for lines or hollows. Then it was gone. But for a second, Adriana had seemed utterly lost. Her hand was on her fork, and then she set it down with a clink, as if she could not eat any more.

  Blantyre had seen it—Charlotte was quite certain of that—yet he went on with his tale of music and color, as if to avoid drawing attention to it.

  The next course was served. Blantyre changed the subject and became more serious. Now his attention was directed toward Pitt.

  “It has changed lately, of course,” he said with a little grimace. “Since the death of Crown Prince Rudolf.”

  Adriana’s eyes widened in surprise, probably that he should mention such a subject at the dinner table, and with people they hardly knew.

  Instantly, Charlotte wondered if Pitt’s real reason for being here could possibly be connected to the tragedy at Mayerling. But what concern could that be to British Special Branch? She looked at Pitt and saw a slight frown on his face.

  “The emperor is a martinet,” Blantyre went on. “Sleeps in an old army bed and rises at half-past four in the morning to begin his work on the papers of state. He dresses in the uniform of a junior officer, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he eats only bread and drinks only water.”

  Charlotte looked at him closely to see if he was joking. His stories had been full of wit and lighthearted mockery but always gentle. Now she saw no lightness in his face at all. His nostrils were slightly flared, and his mouth was pulled a little tight.

  “Evan …” Adriana began anxiously.

  “Mr. Pitt is head of Special Branch, my dear,” Blantyre said, very slightly criticizing her. “He has few illusions. We should not add to them.”

  Adriana went very pale, but did not argue.

  Charlotte wondered where the conversation was heading. How much of it was information that Pitt was seeking, and why had they come to learn it this way? She turned to Blantyre.

  “He sounds rather grim,” she observed. “Was he always like that, or is it the effect of grief over the death of his son?”

  Blantyre replied, “I’m afraid he was pretty much always a bore. Poor Sisi escapes whenever she can. She’s a trifle eccentric, but who could blame the poor woman?”

  Charlotte looked from Blantyre to Pitt; she saw the mystified expression on his face before he could hide it.

  “The empress Elisabeth,” Blantyre explained, eyebrows arched a little. “God knows why they call her Sisi, but they all do. A bohemian at heart. Always taking off for somewhere or the other, mostly Paris, sometimes Rome.”

  Charlotte plunged in, hoping she was judging correctly that in some fashion this had to do with Pitt’s current case.

  “Which came first?” she asked innocently.

  Blantyre turned to her with a bright stare. Was that a ghost of amusement in his eyes? “First?” he inquired.

  She looked straight at him. “Her desire to escape his being a bore, or his retreating into solitude because she was always off on some adventure?”

  He nodded almost imperceptibly. “Neither, so far as I know. But Crown Prince Rudolf was caught up in a considerable conflict between his father’s rigid military dictatorship and his mother’s erratic flights of fancy, both metaphorical and literal
. He was really rather clever, you know, when given half a chance to escape the straitjacket of duty.” He turned to Pitt. “He wrote excellent articles for radical newspapers, under a pseudonym, of course.”

  Pitt straightened, his fork halfway to his mouth.

  Blantyre smiled. “You didn’t know? It doesn’t surprise me. Not many people do. He was of the opinion that an Austrian invasion of Croatia would be a cause for war with Russia, which Austria would start against a completely anti-Austrian Balkan peninsula, from the Black Sea to the Adriatic. He said not only the present would be at stake, but also the whole future, for which Austria was responsible to the coming generation.”

  Pitt stared at him. There was complete silence at the table.

  “Almost a direct quote,” Blantyre said. “As closely as I can match the English to the German.”

  “Evan, the poor man is dead,” Adriana said softly. “We will never know what good he might have done had he lived.” There was intense sadness in her voice, and her eyes were downcast.

  Charlotte’s mind raced. She could think of no way in which a suicide pact between a man and his mistress, however tragic, could concern British Special Branch. And yet it appeared that Blantyre had introduced the subject very deliberately, even though it was hardly polite dinner conversation among people who barely knew one another.

  Now Blantyre was looking at Adriana. “My dear, you mustn’t grieve for him so much.” He reached out a hand toward hers, but the table was too long for them to touch. Still his fingers remained in the open gesture, resting lightly on the white cloth. “It was his own choice, and I think perhaps all that was left to him. He was tired and ill, and desperately unhappy.”

  “Ill?” she said quickly, meeting his gaze for the first time since Rudolf’s death had been mentioned. “How can you know?”