by Anne Perry
If she were young, he would have told her the plain truth, whatever it was. But now? She was vulnerable, facing the same human death as a beggar in the street. In the end death makes no difference, except in the courage with which it is met.
The cab pulled up at Keppel Street. He alighted and paid the driver, then walked up to his own front door, determined to cast all other thoughts aside.
—
HE WAS SITTING IN the warm and comfortable kitchen at breakfast the following morning when the post arrived. Among the letters was one addressed to him in a handwriting he was vaguely familiar with, although he could not place it. More curiously than that, it had been delivered by hand.
Charlotte read his expression. “What is it?” she asked. He gave her a quick smile, then opened the envelope.
It was an invitation to a party that evening, and with it was a quickly scribbled note.
“Might interest you. I suggest if at all possible you come.” It was signed by Somerset Carlisle.
“An invitation,” he replied. “To a rather grand reception this evening…”
“This evening?” she said in dismay. “But there’s no time to get ready! Why have they asked you only now?” A sudden bleakness filled her face. “Why am I not included?”
He realized how seldom she had gone out to such an event lately. Long ago, when he was in the regular police, she had been instrumental in solving crimes of passion, greed, or fear in the high society into which she was born and to which he was such a stranger. But now that he was in Special Branch he could tell her almost nothing.
“It’s a social event.” He looked up at her again. “The note is from Somerset Carlisle.” He watched her face, the half belief in her eyes. “I saw him yesterday,” he added by way of explanation. “He knows there is going to be someone there I would like to…observe. He knows I will bring you.”
She waited a moment to see if he would continue. “Oh. I see.” She took a breath. “I have only one gown of this season. Will that be appropriate?”
He scrambled in his memory to think what it was. Charlotte was one of those rare women whose true beauty increased with age, as other women’s began to fade. She was now just over forty, and the poise granted by maturity, and the confidence in her wisdom and humor, became her. Perhaps Pitt was the only person who knew she was still vulnerable beneath it.
“It will do very well. It is very becoming.”
She gave a little laugh. “You can’t remember it! But if you liked it, that’s all that matters. What time do you wish to be ready?”
He glanced at the invitation. “Seven will be good,” he replied.
—
PITT SPENT MUCH OF the day at his office in Lisson Grove attending to urgent cases. There were reports of attempted sabotage and one rather awkward matter involving a foreign diplomat whose association with anarchists needed to be much more closely investigated. He had little time to consider the unfortunate and possibly embarrassing circumstances of the death of John Halberd, and whether there had been any crime in it. He did not want to accept that it was a rather juvenile assignation gone wrong, because even in so short a time he had gained much respect for the man. But it did look very much like that was the case, and it had not been reported at the time in order to save reputations. He did not want to have to tell that to the Queen. She had trusted Halberd, and Pitt was quite sure she had liked him. It was a shabby and rather absurd way to die.
But he had some time before he needed to speak to her again. She was worried that the Prince of Wales, charming and affable, dissolute in his ways, was not being wisely counseled by Alan Kendrick. Did it really matter, except to her? The prince was extremely good at the diplomatic work he did. His visits to Canada and the United States of America had improved relations there. His easy nature and clear enjoyment of life had endeared him to both the leaders and the public in general.
He had accomplished even more in Europe, in Germany, and, most particularly, in France, the centuries-long enemy of Britain. He loved their way of life, their appreciation of good food, good wine, good laughter. And in return they loved him. He spoke both French and German fluently.
And, of course, he was related to all the royal houses of Europe. Half the kings and emperors were part of his immediate family.
What earthly difference did Alan Kendrick make? The Prince of Wales, surely very soon to be king, would do exactly what he wanted.
Of course, when he became king he would have access to papers of state that it was rumored the queen had denied him so far. Did that matter?
There was no choice but to find out at least a little more about Kendrick. It was not only Pitt’s wish to satisfy the Queen’s anxieties; it was his job to know if Kendrick represented any future threat to the safety of the man who would become Edward VII, and therefore a threat to the state.
—
THE RECEPTION WAS HELD at the home of Lord Harborough, in York Place, just off Regent’s Park. Pitt and Charlotte arrived fashionably late, which meant not so early as to seem too eager, and not late enough to appear rude—or even worse, desperate to be seen to make an entrance.
It was a much more formal affair than Pitt had expected. Liveried footmen served champagne. The room shimmered with color: silk dresses in rich shades of plum, peach, and gold. The light from the chandeliers glanced off diamonds in hair, around slender throats, and hanging from earlobes. The evening black of so many men made the contrast even more dramatic. One or two wore scarlet or blue sashes across one shoulder, with orders of this or that distinction.
Pitt heard Charlotte’s quick intake of breath and turned to look at her. It was enough to see the delight on her face at the splendor of the party and to wonder with a stab of regret how much she had missed such events in recent years.
If she had married someone of her own social rank, these things would have been commonplace.
He felt the pressure of her hand on his arm. It was an understanding. This was fun, but it was also business. She would not ask what Pitt needed to do there. He wished profoundly that he could have told her, but to do so would be to let them both down. She expected better of him.
Almost immediately they became part of the crowd. Pitt did not see Carlisle, and perhaps he was not even present, but he knew that Kendrick would be. Carlisle must have gone to some trouble to engineer the invitation at such very short notice.
Within minutes he noticed a tall woman with exquisite flaxen hair piled upon her head like a crown. In its beauty a tiara would have seemed superfluous. Only when he was closer to her did he notice that she was older than he had first thought. Her pale skin, fine as porcelain, was marked with lines—not gentle ones of laughter, but down-dragging ones of disappointment. Carlisle’s description of Lady Felicia Whyte came back to him. Time had been unkind. Except that it was not really an unkindness, but time’s cutting honesty. Every wound of the spirit was there.
She was staring at Pitt. Should he have recognized her? Charlotte was watching him.
Was this woman the hostess, wondering who he was and knowing that she had not invited him? He must say something.
“I beg your pardon for staring, ma’am,” he said, “but I have never seen such beautiful hair.”
She drew in a quick breath and the color rose in her face. She attempted to conceal her pleasure, and failed utterly.
He inclined his head. “Thomas Pitt,” he introduced himself. “And Mrs. Pitt,” he added.
“How do you do, Mr. Pitt?” she replied, smiling at Charlotte but not addressing her directly. “I am delighted you could come this evening. I am Lady Felicia Whyte. Our host, Lord Harborough, is my brother-in-law. But I daresay you know.” It was not quite a question. She was attempting to find out if Pitt had been invited. She could not place him.
“So generous of you to make us welcome,” Charlotte said warmly. “My sister has spoken so kindly of you. Her husband is Jack Radley.” She let it hang in the air, with whatever suggestion one cared to draw
from it.
Lady Felicia chose to take it as a compliment, and returned the smile. The next moment conversation proceeded on the usual themes of well-mannered people who did not know one another: the current social news, theater, recent books, places one might have visited. Charlotte was willing to listen, agree, and admire. Pitt knew how unnatural that was to her these days, but she fell into it as easily as if it had been only a matter of weeks since the last such party and it was mere coincidence that she did not know these people.
Pitt watched with curiosity and a degree of respect as she subtly flattered Felicia Whyte without for a moment losing her own dignity. Felicia seemed quite unaware of it. Or perhaps receiving compliments well was part of her own skill?
Within twenty minutes Pitt contrived to meet Walter Whyte, Felicia’s husband and one of the men Carlisle had mentioned that Halberd had known well. Pitt was startled by how unlike his image of him Whyte was in the flesh. There was nothing remarkable in his appearance until he smiled; then perfect teeth and a vivid natural warmth made him extraordinary. He shook Pitt’s hand with a strong grasp, then let it go immediately.
“Glad you could come,” he said warmly. “Carlisle said you grew up on Arthur Desmond’s land, or somewhere near it? Excellent man.” He was either tactful enough not to add any more, or he already knew and might be waiting to catch Pitt in a self-protective lie.
Earlier in his career Pitt might well have explained that Sir Arthur had taken pity on him as a fatherless boy and used his enthusiasm to learn as a spur to urge on his own son, who was a highly unwilling student. But Pitt had decided not to offer unasked-for explanations. He recognized it as defensive in others; now he saw it in himself too.
“Indeed,” Pitt said sincerely. “A beautiful part of the country. Do you know it well?”
“Not as well as I’d like to,” Whyte answered a little ruefully. “Spent too much time abroad.”
“Then we envy each other,” Pitt said with a smile, noting incidentally that Charlotte was a few yards away now, and appearing to listen to another conversation. “Where?”
“All over the world. Mostly Africa. Marvelous place. So much of it still unknown. Thank God there is still somewhere left to explore!” Whyte said it with a sudden burst of feeling, then the moment after realized that he had laid an emotion bare within himself, and did not know how to conceal it again.
Pitt was tempted to probe this a little, but instead he moved the subject on as if quite naturally. “Well, there are still the North and South Poles. But I imagine they have little cultural history to offer. No great kingdoms, or races we hardly imagine, who built cities and created art when we were barely out of caves.”
Whyte gave one of his sudden, dazzling smiles. “What an odd fellow you are. You would have liked John Halberd. He was an odd fellow too, full of sudden twists and turns, and a love of knowledge of every kind, from the habits of beetles to the patterns of the stars.” Sudden grief filled his face. “Unfortunately he’s dead, poor devil.”
“Boating accident, I heard,” Pitt replied as casually as he could. “You knew him?”
“As much as anyone did,” Whyte replied. “He appeared to be completely open, but actually he was more like those Egyptian tombs where the doors are hidden and you have no idea there is anything but a blank wall.”
“Then what makes you think there is anything?” Pitt asked innocently.
“Looking for hidden tombs?” Whyte raised his eyebrows. “Measurements. Space unaccounted for. Inside and outside don’t match.”
Pitt met his eyes, which were very blue, and wondered how many layers this conversation possessed. Did Whyte know perfectly well who Pitt was?
“And you think Halberd had some space unaccounted for?” he asked curiously.
“I’m damn sure he did,” Whyte replied. “Part of what I liked about him.”
“And the other parts?”
Whyte stared at him. “He understood what mattered, and what didn’t,” he replied. “And how to keep a secret, if it needed to be kept.” He signaled discreetly to a passing waiter. “I say, you don’t have a drink. Let me offer you some champagne.”
Pitt accepted it as if he were delighted. Actually, he did not like champagne; he greatly favored a good cider. If he was to have wine, he preferred red. He loved the rich aroma of it.
A few moments later Whyte introduced Pitt to Algernon Naismith-Jones, another agreeable-looking man of easy charm, whom Halberd had also known. He greeted Pitt as if they had only just missed meeting each other for years, and were making up now for the omission. He had a large, sprawling estate in Cambridgeshire and an indeterminate number of children and stepchildren, whom he spoke of with affection. However, his deepest interest was horses.
“Wonderful creatures,” he said, enthusiasm lighting his face. “Nothing nobler in the world than a good horse! My God, Walter, did you see that filly in the last race at Newmarket on Saturday? What a gorgeous creature. Looking up her lineage. Something damn special there!” He turned to Pitt. “Know anything about horses? Yes, of course you do. Can’t come from your neck of the woods and not care, what!”
“Caring and knowing are not the same thing,” Pitt replied, trying not to sound too guarded.
Naismith-Jones gave a great gust of laughter. “Well said! Indeed they aren’t. Hey! Kendrick!” He turned toward an elegant man with thick brown hair and a handsome face. “Come and meet Pitt here.” He gestured with his arm. “Alan Kendrick. Here’s a man who knows horses!”
Kendrick smiled but did not offer his hand. Closer to, his face was more interesting than merely handsome. The impression of good looks was added to by the intelligence in his eyes, but marred by a certain insensitivity in the line of his mouth.
“How do you do?” Pitt nodded to him.
“So you are interested in horses,” Kendrick observed.
“I respect them,” Pitt replied levelly. He was not going to be caught pretending a skill he did not have.
“An odd choice of word,” Kendrick said, looking at Pitt more closely. Clearly the answer had surprised him, something he was not used to.
“I respect a man who can do something I aspire to.” It was an opportunity to engage that Pitt should not ignore. “I respect any man, or animal, that does supremely well what it is designed to do,” he explained. “The only horses I know are the shire horses, the Clydesdales. I worked with them as a young man. Racehorses I have seen only at a distance.”
“You worked with horses?” Kendrick looked Pitt up and down. “And here you are at His Lordship’s reception. How times change.” His face was quite bland. It was impossible to tell if the remark was merely clumsy or if he intended the insult.
Pitt chose to engage. “They do indeed.” He smiled back. “Something like a wheel, up one year, perhaps down the next. Its infinite variety is part of its charm.”
“That was Cleopatra,” Kendrick said with an edge to his voice. “And as I recall she ended rather badly.”
“I was not quoting Shakespeare,” Pitt corrected him. “It is so easy to get a word or a reference mistaken and make a fool of oneself.”
Kendrick drew in his breath, then changed his mind. He returned the bland look, as if retreating a step. He turned to another man who had joined them. “Ferdie, come and meet Pitt, a man who respects horses.” He gestured toward Pitt. “Ferdie Warburton. Not half such an ass as he pretends to be.” He turned back to Warburton. “No idea who Pitt is, but he’s a man who respects horses, and that should be enough for anyone.”
Warburton was pleasant-looking in a casual, slightly ruffled sort of way, as if making an effort would be too much bother. He smiled easily, offering his hand.
The conversation became general, and Pitt was having to listen far more than speak. The subject moved from horses to Africa to the latest European politics. Gradually he became aware that Kendrick also was listening. His only remarks were to spur others into declaring their opinions.
The unpleasantness
began when Lady Felicia joined them. It was clear from the outset that she did not like Kendrick.
“Nice to see you in town for a change,” she remarked to Kendrick, her eyebrows raised a little. “The prince not visiting your stables lately?” She turned immediately to Naismith-Jones. “And you, Algernon, always make the company a little lighter.”
He gave her a quick smile that was bright and empty. “Thank you.”
As if unintentionally, the conversation moved back to racing and upcoming major events.
“Think you’ll run again?” Lady Felicia asked Kendrick. She was smiling but it was clearly out of amusement, not friendship. “That would please His Royal Highness.”
“I’m surprised you still know so well what pleases him,” Kendrick responded softly.
She stared straight back at him, but the color was high in her alabaster cheeks. She looked him up and down with an expression exactly like Kendrick’s as he had looked at Pitt.
“Has he changed all that much, Alan? I don’t believe it.” Her eyes did not waver. “Ask Delia!” She gave a tiny shrug, an excellent and dismissive gesture. “Mr. Pitt.” She held out one hand. “Come and tell me about the kind of horses you like. As long as they don’t race…and lose.”
Kendrick looked at her with an intensity that should have frightened her; then it was gone. Lady Felicia took Pitt’s arm, and he was obliged to turn away.
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.
