Treason at Lisson Grove

by Anne Perry

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  Stoker turned and left. Pitt sat without moving for a moment or two. If it really was one of the French prime minister’s assassins, would the French police or secret service get in touch with him? Would they want his help, or prefer to deal with the man themselves? They might hope to get information about other anarchists from him. Or, on the other hand, they might simply contrive for him to meet with an accident, so the whole matter would never reach the public eye. If the latter were the case, it would be better if the British Special Branch pretended not to be aware of the situation. Pitt would have to make the decision about whether to involve the Special Branch, and to what extent, later, when he had more information. It was the type of decision Narraway had referred to: a gray area, fraught with moral difficulties.

  Pitt bent back to the papers he had been reading.

  There was a reception that evening. A hundred or so people of social and political importance would be gathered, ostensibly to hear the latest violin prodigy playing a selection of chamber pieces. In truth it would be a roomful of people attempting to observe and manipulate any shifts in political power, and to subtly exchange information that could not be passed in the more rigid settings of an office.

  Pitt walked through the front door of his house in Keppel Street just after seven o’clock, with plenty of time to get ready for the reception. He found himself smiling at the immediate warmth, a relief after the bitter wind outside. The familiar smells of baked bread and clean cotton drifted from the kitchen at the far end of the passage. Charlotte would be upstairs dressing. She was not yet used to being back in the glamour arnd rivalry of the high society into which she had been born. She had found it shallow when she was younger, and then, after marrying Pitt, it had been out of her reach. Now he knew, although she had never once said so, that at times she had missed the color and wit of it all, however superficial it was.

  Minnie Maude was in the kitchen preparing Welsh rarebit for him, in case the refreshments at the event were meager. Her hair was flying out of its pins as usual, her face flushed with exertion, and perhaps a certain excitement. She swung around from the big stove as soon as she heard his footsteps.

  “Oh, Mr. Pitt, sir, ’ave yer seen Mrs. Pitt? She looks a proper treat, she does. I never seen anyone look so …” She was lost for words, so instead held out the plate of hot savory cheese on toast. Then, realizing the need for haste, she put it on the kitchen table, and fetched him a knife and fork. “I’ll get yer a nice cup o’ tea,” she added. “Kettle’s boiled.”

  “Thank you,” he said, hiding at least part of his amusement. Minnie Maude Mudway had replaced Gracie Phipps, the maid who had been with the Pitts almost since they were married. He was still not entirely used to the change. But Gracie had her own home now, and he was happy for her. Minnie Maude had been hired on Gracie’s recommendation, and it was working out very satisfactorily, even if he missed Gracie’s forthright comments about his cases, and her loyal and highly independent support.

  He ate in silence, with considerable appreciation. Minnie Maude was rapidly becoming a good cook. With a more generous budget at her disposal than Gracie had ever had, she had taken to experimenting—on the whole, with great success.

  He noticed that she had made enough for herself, although her portion was much smaller. However, she seemed unwilling to eat it in front of him.

  “Please don’t wait,” he said, gesturing toward the saucepan on the stove. “Have it while it’s hot.”

  She gave an uncertain smile and seemed about to argue, then changed her mind and served it. Almost at once she was distracted by a stack of clean dishes waiting to be put away in the Welsh dresser, and her meal went untouched. Pitt decided he should speak to Charlotte about it; perhaps she could say something to make Minnie Maude feel more comfortable. It was absurd for her to feel that she could not eat at the kitchen table just because he was there. Now that she had taken Gracie’s place, this was her home.

  When he had finished his tea he thanked her and went upstairs to wash, shave, and change.

  In the bedroom he found Jemima as well as Charlotte. The girl was regarding her mother with careful appreciation. Pitt was startled to see that Jemima had her long hair up in pins, as if she were grown-up. He felt proud, and at the same time, felt a pang of loss.

  “It’s wonderful, Mama, but you are still a little pale,” Jemima said candidly, reaching forward to straighten the burgundy-colored silk of Charlotte’s gown. Then she flashed Pitt a smile. “Hello, Papa. You’re just in time to be fashionably late. You must do it. It’s the thing, you know.”

  “Yes, I do know,” he agreed, then turned to look at Charlotte. Minnie Maude was right, of course, but it still caught him by surprise sometimes, how lovely Charlotte was. It was more than the excitement in her face, or the warmth in her eyes. Maturity became her. She had an assurance now, at almost forty, that she had not had when she was younger. It gave her a grace that was deeper than the mere charm that good coloring or straight features offered.

  “Your clothes are laid out for you,” Charlotte said, in answer to his glance. “Fashionably late is one thing; looking as if you mistook the arrangements, or got lost, is another.”

  He smiled, and did not bother to answer. He understood her nervousness. He was trying to counter his own anxiety over suddenly being in a social position that he had not been born into. His new situation was quite different in nature from being a senior policeman. Now he was the head of Special Branch and, except in the most major of cases, entirely his own master. There was no one with whom to share the power, knowledge, or responsibility.

  Pitt was even more aware of the change in his circumstances as he alighted from the hansom and held out his arm for Charlotte, steadying her for an instant as she stepped down. The night air was bitterly cold, stinging their faces. Ice gleamed on the road, and he was careful not to slip as he guided Charlotte over to the pavement.

  A coach with four horses pulled up a little ahead of them, a coat of arms painted on the door. The horses’ breath was visible, and the brass on their harnesses winked in the light as they shifted their weight. A liveried footman stepped down off the box to open the door.

  Another coach passed by, the sound of iron-shod hoofs sharp on the stones.

  Charlotte gripped his arm tightly, though it was not in fear that she might slip. She wanted only a bit of reassurance, a moment to gather her strength before they ventured in. He smiled in the dark and reached over with his other hand to touch hers for an instant.

  The large front doors opened before them. A servant took Pitt’s card and conducted them to the main hall, where the reception had already begun.

  The room was magnificent. Scattered columns and pilasters stretching up to the painted ceiling gave it an illusion of even greater height. It was lit by four massive, dazzling chandeliers hanging on chains that seemed to be solid gold, though of course they weren’t.

  “Are you sure we’re in the right place?” Pitt whispered to Charlotte.

  She turned to him with a wide-eyed look of alarm, then saw that he was deliberately teasing her. He was nervous. But he was also proud that this time she was here because he was invited, rather than because her sister, Emily, or her aunt, Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould, had been. It was a small thing to give her, after all the years of humble living, but it pleased him.

  Charlotte smiled and held her head a little higher before sailing down the small flight of steps to join the crowd. Within moments they were surrounded by a swirl of color and voices, muted laughter, and the clink of glasses.

  The conversation was polite and most of it meaningless, simply a way for everyone to take stock of one another while not seeming to do so. Charlotte appeared perfectly at ease as they spoke to one group, then another. Pitt watched her with admiration as she smiled at everyone, affected interest, passed subtle compliments. There was an art to it that he was not yet ready to emulate. He was afraid he w
ould end up looking as if he were trying too hard to copy those born into this social station, and they would never forget such a slip.

  Some junior minister of the government spoke to him casually. He could not remember the man’s name, but he listened as if he were interested. Someone else joined in and the discussion became more serious. He made the odd remark, but mostly he just observed.

  Pitt noticed an accute difference in the way people behaved toward him now, as compared to a few months ago, although not everyone knew who he was yet. He was pleased to be quite drawn into another conversation, and saw Charlotte smile to herself before turning to a rather large lady in green and listening to her with charming attention.

  “… Complete ass, if you ask me,” an elderly man said heartily. He looked at Pitt, raising an eyebrow in question. “No idea why they promoted the fellow to the Home Office. Must be related to someone.” He laughed. “Or know a few secrets, what?”

  Pitt smiled back. He had no idea who they were referring to.

  “I say, you’re not in Parliament, are you?” the man went on. “Didn’t mean to insult you, you know.”

  “No, I’m not,” Pitt answered him with a smile.

  “Good job.” The man was clearly relieved. “My name’s Willoughby. Got a little land in Herefordshire. Couple of thousand acres.” He nodded.

  Pitt introduced himself in turn, hesitated a moment, then decided against stating his occupation.

  Another man joined them, slim and elegant with slightly protruding teeth and a white moustache. “Evening,” he said companionably. “Rotten business in Copenhagen, isn’t it? Still, I dare say it’ll blow over. Usually does.” He looked at Pitt more carefully. “Suppose you know all about it?”

  “I’ve heard a thing or two,” Pitt admitted.

  “Connections?” Willoughby asked.

  “He’s head of Special Branch!” the other man said tartly. “Probably knows more about either of us than we know about ourselves!”

  Willoughby paled. “Oh, really?” He smiled but his voice rasped as if his throat were suddenly tight. “Don’t think there’s much of any interest to know, ol’ boy.”

  Pitt’s mind raced to think of the best way to reply. He could not afford to make enemies, but neither would it be wise to belittle his importance, or allow people to assume that he was not the same master of information that Narraway had been.

  He made himself smile back at Willoughby. “I would not say you are uninteresting, sir, but you are not of concern to us, which is an entirely different thing.”

  Willoughby’s eyes widened. “Really?” He looked mollified, almost pleased. “Really?”

  The other man looked amused. “Is that what you say to everyone?” he asked with the ghost of a smile.

  “I like to be courteous.” Pitt looked him directly in the eye. “But I can’t deny that some people are less interesting than others.”

  This time Willoughby was very definitely pleased and made no attempt to hide it. Satisfaction radiated from him as he took a glass of champagne from a passing footman.

  Pitt moved on. He was more careful now of his manner, watching but speaking little, learning to copy the polite words that meant nothing. It was not an art that came to him easily. Charlotte would have understood the nuances within what was said, or unsaid. Pitt would have found direct openness much more comfortable. However, this form of socializing was part of his world from now on, even if he felt like an intruder, even if he knew that beneath the smiles, the smooth, self-assured men around him were perfectly aware of how he felt.

  A few moments later he saw Charlotte again. He made his way toward her with a lift of spirits, even a pride he thought was perhaps a little silly after all these years, but nevertheless was quite real. There were other women in the room with more classic beauty, and certainly more sumptuous gowns, but for him they lacked warmth. They had less passion, less of that certain indefinable grace that comes from within.

  Charlotte was talking to her sister, Emily Radley, who was wearing a pale blue-green silk gown with gold embroidery. Emily’s first marriage had been a match to make any mother proud. Lord George Ashworth had been the opposite of Pitt in every way: handsome, charming, of excellent family, and in possession of a great deal of money. After his death, it was held in trust for his and Emily’s son, Edward. A suitable time later, Emily had married Jack Radley. He was another handsome man, even more charming, but with no money at all. His father had been a younger son, and something of an adventurer.

  It was Emily who had persuaded Jack to enter politics and aspire to make something of himself. Perhaps some of Emily’s hunger to affect other people’s lives had come from her observation of Charlotte and her involvement in several of Pitt’s earlier cases. To be fair, at times Emily had also helped Charlotte, with both flair and courage. The sisters had exasperated and embarrassed Pitt, driving him frantic with fear for their safety, but they had also very thoroughly earned his respect and gratitude.

  Looking at Emily now, the light from the chandeliers gleaming on her fair hair and on the diamonds around her neck, he thought back with a little nostalgia to the adventure and emotion of those times. He could no longer share information about his cases, even with Charlotte. It was a loss he felt with surprising sadness. Now his assignments were not merely confidential, but completely secret.

  Emily saw him looking at her and smiled brightly.

  “Good evening, Thomas. How are you?” she said cheerfully.

  “Well, thank you. And I can see that you are,” he responded. Emily was naturally pretty, with her golden hair and wide, dark blue eyes. More important, she knew exactly how to dress to complement the best in herself, whatever the occasion. But, perhaps because it was his job to watch people and read the emotions behind their words, he could see at once that Emily was uncharacteristically tense. Could it be that she was wary of him, too? The thought chilled him so much that he could barely gather himself enough to acknowledge Jack Radley.

  “My lord, may I introduce my brother-in-law, Thomas Pitt?” Jack said very formally, as Pitt turned automatically toward the man with whom Jack had been speaking. “Thomas, Lord Tregarron.”

  Jack did not mention Tregarron’s position. Presumably he considered the man important enough that Pitt should have been familiar with his title.

  It was then that Pitt remembered Charlotte telling him of Jack’s promotion to a position of responsibility within the government, a position that finally gave him some real power. Emily was very proud of it. So perhaps it was defensiveness, then, that he could see in her quick eyes and in the slight stiffness of her shoulders. She was not going to let Pitt’s promotion overshadow Jack’s.

  It came to Pitt suddenly; Tregarron was a minister in the Foreign Office, close to the Foreign Secretary himself.

  “How do you do, my lord?” Pitt replied, smiling. He glanced at Charlotte, and saw that she too understood Emily’s tension.

  “Lord Tregarron was telling us about some of the beautiful places he has visited,” Emily said brightly. “Especially in the Balkans. His descriptions of the Adriatic Coast are breathtaking.”

  Tregarron gave a slight shrug. He was a dark, stocky man with thick, curling hair and a highly expressive face. No one could have thought him comely, and yet the strength and vitality in him commanded attention. Pitt noticed that several women in the room kept glancing at him, then looking away.

  “That a Cornishman admires anyone else’s coast has impressed Mrs. Radley greatly,” Tregarron said with a smile. “As so it should. We have had our share of troubles in the past, between shipwreck and smuggling, but I have no time for separatists. Life should be about inclusion, not everyone running off to his own small corner and pulling up the drawbridge. Half the wars in Europe have started out of that type of fear. The other half, out of greed. Don’t you agree?” He looked directly at Pitt.

  “Liberally helped with misunderstanding,” Pitt replied. “Intentional or not.”

  “
Well put, sir!” Tregarron commended him instantly. He turned to Jack. “Right, Radley? A nice distinction, don’t you think?”

  Jack signaled his approval, smiling with the easy charm he had always possessed. He was a handsome man, and wore it with grace.

  Emily shot Pitt a swift glance and there was a distinct chill in it. Pitt hoped Jack had not seen it, lest it upset him. Pitt knew he himself would dislike it if Charlotte were so defensive of him. In his experience, you do not guard anyone so closely, unless you fear they are in some way vulnerable. Did Emily doubt that Jack had the steel in his nature—or perhaps the intelligence—to fill his new post well?

  And had Tregarron chosen Jack, or had Emily used some connection of her own, from her days as Lady Ashworth, in order to obtain the position for him? Pitt could not think of anyone Emily knew who was powerful enough to do that, but then, the whole world of political debt and preferment was one he was unfamiliar with. Narraway had been excellent at figuring out the truth in this type of situation. It was a skill Pitt needed to arm himself with, and quickly.

  He felt a sudden, powerful empathy with Jack; they were both swimming with sharks in unfamiliar seas. But Jack was used to using his charm and instinctive ability to read people. Perhaps he would manage to survive, and survive well.

  The conversation had moved from the Adriatic Coast to a discussion about the Austro-Hungarian Empire in general, and from there went on to Berlin, and finally to Paris, that city of elegance and gaiety. Pitt said little, content to listen.

  The musical interlude for the evening began. Much of its exquisite beauty was wasted on the audience, who were not so much listening as waiting in polite silence until it was over and they could resume their own conversations.

  But Charlotte heard the haunting beauty of the pieces and wished the musician could play all evening. However, she understood the rhythm of such gatherings; this break was to allow a regrouping of forces. It was a time in which to weigh what one had observed and heard, and to consider what to say next, whom to approach, and what gambit to play next.