by Anne Perry
Jack was startled. He hesitated for a long, tense moment, struggling for a better idea himself. When nothing came, he conceded doubtfully. “You don’t look much like her—that is, like the descriptions of her,” he said at last.
“I’ll meet them in the conservatory,” she reasoned. “The light’s very poor in there, and I’ll have the right color dress, and a black wig. If I can pass for long enough to get a reaction it might be enough.” The plan sounded desperate as she described it, a very slim chance, and she felt her hopes, thin as wraiths, drain from her grasp. “If he even knows me, it will prove something!”
He felt her panic and put his hand on her arm gently. “It might be dangerous,” he warned.
Danger would be marvelous; it had the kick and the fire of hot wine, and seemed very close to outright victory. No one would turn up unless he knew Cerise, and if anyone threatened her with violence it could only be because she was too close to the truth.
“I know,” she said with a surge of excitement. “But you’ll be there, and Emily. I need Emily’s help. I’ve worked it all out: I’ll take the dress and wig in a bag and give them to Emily, beforehand; then when we are there after dinner I shall pretend to be faint and excuse myself. Emily will ‘look after’ me, so I can slip up to her room and change. Then she’ll watch and tell me when to go down to the conservatory, she said the Yorks have a large one, to keep my trysts.”
“You’re leaving a lot to chance,” he said anxiously.
“Can you think of anything better?”
He hesitated for a moment. “No,” he admitted. “I’ll do everything I can to keep all the others occupied in the withdrawing room. I’ll make some riveting conversation.” He smiled bleakly. “For heaven’s sake, promise me if there is the slightest danger you’ll scream. I mean it, Charlotte.”
“I promise.” She giggled a little wildly. “Although it would be awfully difficult to explain, wouldn’t it? What on earth should I say I was doing in their conservatory dressed in a hideous gown and a black wig, screaming my head off, when I was supposed to be upstairs with the vapors?”
“I should have to say you’d taken leave of your wits,” he agreed with a very twisted grin. “But better that than dead—and whoever it is has already killed three times.”
Her laughter suddenly stopped, becoming tight in her throat. Bitter tears sprang to her eyes.
“It will be four, with Thomas,” she said.
She made her assignations by letter, using as few words as possible, and leaving them unsigned. She had no idea what Cerise’s handwriting looked like, nor what her real name was. She used expensive notepaper, wrote only the time and place, and instead of sealing the letters in an envelope, she tied each one with a broad piece of ribbon in a vivid, almost painful magenta. It was the best she could do.
Emily had written to her banker and provided money so Charlotte could purchase the dress and the wig, and Jack had taken them to Hanover Close, posing as a coalman this time and carrying coke inside to the kitchen for them. How he arranged it Charlotte never knew, and she was too preoccupied with her own preparations to ask.
That evening she dressed in a very simple smoke gray and white gown of Emily’s, judiciously let out by Emily’s maid. It was not nearly as flattering on Charlotte with her darker complexion and mahogany hair as it had been on Emily’s apple-blossom fairness, but it had the one merit Charlotte was looking for now: it was very easy to get in and out of. She dressed her hair with the minimum of fuss, so it could be squashed flat under a wig without removing a hundred pins first. The result did not make her look her most attractive, but it could not be helped. Jack was tactful enough to refrain from commenting, although his face registered slight surprise, quickly replaced by a smile and a wink.
They arrived at Hanover Close a few minutes late, as was the acceptable thing to do, and were handed down from the carriage onto the icy pavement. Charlotte took Jack’s arm up the steps and into the lighted hall. As the door was closed behind them she felt a moment’s panic, then forced herself to think of Pitt, and said rather too effusively, “Good evening, Mrs. York, how kind of you to invite us.”
“Good evening, Miss Barnaby,” Loretta replied with far less enthusiasm. “I hope you are well? Our city winter is not disagreeing with you?”
Only just in time Charlotte remembered that she was going to be taken ill after dinner. She chose her words carefully. “I do find it—a trifle different. There is a very little pleasure walking in the streets here, and the snow seems to get dirty so quickly.”
Loretta’s eyebrows rose in faint surprise. “Indeed? I have never considered walking.”
“It is very good for the health.” Charlotte managed to sound agreeable without actually smiling.
In the withdrawing room Veronica was standing by the hearth in a very fine gown of black and white, looking considerably more composed than the last time they had met. She welcomed Charlotte with what seemed like genuine pleasure, especially when she saw her very indifferent gray gown.
The usual greetings followed and Charlotte was relieved to see that everyone the plan required was present: Harriet looking pale; Aunt Adeline in an unfortunate dress of vivid brown, which made her eyes the more startling; Loretta in salmon pink, her bodice stitched with pearls at once individual and utterly feminine. But far more important, the men were there: Julian Danver, smiling with candid directness; Garrard Danver, elegant, more elusive than his son, quick of wit, and she thought perhaps more original. Piers York was there as well, welcoming her with the sincerity that is a mixture of long practice and genuine awareness of privilege and its responsibilities. Good manners were as natural to him as rising early, or eating all the food on his plate. He had been taught them in the nursery and now they were ineradicable.
With Jack’s help, Charlotte devoted her mind to the usual trivial conversation that preceded dinner. Dinner itself was quite ordinary; the talk meandered from one unimportant topic to another. It was an uneven party in that there were four unmarried women present and only three unmarried men, one of them being Garrard Danver, who could have no possible romantic interest in his daughter or his sister, and presumably not in Veronica, who was shortly to become his daughter-in-law. Since he was twenty-five years Charlotte’s senior, she would have been most unlikely to have been paired with him in anyone’s mind, even supposing he had any desire to remarry. And of course Jack was assumed to be her first cousin and therefore unsuitable.
Nevertheless Loretta was a skilled hostess. Tonight she seemed to be using all her very considerable charm and poise to strike a perfect balance between dominating the company and making everyone else feel at their best. If she tried a little harder than usual, or if her hand gripped the stem of her wineglass so her knuckles were momentarily bloodless, perhaps it was her daughter-in-law who had given her very real cause for anxiety. She could not be blamed if she was nervous in case, even at this point, Veronica should show some trace of the hysteria, the willfulness, or the latent jealousy so ugly to any man, and which had come through her fragile exterior so very lately in the imagined privacy of her bedroom.
Since it was such a small company and the hour was a little later than usual for the end of dinner, Jack rather boldly suggested that they not separate but all retire to the withdrawing room together. He did not even glance at Charlotte: he was playing his part to perfection.
It was time Charlotte took her cue. Everyone was rising to leave, the table was littered with half empty dishes and crumpled napkins. The gas in the chandeliers was hissing gently and the flowers underneath them looked waxy white, artificial; they must have come from the conservatory.
Charlotte felt ridiculous now that the time had come. There had to be a better way. It would never work—they would see right through her, and there would be nothing for Jack to do except say she was mad. Nursing the sick aunt had turned her wits!
“Miss Barnaby, are you all right?” It was Julian Danver’s voice coming to her out of a mist.
“I—I beg your pardon?” she stammered.
“Elisabeth, are you ill?” Veronica came back to her, her face full of concern.
Charlotte wanted to laugh—she had created the desired effect without even trying. She heard her own voice answering automatically. “I do feel a little faint. If I might go upstairs for half an hour, I’m sure I shall recover. I just need to rest for a short while. It’s really nothing.”
“Are you sure? Shall I come with you?” Veronica offered.
“No, please—I should feel most guilty dragging you from your party. Perhaps your maid ...” Was she being too obvious? They were all staring at her—perhaps the whole charade was perfectly transparent. Did anybody really behave like this?
“Of course,” Veronica agreed and the words were such a relief Charlotte could feel the blood rush back into her face and she felt like laughing. They would put her down as a hysteric! For goodness sake, she must get out of the room and upstairs.
“I’ll call Amelia,” Veronica said quickly, going to the bell. “If you are quite sure?”
“Oh yes!” Charlotte said too loudly. “Quite!”
Five minutes later Charlotte was upstairs in Emily’s small, cold attic bedroom. She looked at Emily, and pulling a face, she slipped out of the gray and white dress. Emily presented her with the glowing dress of almost violent cerise.
“Oh Lord!” Charlotte closed her eyes.
“Come on,” Emily urged. “Get into it. You’ve already made up your mind; don’t waver now.”
Charlotte stepped into it and pulled it up. “Cerise must be a remarkable woman to look ravishing in this! Fasten me up. Come on, I’ve only ten minutes to get to the conservatory. Where’s the wig?”
Emily finished the fastening and passed her the black wig. It took them several minutes to get it right and to apply the rouge Charlotte had brought. Emily stood back and looked at her critically.
“You know that’s not bad,” she said with considerable surprise. “In fact, you look quite dashing, in a garish sort of way.”
“Thank you,” Charlotte said sarcastically, but her hands were shaking and her voice was not quite level.
Emily was watching her closely. She did not ask if Charlotte still wanted to go on with it.
“Right,” Charlotte said more firmly. “See if the passage is clear. I’d hate to meet the parlormaid on the stairs.”
Emily opened the door and looked out, took half a dozen steps—Charlotte could hear her feet on the boards—then came back again. “Come on! Quick. You can get down these stairs, and if there’s anyone coming we’ll duck into Veronica’s room.”
They scuttled along the corridor, down the stairs, and onto the main landing; then Emily stopped sharply and held up her finger in warning. Charlotte froze.
“Amelia?” It was a man’s voice. “Amelia? I thought you were looking after Miss Barnaby?”
Emily started down again. “Yes I am. I’ve come to get her a tisane.”
“ ’Aven’t you got any upstairs?”
“Not peppermint. Would you get me some? I’ll stay here in case she calls—I don’t think she’s well at all. Please, Albert.”
Standing above her, at the head of the stairs, Charlotte could hear the smile in her voice and picture the soft look. She was not in the least surprised when Albert agreed without a murmur, and the next moment Emily was back at the bannister again, whispering fiercely to her to hurry.
Charlotte came down so rapidly she almost fell on the last step. She catapulted across the open hallway and through the conservatory door into the blessed dimness of the sparse, yellow night-lights. Her heart was beating like a trip-hammer, she felt as if her whole body must be shaking, and no effort could fill her lungs with enough air.
She stood under the ornamental palm at the far end of the pathway, so she could see the door to the hall. If anyone came she could step forward and the light would catch primarily her shoulder and skirt, showing that burning color; her face would remain in the shadow of the overhanging frond.
But would anyone come? Perhaps Cerise never made assignations by letter. Or maybe her writing or the words she used were utterly different from what Charlotte had written, and the recipients would recognize that instantly. She had given Julian Danver the earliest time. If he were going to come he should be here any moment. In fact, he was late. How long had she been here?
She could hear the faintest sound of footsteps somewhere in the house—probably Albert in the hall. They were not coming this way. Closer to her there was a steady dripping of moisture from one leaf to another, and finally onto the damp earth beneath. The smell of vegetation was overpowering.
She tried to occupy her mind and failed utterly. Every train of thought dissolved into chaos, driven out by the tension that was tightening like the slow turning of a ratchet. Her hands were sticky and felt like pins and needles. Was she going to stand here in the dark under a potted palm half the night?
The whisper startled her so violently it could have been at her shoulder—she did not even know what the words had been.
He was standing just inside the doorway, eyes wide, the yellow light making his cheeks look unnaturally haggard and chiseling his nose more finely.
Charlotte stepped forward just enough to present a clear silhouette against the green, and for the light to catch the searing pink dress.
He was surprised when he saw the color, the smoothness of her bare shoulder and the slender curve of her neck, the black wig. For an instant the pain in him was totally naked. It was too late to call it back—Garrard Danver had loved Cerise. The storm of it had left the wrack in his face. In spite of himself, he came towards her.
She had no idea what to do—conspiracy, infatuation she had been half prepared for, but not such pain.
Unconsciously she backed towards the palm, and the light above her fell on her bosom.
Garrard stopped. His eyes were hollow, he was like a caricature, ugly and beautiful; even in his despair there was self-knowledge, a shaft of irony.
Then she understood. Of course: everyone had said Cerise was thin, nearly flat-chested, and Charlotte was rather well endowed. Even with a tight dress and unflattering camisole she still could not pass for the elegant leanness Cerise was said to have.
“Who are you?” he said very quietly.
“Who did you think I was, when you came?” She had thought of that question long before.
His smile was ghastly. “I had no idea. I never imagined you were whom you pretend to be.”
“Then why did you come?” It was a challenge.
“To see why you wanted me, of course! If you’ve blackmail in mind, you’re a fool! You’re risking your life for a few pounds.”
“I don’t want money!” she said sharply. “I want—” She stopped. He was close to her now, so close she could have lifted her hand and touched his cheek. But she was still in so deep a shadow that he had not recognized her. There was someone else in the doorway, someone motionless with horror, and yet with such a passion of jealousy in her face she might truly have seen hell in the quietly dripping leaves and the two figures standing almost touching each other, and that harsh, incandescent, outrageous dress.
Loretta York. Garrard turned very slowly and saw her. He did not look embarrassed, as Charlotte had expected, nor ashamed. The wretchedness in his face was fear—and worse than that, a kind of revulsion.
Water slid off the leaves and landed on the lily petals with a faint plink. All three of them stood motionless.
At last Loretta gave a little shudder and turned on her heel and went out.
Garrard looked at Charlotte, or rather at the gloom where she stood. His voice was hoarse, he had to make two attempts at speaking.
“Wha—what do you want?”
“Nothing. Leave. Go back to the party,” she hissed.
He hesitated, peering at her, unsure whether to believe her or not, and she retreated, almost backing into the palm.
“Go bac
k to the party!” she whispered fiercely. “Go back!”
His relief was flickering, but he did not wait: all he wanted was to escape. A moment later she stood alone in the conservatory. She tiptoed to the door and looked out. There was no one in the hall, not even Emily. Should she risk running upstairs now, or wait until Emily gave her the signal? Perhaps this emptiness was the signal? If Albert came back it would be too late.
She was at the foot of the stairs without having made a conscious decision. It was too late to go back. She picked up the magenta taffeta of her skirt and ran up as fast as she could. Please heaven there would be no one on the landing, nor anyone on the stairs leading to the servants quarters.
She got to the top, breathless, her heart pounding. The narrow passage was deserted, nothing but doors on either side. Which one was Emily’s? Hellfire! She had completely forgotten! Panic rose inside her. If anyone came she would have to dive for the nearest room and hope it was empty.
There were footsteps on the stairs now! She scuttled to the door, turned the handle, and pushed it. She was only just inside when the footsteps reached the top. She waited. If they came in here there was nothing at all she could do. Frantically she looked around for something to hit them with. She could not be hauled downstairs like a common housebreaker!
“Charlotte! Charlotte, where are you?”
Relief nearly made her sick. She felt heat and icy cold rush over her, prickling on her skin. She pulled the door open with shaking hands.
“I’m here!”
Ten minutes later she was downstairs in the withdrawing room again, her hair a trifle disheveled; that was easily explained by saying that she had been lying down, and yes thank you, she was quite recovered now. She remained fairly quiet, not wanting to risk the amazing luck she had had so far. Her hands still trembled a little and her mind was crowded with anything but stupid conversation.
The party broke up early, as though by common consent. By quarter to eleven Charlotte was sitting beside Jack in the carriage, telling him about Garrard and Loretta in the conservatory, and the expressions she had seen in their faces.
