SITTING IN THE CARRIAGE on the way home, Charlotte was thoughtful. She had not really enjoyed the reception. She had known from the beginning that it was a professional occasion for Pitt rather than a social one. The invitation had been arranged by Somerset Carlisle at the shortest possible notice. She had looked at the note as soon as Pitt had left that morning. She knew Carlisle only slightly, and she liked him. He was amusing, unpredictable, and brave. But he had always been connected with mystery of the darkest sort, and usually violence as well. He was a man of passions, which he wore lightly, but they led him to crusade, at any risk, against what he saw as wrong. Very often he did it alone. He espoused the causes others disagreed with, or thought too dangerous or too unlikely to be won. That was partly why she liked him, and a good deal why he charmed her.
Whatever Pitt was doing must be desperate for him to have enlisted Carlisle’s help. That was the part that alarmed her.
She had not asked Pitt about it, since she knew that if he could have told her, he would have. To put him in the position of having to refuse her would only hurt them both. It was clear from his preoccupation, and everything else in his manner, that whatever this business was, it troubled him. He did not enjoy formal society engagements, and yet he had leaped at the chance to go. He did not even complain about having to wear a dinner suit of immaculate black and a starched shirt. Even though he looked very distinguished, he felt out of place. The very fact that he did not try to evade going was enough to make her certain that he had no choice.
She had watched him carefully. If she could not help him openly, then she would do so without his knowledge. She had lost touch with who was important in society lately, or why: who loved or hated whom; who owed or wanted something. She would have to pay a great deal of attention and try to recall the skills she’d had in her single days, and a few she had still practiced when Pitt was a regular policeman.
Charlotte had entered the party on Pitt’s arm, but not fought against their separation when courtesy required it. She knew that he was unlikely to do whatever he had come for with her beside him. Also, she wanted to watch, observe, see the unspoken emotions that are betrayed by the expressions on faces, the angles of the body, the tensions that people themselves were unaware of.
Was Lady Felicia Whyte of any importance? She certainly had the air of a woman who thought she was in danger of losing the place she felt was her right. There was an edge to her voice, a stiffness in the way she moved. Watching her through the evening, Charlotte saw the hard lines appear on her face now and then, just fleetingly, before she mastered them. But never did she see her at ease, even when her husband stood beside her. Once he reached out, as if to touch her, then changed his mind.
She looked at Pitt as their hansom passed under a streetlamp and the light illuminated his features for a moment. He was deep in thought, unaware of her. Now it was she who reached out to lay her hand on his sleeve, and then changed her mind. He could not tell her anything—that she already knew. She was being childish merely wanting him to talk to her.
A few moments later they reached Keppel Street and the hansom pulled up at the curb. Pitt came to attention with a sudden awareness, climbed out, paid the driver, then helped Charlotte to alight with grace. Together they went to the front door. He unlocked it and they went inside. The late summer evening was chill. Daniel and Jemima would be in bed, almost certainly asleep. The maid, Minnie Maude, had left the hall gas lamp on, burning low. The gleam of light on polished wood and the faint smell of lavender polish was comforting, like the smile of a friend.
“Thank you,” Pitt said quietly to Charlotte. “It cannot have been much fun for you.”
She wondered whether to say that it had been but decided to preserve the honesty that was so precious between them. “It had its pleasures,” she said simply. “But it’s nice to be home.”
Pitt turned the one gas bracket even lower, barely a glow. Charlotte led the way upstairs, stopping on the landing to very quietly open the door of eighteen-year-old Jemima’s room. She stood for a moment listening to the quiet breathing, then closed the door again. She did the same with fourteen-year-old Daniel. He stirred very slightly but did not awaken. She did it out of habit. She had not expected anything different, yet could not rest until she had assured herself. All was well. Still, she remained awake later wondering why Pitt had gone to the reception at Lord Harborough’s house, and why Carlisle had arranged it so precipitately. Who had Pitt gone to see?
The only person she had noticed him deliberately approach was Alan Kendrick. From the expression on Felicia Whyte’s face, there had been a very sharp exchange between Kendrick and herself. It appeared sudden, but such emotion does not arise out of nowhere. They knew and disliked each other. Several times after that she had noticed Pitt looking at Kendrick. He had done it discreetly, but she knew him too well to mistake it for chance. Perhaps she should learn more about Kendrick.
Normally she would have been quite frank about it and asked Aunt Vespasia. But then, so would Pitt, were Vespasia in London. Perhaps there was no choice but to go to her younger sister, Emily? But discreetly, without telling her anything, if such a thing was possible? She only asked Emily’s assistance when it was absolutely necessary.
Emily’s first marriage had made her Lady Ashworth, and extremely wealthy. When George had died—or, more exactly, been killed—Emily had remained a widow for a while, then married Jack Radley, a charming and handsome man who had done little with his life up to that point. He had since become a member of Parliament, and was gaining a reputation of some value. Charlotte was not unaware of how hard he had worked at that, even if he pretended that it came easily.
Emily was still the delightful, highly skilled, and observant lady of society that she had always been. But she was bored with that and looking for some of the old adventures.
ACCORDINGLY CHARLOTTE CALLED UPON Emily a little after ten o’clock the following morning. It was not a suitable hour for a visit, but she chose it in order to have a better chance of finding Emily at home and not yet receiving anyone else. She was fortunate to succeed.
Emily’s house was far larger than her own, but Charlotte had long ago become accustomed to it. Her own house in Keppel Street was perfectly comfortable, and filled with memories, almost all of them happy in one way or another.
Emily had a very different life—wealthy, glamorous, but without the danger or victories of Charlotte’s. Charlotte would not have exchanged her life for anyone else’s. She knew there were certainly times when Emily would have.
The maid showed her up to Emily’s boudoir. This was not a bedroom but a smaller and very much more feminine and personal sitting room upstairs off the main landing. It was decorated in muted shades of cream and pink and gold, lots of florals, cushions like giant heaps of roses—an undisciplined side of Emily she showed hardly anyone else. The chairs were extraordinarily comfortable. There were books chosen for interest and pleasure on every shelf of the case—lots of novels, several collections of poetry, and scrapbooks she had made…and never looked at since. Three separate bowls of flowers sat on tables: roses in golden yellow; irises, their dark purple giving form and shape to more complicated arrangements.
Emily was a couple of years younger than Charlotte, just reaching forty, with no gray visible in her lovely hair. But then, as fair as it was, the gray probably would not show for years. She was dressed in pale green, the color that flattered her most.
She came forward, her face alight with pleasure, and gave Charlotte a quick hug. Then she regarded her more closely, and with interest.
“Something has happened,” she observed. “A concern, but not a disaster, at least not yet.” It was comforting to be known and understood without explanation. It was also disconcerting to be read at a glance so accurately. But Charlotte had seldom been able to hide her emotions for very long.
“As usual, you are right.” She sat down in her favorite chair, and Emily sat on the one opposite her. “There are some people I would like to know more about.”
“A case of Thomas’s,” Emily deduced. “I suppose you can’t tell me about it. I find these secret matters such a bore.” She gave a slight shrug. It was an elegant, very feminine gesture. “It used to be so exciting. Who is it?”
“I saw them yesterday evening. Alan Kendrick and his wife, and Lady Felicia Whyte and her husband,” Charlotte replied. “And, of course, their circle in general.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know! That’s why I need to know more.” Charlotte felt that was a very reasonable explanation. Regardless, it was the only one she had.
“You are detecting behind Thomas’s back,” Emily concluded.
Charlotte bit her lip and moved uncomfortably on the soft, embracing chair. “Not…detecting, just learning a little more. Being prepared…”
“Then I will be prepared with you,” Emily responded. “Give me an hour or two and I will find out where we should go. I presume you want to begin as soon as possible?”
“Yes, please.” Charlotte hesitated. Should she say more? Emily was obviously waiting. Could she trust her discretion?
Emily continued to wait, but the brightness slowly faded in her eyes.
Charlotte took the risk. “Somebody important died. Watching Thomas yesterday evening, I think that may be what he is concerned with…”
Emily’s fair eyebrows went up. “Died? Do you mean was killed? Who?”
“An accident on the river,” Charlotte answered.
“Oh! You don’t mean Sir John Halberd, do you?”
Charlotte was taken aback, but perhaps she should not have been. She sometimes forgot how wide Emily’s acquaintance was. “You knew him?”
“I met him a couple of times.” Emily’s voice dropped with a note of dismay. “I liked him.”
“Why?” That came out more abruptly than Charlotte had intended, but it was a relevant question. Everything about Halberd mattered now.
Emily must have appreciated that because she answered without arguing, just a moment’s hesitation for thought. “There was something very direct about him. He seemed never to play for effect. Society is so full of…posing. But I do think he was much cleverer than some people thought. I was surprised that he should die in an accident, and on the Serpentine, of all places. It just doesn’t seem like…who he was. But I suppose many of us are not what we seem. I would hate to be as light and uncomplicated as some people assume I am. Nothing to me but the latest fashion, and a few predictable causes. Does Thomas think Sir John was murdered?”
Charlotte heard the sadness beneath the words, and she understood perfectly. She had glimpsed that void herself. But this was not the time to acknowledge it. Now, at least, they had a purpose.
She answered more gently. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything except that Thomas went to a party last evening, at very short notice, and met people he would never normally wish to meet. He hates dressing up, then standing around talking about nothing much, except where people have been and who they met.”
There was a bleak look in Emily’s face for an instant, almost a sense of fear, as if she were lost; then it vanished.
“It isn’t what is said. It’s the tone of voice, and all the things that are left out. Have you forgotten so quickly?”
Charlotte did not bother to answer. “Can you help?”
“Of course. There is a garden party tomorrow afternoon.” Emily pursed her lips thoughtfully. “It will be high fashion. You had better borrow something from Aunt Vespasia. It may not suit you, since you are of such different coloring, but nobody will be able to find fault with your style.”
“Aunt Vespasia is in Europe.”
“Oh, yes, of course. Never mind. Her maid will find you something, if you explain the need to her. Her name is Gwen.”
“I know. Aunt Vespasia calls all her maids Gwen, regardless of what their names really are. I don’t think they mind.”
“Borrow the dress anyway. I’ll let you know about the party. Now I must begin.” Emily stood up, suddenly alive with purpose.
CHARLOTTE FELT RATHER SELF-CONSCIOUS wearing one of Aunt Vespasia’s gowns, in spite of the fact that it fit her well and was exactly the right length. It was a shade of deep, warm ivory she had never dared to wear before, and she was not certain it became her. It was clearly expensive and in the very height of fashion. Its style all lay in the cut of the shoulders and the fall of the very slight fullness at the back. It was extraordinarily lovely. She hoped Vespasia had not been saving it for a special occasion. She had asked, and Gwen had assured her that was not the case.
She straightened her shoulders and reminded herself that a man Pitt was concerned with had died, and she knew from a dozen little signs that he was worried about it. Nothing trivial would have taken him to the reception two days ago—or kept him awake last night. She knew it every time she had stirred; and even when half asleep herself, she was aware of his restlessness.
Now she crossed the pavement beside Emily and entered under a garlanded gateway into a large, formal garden with lawns, its flight of shallow stone steps flanked by huge stone urns with scarlet and orange nasturtiums trailing over their edges. Lush herbaceous borders were filled with spires of lupines in full bloom and splendid, gaudy poppies.
“Looks like an army, carrying its spears and banners aloft,” she murmured to Emily.
“Doesn’t it!” Emily agreed. “Prepare for war! Enemy approaching from the left!”
Their hostess welcomed them, skillfully hiding the fact that she had no idea who Charlotte was, but her wide, rather pale blue eyes reflected unmistakable admiration for the gown.
Charlotte felt herself blush, praying it was not also recognition of it. On the other hand, if Vespasia had not worn it yet, how was Charlotte going to explain wearing it before its owner had had the chance? But there was no time now for such considerations. She banished it from her mind, smiled with all the charm she could manage, and allowed herself to be introduced to the first group of women.
For several minutes the conversation was polite and meaningless. Then a stout woman in a floral dress glanced sideways and Charlotte could see Lady Felicia Whyte talking to one of the few men present.
“I used to envy her so much,” the woman said with a smile. “He had such an air about him. So dashing, Major Whyte, don’t you think?”
“I thought him rather quiet,” her friend in green replied. Then she lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I think something happened. But of course I have no idea what…”
“Some dark adventure,” her companion said in a whisper. “Sometimes I think safety is so tedious…”
Charlotte shivered. So easily did gossip begin. Like a hat pin plunged between the ribs, she thought. You don’t even feel it at the time; only afterward do you wonder where the blood came from.
“You know who would tell you?” Emily said with an unreadable expression in her face. “Sir John Halberd. He has the air of knowing everything about everybody. I find him fascinating. So polite, and says everything, and when you come to think of it afterward, he told you nothing at all.”
“Oh dear,” the first woman said in dismay. “Didn’t you know? The poor man died a couple of weeks ago…”
“Oh no!” Emily gasped, putting on a mask of shock. “What happened?”
“Apparently he drowned…”
Charlotte bit her tongue to stop her first reaction. She dared not meet Emily’s eyes. “Where? I didn’t hear of a boat going down,” she said innocently.
“It was hardly a…a major sinking…” the floral woman answered.
“You can’t sink very far on the edge of the Serpentine,” her friend said a trifle waspishly. “Not literally, anyway.” Charlotte looked at her with interest. She was a handsome woman in a lean way, marred at the moment by a flicker of malice in her eyes.
“Do you mean morally?” Charlotte asked, then wondered if she had been too direct. “I always think of little boys playing with sailing boats. Sort of Sunday afternoon thing to do.”
The woman stared at her as if she had noticed her for the first time.
“I beg your pardon?” Her tone dared Charlotte to respond.
“If not literally, then in some other way,” Charlotte said with a sweet smile. “One may drown in several senses of the word.”
The woman was not deterred. “Are you suggesting he was morally…lost?” she said with incredulity.
“Is that fatal?” Charlotte was not going to be beaten so easily. She just managed to keep the edge of laughter out of her voice, and sound innocent.
Now everyone was watching, waiting for the next response. Emily moved a little closer to Charlotte, in a tacit mark of loyalty.
“Lots of things can be fatal—at least to your reputation in society,” the woman answered. It was clearly meant as a warning.
Charlotte did not alter her expression in the slightest. “And it would seem that boating on the Serpentine is one of them.”
The woman hesitated this time before lifting her chin a little and replying, “I still think very highly of him.” She closed her mouth in a hard line.
“I gather that,” Charlotte said meekly.
There was a titter of laughter, stifled quickly.
“I wish I had known him,” Charlotte added. “He seems to have been remarkable.”
“You have a taste for night boating on the Serpentine?” the lean woman retorted, this time instantly.
Charlotte knew exactly what she meant. It was a not very subtle suggestion that she conducted a string of affairs behind her husband’s back. Night boating, after the manner of Halberd, was going to become a standing joke.
Charlotte opened her eyes very wide. “Is it fun?” This time the laughter was less well concealed.
Quite a few people conducted affairs of one degree of seriousness or another; it was just not mentioned, for one’s own protection. The façade was too valuable to be broken. Certainty took some of the entertainment out of speculation.
It was Emily who changed the subject, and then decided it was imperative that she introduce Charlotte to Lady Something-or-other.
“You are outrageous!” she told Charlotte with satisfaction as they moved past the bed of lupines and began up the shallow steps. “Nothing new to learn of Halberd’s death here, maybe?”
“It was Alan Kendrick whom Thomas seemed interested in at Lord Harborough’s.” They were passing a large urn of geraniums in hot pinks, the scent of them sharp. Bees hovered around, a mass of blue flowers sprawling across the edge of the steps above.
“I don’t think Delia Kendrick is here,” Emily answered very quietly, at the same time nodding and smiling to an acquaintance coming down the steps. “We will have to find another party for you to shine at. I don’t know whether to tell everyone you are my sister—or no one at all.”
“No one at all,” Charlotte said immediately. “Because I don’t promise to behave graciously. I have to learn what I can. Aunt Vespasia knows everyone, but she’s probably crossing the Alps, or on the Orient Express, or on an island in the Aegean. I miss her.”
Emily tightened her hand on Charlotte’s arm. “I know. But we will just have to manage by ourselves. We could try Felicia.”
“I met her briefly at the reception,” said Charlotte. “I find it hard to decide exactly how old she is. She has the figure of a woman much younger than sixty, yet—”
“Never say that!” Emily grasped Charlotte’s hand. “She’s only just passed fifty. Or are you being deliberately…” She let out her breath. “You’re right. She’s not wearing so well…the fine skin…oh, buckets of mud! Am I going to do that? Look sixty and be only fifty, do you think?”
Charlotte understood Emily’s fear. She had seen it before, and it was real and painful. Beauty mattered far more than it should. But she had no time for it now. “Ask Aunt Vespasia what she does, because she still looks marvelous,” she advised. “Instead of watching her when she enters a room, watch everybody else admiring her. You’ll see. Does Felicia care?”
Emily considered for a moment. “Yes, I think she does,” she answered as they left the steps behind and reached the shade of a huge elm tree soaring into the sky, leaves whispering in the slight wind. “She is afraid of something, and that may be it. Her mother was beautiful too, in the same way, and she lost her looks comparatively young. I don’t know what happened to her. When I first stepped into really high society”—her voice dropped—“with George…” She took a sharp little breath. “It seems like ages ago. Felicia’s mother, I think she was the Countess of something. But she was lovely, and at almost every party or ball. Then in the space of only a few years she seemed to age, and then to forget things. Then we didn’t see her anymore.”
Charlotte tried to imagine it and found it both painful and frightening. What happened that someone lost everything, lost themselves, in the space of a very few years? It would not be surprising if Felicia feared that the same might happen to her. Charlotte felt that she would, in her place. In fact, her first thought was to picture their own mother, Caroline, strong and vigorous. A few years after Edward Ellison’s death, comparatively young, Caroline had met an actor, of all things, younger than herself, and married him. She had embarked on a new life, full of adventures, and delighted in it.
Charlotte was happy for her mother, but she realized with surprise how much she was also happy for herself in the thought of it. Suddenly she felt quite differently toward Felicia Whyte, and ashamed of herself too. How easily she leaped to an emotional conclusion, when she knew nothing.
Emily was waiting for her to respond. Clearly, from the concentration in her face, her mind was following a different train of thought.
“How sad,” Charlotte said gently. “For how many people does fear of the future take away the present as well?”
“Too many,” Emily answered. “Do you want to meet again, or not?”
“Of course.”
This next encounter was different. Charlotte knew she was reacting to the story of Felicia’s mother, and what she imagined her own reaction might be, were it her life. How would she behave if she could see in her mind a time when she would age too much, and Pitt too little? What would be different between them? Social things, of course; their value in other people’s eyes. But what about more personal things as well, too precious and too private to speak of to anyone else?
“Good afternoon, Mrs….er…Pitt.” Felicia had nearly forgotten her name in two days—but then, Charlotte was of no importance in the social scene.
“Good afternoon, Lady Felicia.” Charlotte smiled warmly. “What a perfect way to see the very best of it.” She glanced at the blaze of flowers in the sun. “Do I have you to thank for this also?”
Felicia hesitated, then decided to accept. “I may have dropped a word or two,” she conceded. “It is always interesting to get a new perspective on…things…It can all become so tedious, after a while.” She gave a characteristic, elegant shrug.
“I find many things fascinating,” Charlotte said, taking her chance when the slightest opportunity offered itself.
“Really?” Felicia obviously did not believe her—but then, it would be a terrible gaffe to actually say so. “Have you been abroad for a while?” It was the only explanation she could think of.
Charlotte thought rapidly. She had dug herself a hole. She needed to climb out of it with some degree of style. “Sometimes it felt like it,” she replied. “I had forgotten how much interesting undercurrent there is in even the most charming occasion. Don’t you agree? So much more is meant than is ever put into words. For example, the emotion behind people’s comments on the most unfortunate and rather odd death of Sir John Halberd.”
Felicia was plainly startled.
Charlotte wondered if she had gone too far. Pitt would be furious, and she had no excuse to give him. Then she remembered how restless he had been most of the night. He must be far more worried than he could tell her, and he could not even turn to Lord Narraway, Vespasia’s husband, who had held the position in Special Branch before Pitt. Vespasia herself seemed to know so much that she would often guess what Pitt could not ask her, and tell him anyway. Charlotte realized how excluded she herself had been, by necessity. Pitt could not place her in danger by telling her what she should not know, or jeopardize his own position, on which all their well-being rested.
She remembered with a chill how frightening it had been when he was dismissed from the police, due to a conspiracy against him. Suddenly they’d faced being homeless and worrying about the next month’s—even the next week’s—security. For Pitt the worst feeling was not the fear of poverty or hardship, but guilt. She had hated that. He had seemed so vulnerable, although he had tried to conceal it, to protect her. Protection was the last thing she had wanted. She had felt not only more frightened, but shut out of his pain, and that was the hardest of all: the loneliness.
She had to do this. What was a little embarrassment, when the alternative was so much worse?
“Of course, they will be wondering why on earth he was in a rowing boat on the Serpentine after dark,” she said clearly.
Felicia smiled and suddenly there was a real warmth to it. “I was wondering if he was really alone,” she replied very softly. “I rather hope he was. He was a dangerous man, in some ways. He knew so much about so many people. I would rather believe it was an idiotic accident than that someone deliberately…let him drown.”
Charlotte looked as regretful as she could, and spoke very quietly.
“Do you mean that someone deliberately stood by and watched him drown…or actually caused the accident?”
Felicia drew in her breath sharply. “Oh…I didn’t think I meant that…But I suppose I do. That’s terrible. I think perhaps I meant that someone else panicked. If it was someone who couldn’t admit to having been there, then that might be…understandable.”
“I suppose it would,” Charlotte agreed. “If it was…shall we say, a woman of the night, she could have panicked.”
Felicia stared straight at her. “Or a married woman, perhaps of his own social class. Then she would very definitely wish profoundly to not be seen. Whatever you said, everybody would believe that you were there for the least creditable of reasons. Whatever the truth, that would be the assumption.” Charlotte’s mind raced. Was Felicia speaking of herself? A last affair with a magnetic older man, to prove to herself that she was still beautiful? It was not impossible to understand.
“Of course you are right,” Charlotte agreed again. “What an appalling position to be in! And I suppose it might not have been for that reason at all.”
Felicia waited.
Charlotte was not certain how to phrase the alternative she had been thinking. Emily filled the breach for her.
“Well, he did, apparently, know a great deal about very many people. So far as I know, he was always discreet. But perhaps some people, at least, made it worth his while to remain so.”
“Oh dear. Of course,” Felicia agreed. “How stupid of me not to think of blackmail. There is so much over which a person could be blackmailed, one way or another.”
Charlotte’s surprise must have been plainer than she intended.
“Oh, not necessarily a crime,” Felicia said with dry, rather harsh amusement. “Life is full of indiscretions, at least a life of any interest is. And it isn’t just that no one should know, or does know. It’s that the wrong people shouldn’t.”
Charlotte’s mind was teeming with ideas. Felicia mistook her silence for doubt.
“My dear, it isn’t even what actually happened—or didn’t happen, for that matter—it’s what one makes of it.”
Charlotte remained silent, in the hope that Felicia would continue.
Felicia glanced around, and lowered her voice a little. “Take Delia Kendrick, for example. She wasn’t Kendrick’s first choice, you know?” She raised her eyebrows a little. Charlotte’s look of total incomprehension satisfied her. “He courted Arabella Nash, daughter of the Duchess of Lansdowne. Everyone thought they would marry. But they didn’t. Of course it was said that she declined. But they always say that. A man never says he found out something about her. True or not, he would be socially ruined.”
“And people assumed she had…” Charlotte left the sentence unfinished; the rest was not necessary.
“Naturally,” Felicia agreed. “He was hell-bent on marrying her. A tremendous step up for him. He was clever enough, and most agreeable-looking, but came from nowhere! We all knew he would make money, of course, but that isn’t the same thing. New money, and all that. It doesn’t do…not socially.”
“But he left her anyway?” Charlotte said with surprise.
“Not at all,” Felicia answered impatiently. “The duchess cut off the relationship. New money wasn’t good enough for her, when Arabella had the offer of a title. She’s Marchioness of Something-or-other now. And not a penny to bless herself with, except what she brought with her.”
“How very foolish,” Charlotte said impulsively, then wished she had not. She saw Felicia’s amusement.
“Not really,” Felicia replied. “Delia is far more of a match for him. Even if he wasn’t her first choice either.”
Charlotte said nothing.
“Married before,” Felicia explained. “Her first husband died in the oddest circumstances. Nobody seems to know what really happened. As I said, only the most colorless people have nothing in their lives they would prefer not discussed. Nothing to discuss, I suppose…”
“Or else they have kept it rather better hidden,” Charlotte suggested. “Did Sir John Halberd really know more than other people?”
An expression crossed Felicia’s face—a mixture of pain and anticipation—that was too complicated to read. “My husband was very fond of him. They both spent time in Africa. Up the Nile, you know. They are not memories you can share with everyone. Too many people haven’t the faintest idea what the realities are, only romantic dreams. Walter would have found it painful to discover that Halberd was a blackmailer.” She stopped abruptly.
Charlotte realized with a stab of pity that it had just occurred to Felicia that she had unwittingly given her husband an excellent motive for having made sure of Halberd’s silence. Charlotte was certain from the stunned look in Felicia’s eyes that it was unintentional. There was fear in her face now—fear of confusion, of betrayal, perhaps above all of loneliness.
“Why on earth would he hire a boat for such a thing?” Charlotte asked. “Surely a walk in the park would have been simpler, and far more discreet? It is much more likely it was an assignation that went wrong. One might very well use a boat for that!”
Relief flooded Felicia’s face. She was probably not aware of how clear it was to see.
“Of course,” she agreed. “Yes, of course. Let us talk of something more pleasant. Does your husband enjoy horse-racing, Mrs. Pitt? That was something Sir John had developed an interest in.” She gave the graceful little shrug again. “Mind you, a lot of people have! It rather goes hand in hand with an acquaintance with the Prince of Wales.” She smiled with a very slightly rueful twist. “That is one thing that excites his passion these days. Of course, his position requires a lot of him—attending balls, receptions, diplomatic dinners, and so on—but racing is different. That is a love, never a duty. What he wants more than anything else is to win the Derby again. And of course any other race that is really important. Then he’d put the animal out to stud, and its lineage would be priceless. Another Eclipse. My husband tells me all the greatest British racehorses are descended from Eclipse.”
“I think my husband might be interested to learn that.” Charlotte was not really lying. Pitt had never shown the slightest interest in horse-racing, but anything to do with this case would hold his attention.
They talked a little further, until they were interrupted by others joining them, and good manners dictated they change the subject to something more general.
BY FIVE O’CLOCK IN the afternoon, they were in Emily’s carriage, taking Charlotte home.
“Well?” Emily asked with some urgency.
“Yes,” Charlotte replied. “Very interesting. Tell me, Lady Felicia spoke quite a lot about the Prince of Wales. I think I noticed a change in her tone when she mentioned his name, but I’m not sure if I imagined it.”
“You didn’t,” Emily answered. “I saw it in her face. It made me wonder what might have happened in the past. For one reason or another, I think she was fond of him, and perhaps still is. Of course, sometimes we remember the past as we would like it to have been. It gets a little gentler, a little sweeter each time we recount it to ourselves. Perhaps when things are difficult, it’s a comfort.”
Emily drew in her breath and let it out again with a sigh. Charlotte wondered if it was for Felicia Whyte or for herself, just a fraction, but it would be tactless to ask.
“Thank you for your help,” she said. “This afternoon has given me quite a lot to think about.”
“Don’t you want to meet Delia Kendrick?” Emily asked after a moment. “And Alan Kendrick too, perhaps?”
“Oh, yes! If you don’t mind?”
Emily moderated her smile, not to betray herself too much.
“Not at all.”
PITT WAS VERY TIRED when he came home. He did not say anything, but Charlotte knew him too well for him to hide his anxiety, or the effort it took him to appear cheerful.
She decided to tell him about the garden party, and that she had been there with Emily. This way she would have been honest, but actually told him very little.
“Did you enjoy it?” he asked.
He was smiling as he sat back in the big chair and crossed his legs. He was too quick. He must have seen the excitement in her, even though she had tried to conceal it.
“Oh, yes,” she said casually. This was clearly not the time to go into detail, certainly not about the facts and speculations regarding Lady Felicia Whyte and a possible relationship with the Prince of Wales. She realized he was looking at her, waiting for something further. He knew her at times uncomfortably well.
“There was a lot of gossip about the Prince of Wales and his love of horse-racing,” she added.
“That’s not gossip,” he replied. “It is a fact that is in public knowledge.” He was still looking at her very steadily.
“I know. The gossip part came in that it has replaced his love of women, for reasons of health.”
“Oh.” Then he smiled. “You are right, that is gossip, but interesting. It makes certain people less able to gain his favor, and others more so.”
“That’s what I thought,” she agreed, keeping her voice level. Nevertheless, he caught something in it. “Charlotte…?”
“I know!” she said quickly. “I did not ask for the information. I only listened, as one has to, to be polite. I repeated it to you because I understood at least some of the implications. Would you like a cup of tea?”
He smiled and accepted, but she knew the discussion was not over.
AT BREAKFAST DANIEL AND Jemima were both at the table, Daniel hurrying so he would be at school on time. Yet Charlotte noticed him hesitate, look at his father, take another mouthful of toast, and then hesitate again. She saw his hand gripping the knife too hard.
“Papa,” Daniel said at last.
Pitt looked up from his plate.
Daniel swallowed. “I’ve decided I don’t want to take Latin anymore. Nobody uses Latin except Catholic priests. I’d rather do German.” He was asking Pitt’s permission, even though he made it a statement.
Charlotte looked at Pitt and saw the disappointment in his face. He had enjoyed Latin when it was taught to him by Sir Arthur Desmond’s son’s tutor. But that was by individual tutorial. Daniel was in a school class. There was no way imaginable that Pitt could afford to give his son the education he had received himself. But Daniel had a father, while Pitt had lost his so young.
“Latin is the basis of so many languages,” Pitt argued. “Including our own. And it is an excellent discipline.” Charlotte could feel her own stomach tense now. It would be so easy for Pitt to persuade Daniel, knowing how much his son wanted to please him. He would not have to do much, just a few expressions of his will. No punishment. No reward except approval, the only one that mattered.
Pitt hesitated. Daniel waited.
Charlotte ached to intervene, but that would diminish Daniel in his own estimation if it was Charlotte who actually swung the decision in his favor.
“German won’t be easy,” Pitt said, not even glancing at Charlotte.
Jemima also was waiting, her toast halfway to her mouth.
“I know,” Daniel answered. “But I want to.”
“Why?” Pitt asked.
“I think Germany is going to matter, a lot,” Daniel replied. “They are getting stronger all the time. The kaiser declared nine years ago, in 1890, that he had plans for Germany to build a much larger navy, and to gain some more territories overseas.” He was watching Pitt’s face intently.
Pitt felt a coldness flood through him. The kaiser’s Weltpolitik statement was meant as a boast, but it was also a warning only a fool would ignore.
He nodded slowly. “That is certainly true. Have you thought yet about what you want to do?” Please heaven, he would have the choice, and another war would not rob him of it.
Daniel took a deep breath; his hand was still gripping his knife as if it were a life belt. “Not exactly. But if I’m good enough, maybe the diplomatic service, or…something like that.”
Charlotte knew that what he meant was that he would like to follow in his father’s footsteps in Special Branch, but he was afraid to say so, in case Pitt broke the dream.
She glanced at Pitt. Did he know that?
Pitt smiled. “Then German would definitely be of more use to you,” he agreed. “But so would French. Don’t drop that.”
Daniel’s face filled with relief, his smile wide, his eyes shining. “Thank you, Papa,” he said very quietly, and took another mouthful of toast.
When both children were gone Pitt allowed the anxiety to come back into his face.
“Are you worried Daniel’s going to move from one thing to another and not finish either?” she asked him.
“Is he?” He looked at her very gravely.
“I don’t know. But I’m very glad you gave him the benefit of hoping. He would have stayed with Latin, to please you, if you’d insisted.”
“I know.” Pitt pushed his chair back and rose to his feet. She stood also, and reached up to give him a quick kiss, but she meant it very deeply. To have power, yet be able to not use it, was for her the most admirable strength.
Sensing the emotion in her, he turned and put both arms around her and kissed her more deeply, and for longer than she had expected. It felt extraordinarily good, like coming home. He wondered if she had any idea how much he loved her. Perhaps she did.
EMILY MANAGED TO FIND another event a day later. This time she was quite certain that Delia Kendrick would be present. It was a much smaller affair, little more than an afternoon call, but well contrived in advance. Charlotte wore one of her own dresses, one that was quite glamorous enough for an occasion where she intended to look casual, almost incidental. It was mostly soft blues, a little toward the green, shades that suited her very well.
Emily called for her at mid-afternoon, glanced at her up and down, and pronounced herself satisfied. She herself was dressed in a delicate floral pattern that suited her surprisingly well. Lace would have been too much for this time of day. But she had a parasol. It was more decorative than of use, yet it commanded attention without the slightest effort. Exactly Emily.
The lady they were calling upon was the wife of another member of Parliament, whom Emily knew only slightly. Although titled and of considerable wealth, he was currently junior to Emily’s husband, Jack Radley, so Emily sailed in with Charlotte beside her with great ease, introducing Charlotte as if she had been expected.
It was a beautiful house in Fitzroy Square, one of the classical Georgian squares, and eminently suitable for entertaining casual visitors. The marble-floored hall opened into spacious rooms, which in turn had French doors into a tiny garden.
They indulged for a few minutes in all the customary small talk, which gave Charlotte a good opportunity to observe Delia Kendrick, who had apparently arrived a few minutes before she and Emily.
Delia had an unusually dramatic face, with strongly marked brows and very handsome eyes, so dark as to appear almost black. Time had been kinder to her than to Felicia Whyte. Her more olive complexion and high cheekbones kept the brittle, slightly sagging look at bay. Her eyes met Charlotte’s with boldness. Charlotte had either to smile at her or to look away. She chose the former. It was Delia who responded with a cool acknowledgment. But Charlotte did not dare to risk being caught a second time. That would require an explanation, which she did not have.
“…so difficult with daughters, I always think,” Mrs. Farringdon was saying, eyebrows raised.
Charlotte had no idea what the conversation had been. “I’m sure you are right,” she agreed, hoping it was something reasonable.
“One of the most important days in your life,” Mrs. Farringdon went on. “I think it should be as close to home as possible, don’t you?”
“Whose home?” Charlotte inquired. She still did not know what they were talking about. Mrs. Farringdon stared at her.
“Why, the bride’s home, of course!”
“I suppose so, unless of course there is a reason for…”
“Dear Mrs. Kendrick’s daughter was married heaven knows where!” Mrs. Farringdon said in a whisper. “In fact, for all we know…” She left the rest unsaid, but very clear in its implication.
Charlotte was instantly annoyed by the spitefulness of it. She did not know Delia Kendrick further than the one deep stare, but leaped to her defense on principle.
“Perhaps the groom was of a different nationality, and if he was of a noble family, with huge estates, for example, it would be natural for them to marry among his people.”
Mrs. Farringdon looked taken aback. Clearly that idea had not occurred to her, and she did not like it. She raised her voice considerably to be certain to attract Delia’s attention where she was standing, half turning away from them.
“My dear, Mrs. Pitt mentioned that your daughter married into a foreign family of some considerable note. I must congratulate you. I had no idea. So modest of you not to speak of it…”
Delia turned to them, caught off guard.
Now Charlotte was really angry. “I apologize,” she said to Delia. “I did not say so at all. Mrs. Farringdon said a couple should always marry close to the bride’s home. I pointed out that there are exceptions. Apparently she considers your daughter, whose name I do not know, to be one of them. I don’t consider it to be my concern, and I did not suggest it.”
Delia’s face softened but her body was rigid, as if, under the plum-colored silk, every muscle was clenched. She gave the briefest nod of acknowledgment to Charlotte, then faced Mrs. Farringdon. “Hardly a foreign country, Eliza, only Scotland. But yes, Mrs. Pitt is perfectly right, Alice married into an excellent family. They are titled, and of course they have thousands of acres of land. I believe he is the only nobleman left in the country who has the right to keep his own private standing army. Not that there is anyone to fight against. Wonderful land, but too far from here to travel back and forth easily. And of course now that she has young children, she would not leave them.”
“How sad,” Mrs. Farringdon said, with a tone that might have been sympathy but sounded far more like frustration to Charlotte.
“Do you think so?” Emily was not going to be outdone. “I think it sounds incredibly romantic. I know Her Majesty loves Balmoral. She goes there whenever she can.”
“She used to,” Mrs. Farringdon corrected her. “It is a long and rather tedious journey. As Delia has pointed out, not one to undertake lightly. I’m not sure I should allow my daughter to marry a Scot. I would worry what might happen to her, and I would not be able to go to her.” She looked directly at Delia. “You don’t go so very far north often, do you? Fearful about the winter. Does poor Alice find it very strange so far from home?”
“The climate is little worse than that of Derbyshire, or all the West Country,” Delia replied, amid absolute silence from everyone else. “I have seen some terrible winters on Dartmoor. And since my first husband was a Scot, they are not alien people to her…or to me.”
“Really?” Mrs. Farringdon said blandly. “I had no idea. Come to think of it, I cannot recall ever hearing you speak of your…first husband.” Her hesitation suggested she doubted his existence.
Delia kept her composure, but there were two spots of color high in her cheeks and nothing could disguise the tension in her body.
Charlotte searched her mind for something to say that would silence Mrs. Farringdon. Why was their hostess not taking control of the situation? The answer was obvious: She did not like Delia either, whatever the reason. Could it lie with Alan Kendrick? Perhaps his sudden rise in the favor of the Prince of Wales was the subject of a degree of envy. When there is a new favorite, old friends lose at least some of their influence. The possibilities were many, and the undercurrent of emotion dangerously swift. Charlotte remembered what Felicia Whyte had said of Alan Kendrick’s attempt to marry into the aristocracy. Was the duchess’s refusal to allow her daughter to marry him because he was without title or heritage? Or something quite different? Was it a tragedy that marked his life, or merely a very ordinary happening that gossip had blown up beyond the reality?
It was Emily who interrupted the silence.
“I do not speak often of my first husband either,” she said quietly, and looked at Delia. “Losing him was distressing, and I would not ask or wish to put anyone else to the pain of reliving such an experience. I hardly imagine that any of you would do so. It can only have been a slip of the tongue that suggested it.”
Charlotte breathed a sigh of relief and shot a quick smile at Emily.
“We won’t speak of such things,” she agreed fervently. “Has anyone seen the new exhibition at the National Gallery? I hear there are some marvelously beautiful landscapes.”
“Thank you,” Delia murmured as she passed close enough to Charlotte to speak with no one else hearing.
“It’s nothing,” Charlotte said softly, but she knew very well that it was an interesting and excellent beginning.