Belgrave Square

by Anne Perry

  “Who knows?” Emily dismissed it, staring at her face in the glass and apparently finding it beyond further help, because either it was as she wished it, or she could think of nothing more to do. “Men are sometimes incredibly silly. They play such self-important games. There is nothing makes them feel so superior as having a secret, so if they don’t have one they will invent it. Then everyone else wants to know it, simply because they don’t already.”

  “You don’t murder people over it,” Charlotte pointed out.

  “You might, if you didn’t know it wasn’t worth anything.” Emily stood up and smoothed out her skirts. Her gown fitted very flatteringly and her condition was entirely disguised. “It sounds as if there might be a great deal of money involved, and far more important to some people, a lot of power.”

  “It is the police corruption I really care about,” Charlotte said more gravely. “It distresses Thomas so much. I wish we could prove somehow that there is another answer, or at least that it was not one of the police who murdered Weems.”

  They went no further because they were interrupted by Emily’s ladies’ maid returning, and as soon as she had gone, Jack came in looking very dashing. He welcomed Charlotte, kissing her on the cheek in a brotherly fashion, then quickly his face clouded with concern.

  “Emily, are you feeling worse again?”

  “No, not at all,” Emily assured him with ringing candor.

  He still looked doubtful, his eyes puckered with anxiety. He glanced at Charlotte.

  “She is here to detect,” Emily said quickly.

  Jack was not convinced. “No one in society has been murdered,” he pointed out.

  Emily walked over to him, her eyes very soft, a little smile on her lips. She stood in front of him and touched his cravat proprietorially with her finger.

  “It is a blackmailer who is dead, and two of his victims are to dine with us tonight,” she said sweetly.

  Charlotte smiled to herself and looked back in the mirror, pretending to do something further to her hair, although there was nothing to do.

  “Charlotte is going to observe, that is all.” Emily raised her eyes and met Jack’s with devastating sweetness.

  “It is never ’all,’ ” Jack said dubiously, but he knew not to enter a battle he had no chance of winning.

  Emily kissed him very lightly. “Thank you,” she whispered, and after only a second’s hesitation, turned and led the way out onto the landing and downstairs ready to receive her guests.

  Among the first to arrive was Fanny Hilliard, looking extremely pretty if a trifle behind the fashion. After greeting her with genuine pleasure, Charlotte made the opportunity to look unobtrusively at her gown. She herself had altered a bodice here and there to adapt someone else’s clothes, usually Emily’s or Great-Aunt Vespasia’s, in order to make a new dress for herself out of an old one of somebody else’s. She saw the telltale needle holes and the fabric slightly across the weave where a waist had been made a great deal smaller than had originally been intended. Even a clever dressmaker could not completely disguise the fact that the bustle had been almost entirely recut, and a piece of toning fabric added to hide the alteration. No man would have known, but any woman who had done the same thing could see it.

  She felt an instant empathy with her, and silently wished her well.

  Her brother, James, who had escorted her, now gave her his arm into the withdrawing room, and Charlotte turned to welcome that very curious young man, Peter Valerius. He still looked untidy because of his beautiful hair, and a rather artistic disregard for conventional neckwear. His cravat was not only a little oversized, but instead of tying it loosely like the aesthetic set, he had apparently dressed in some haste, and it was tight, and crooked. Charlotte decided it was not an attempt to be Bohemian, simply a lack of interest in something he considered totally trivial.

  “Good evening, Mr. Valerius,” she said with a smile, because he reminded her a trifle of Pitt. “How agreeable to see you again.”

  “Good evening, Mrs. Pitt.” He looked at her with interest. His eyes flew to Emily, noticed her very obviously improved health, and then came back to Charlotte again. He smiled, but made no comment, and Charlotte had a very strong idea he read her presence here as a matter of interest and not duty this time.

  Ten minutes later Great-Aunt Vespasia came in. She was resplendent in ivory lace and a double row of pearls that was so beautiful one felt that even should all the lights fail at once, and leave the room in darkness, they would still shine with a luster of their own. Her face registered a benign surprise when she had greeted Emily and Jack, and moved on to Charlotte.

  “Good evening, Great-Aunt Vespasia,” Charlotte said enthusiastically.

  “Good evening, my dear,” Vespasia replied with slightly raised eyebrows. “Do not tell me Emily is unwell; she is in abundantly good health, as any fool can see.” She regarded Charlotte closely. “And you have a warmth in your cheeks which I know of old. You are here meddling.” She could not drop her dignity so far as to ask in what, or to request inclusion, but Charlotte knew what was in her mind, and bit her lips to hide her smile.

  “I am waiting …” Vespasia warned.

  Charlotte altered her expression immediately, making it as close to demure and innocent as she could.

  “We have two possible murderers at the table,” she said in a whisper.

  “A conspiracy?” Vespasia did not change expression, only the brilliance of her eyes betrayed her.

  “No—I mean either of two people might be guilty,” Charlotte continued.

  “Indeed?” Vespasia’s eyebrows rose. “Is this still Thomas’s miserable usurer in—where was it? Some unpleasant place.”

  “Clerkenwell. Yes. He was a blackmailer as well, remember.”

  “Of course I remember! I am not yet in my dotage. I assume Sholto Byam is one. Who, pray, is the other?”

  “Mr. Addison Carswell.”

  “Good gracious. Why, may one ask?”

  “He has a mistress.”

  Vespasia looked surprised. “That is hardly a matter for blackmail, my dear. Half the well-to-do men in London have mistresses, or have had—or will do. And that is a conservative estimate. If Mrs. Carswell is a well-bred woman with any sense of her own and her family’s survival, she will take good care that she never finds out, and will continue her life as usual.” Her face darkened for a moment. “You don’t mean that he is spending a ridiculous amount of money on this person, whoever she is?”

  “I don’t know. It is possible, but Thomas didn’t say so.”

  “Oh dear—then it may be worse. Is she married to someone who will take the matter ill, and be vindictive? That could be serious.” She sighed. “How very foolish. No one is so high in society that a scandal cannot ruin him, if it is ugly enough. Look at Doll Zouche and that miserable business with Wilfred Scawen Blunt. Amusing in its fashion, but all quite unnecessary. Are there letters, do you know?”

  “No I don’t know. I don’t think it has got that far yet, but I didn’t ask Thomas. Perhaps he wasn’t familiar with the Zouche case.”

  “He must be, my dear. Everyone is,” Vespasia said with total assurance.

  Charlotte blinked. “I’m not.”

  “Are you not? Well, Doll Zouche, daughter of Lord Fraser of Saltoun, and wife of the current Lord Zouche. They held a tournament—”

  “Did you say a tournament?” Charlotte interrupted in amazement. “When did this happen, for heaven’s sake?”

  “In 1875,” Vespasia said coolly. “Do you wish to hear it or not?”

  “Oh yes! I just didn’t know they had tournaments in 1875!”

  Vespasia’s face was almost straight. “They have tournaments whenever the ’romantic ideal’ grips hold of them, and they have more money than they need, and more time than things to do with it.”

  “Go on,” Charlotte prompted. “Doll Zouche?”

  “She came as the Queen of Abyssinia—they proposed making a trip to that cou
ntry the following summer. The culmination of the tournament was a sham fight in which Doll and others dressed as Christian ladies were attacked by Moorish marauders, Blunt being one of them. They were rescued by two knights on horseback—Lords Zouche and Mayo. What began in fun ended in earnest. Unfortunately she was having an affaire with both young Fraser and Lord Mayo, who wished to elope with her—which he ultimately did—and of course, Blunt.”

  Charlotte was speechless.

  “On the day of the tournament,” Vespasia concluded, “she quarreled with her husband, and galloped away on her favorite horse. Blunt was nearly cited in the ensuing divorce.”

  Charlotte’s eyebrows shot up. “Only nearly?”

  “That is what I said. But you may be sure Mr. Carswell will know of it!”

  “Oh dear.” Unconsciously Charlotte copied Vespasia’s exact tone. “Thomas seemed to feel Mr. Carswell was very much in love, not merely a matter of—appetite.”

  “Who is she? Does he know?”

  “Yes, but he did not tell me. He followed Mr. Carswell one day—over the river somewhere.”

  They were prevented from continuing the conversation any further by the arrival of Lord and Lady Byam and the necessity of greeting them. Charlotte found the color distinctly warm in her cheeks as wild speculations raced through her mind while she spoke politely to Lord Byam, and looked at his remarkable eyes. She felt acutely guilty. She was swapping politenesses with him, saying how nice it was to see him, and all the time her mind was wondering if he had stood with a gun in his hand and shot William Weems’s head to pieces.

  What was he thinking behind that sensitive, imaginative face and the formal words? Something equally wild and terrible? For that matter, what were any of them thinking? Could Eleanor Byam possibly feel as calm and sedate as she looked? She was dressed in black, which made her hair the more startling and her shoulders and throat whiter. She wore a necklace of onyx and diamonds, both unusual and very lovely. She was greeting Micah Drummond, and there was a faint flush of color creeping up her cheeks. She met his eyes with a directness not required or expected of such a ritual occasion.

  Of course—she would know who he was, and that her husband had asked his help. Beneath the formal acknowledgments and inquiries for health, she would ache to know what he had learned. And presumably she knew both he and her husband were members of the Inner Circle, so his loyalty was assured. No—that was not true: women were excluded. She would not know, so perhaps she had no idea why Drummond should help, and consequently no reason to believe he was anything more than a police officer with breeding, a social equal, or something close. Perhaps “equal” was overstating it; at least not hopelessly inferior, like Pitt, and almost all the rest of the police force.

  And what was Drummond thinking, behind the courteous expression and the pale, rather drawn face? Probably remembering Pitt’s confrontation over the secret brotherhood, the police corruption he must do something about because Pitt knew, and perhaps wondering about his own role in it. Charlotte trusted her judgment where he was concerned. She did not believe he was corrupt, not when he faced the reality of it. He might well be blind, a little naive; there was a quality of innocence in him which she had often observed in some of the nicest men. They were inclined to trust people no woman worth a fig would have trusted half as far as she could have thrown them. Funny how men thought it was women who were the innocents. In Charlotte’s experience, most women, underneath the daydreams and the trappings that gave a little glamour, were eminently practical. The human race would hardly have survived otherwise. Knights on white chargers had their place, in dreams which were completely necessary to sweeten some of the pills that must be swallowed, but one could divide off part of the mind for such a purpose. In the end one knew quite well which was which, and most women did not confuse the two.

  Yes, naive, that was the word. She looked at him again, his tall lean figure and rather quiet face. It was not wildly imaginative, but without a shred of ill temper or undue vanity. He was looking at Eleanor Byam with such gentleness, and a diffidence as if it mattered to him intensely what she thought, how she felt. How very kind that he should be so concerned for her, so sensitive to her fears …

  Oh my goodness. How totally idiotic of her.

  “What is it?” Vespasia had noticed and was staring at her with interest.

  “Nothing,” Charlotte lied instinctively.

  Vespasia snorted very slightly, like a well-bred horse.

  “Poppycock. You have observed that your Mr. Drummond is more than a little in love with Lady Byam. Which will make life very difficult for him—whether Lord Byam is guilty or not.”

  “Oh dear.” Charlotte sighed. “I wonder if Thomas has any idea?”

  “I doubt it,” Vespasia said with a tiny shake of her head. “I like him quite as much as any man I know—but he is as unobservant as most men over such things.” She seemed unaware of her astounding admission that she, Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould, held Thomas Pitt, policeman and gamekeeper’s son, in an affection unsurpassed by any man, even of her own station and breeding.

  Charlotte held her breath, and felt a tide of hot emotion surge up her face, and an overwhelming pride burst open inside her like a flower.

  She swallowed hard, and tried to sound nonchalant.

  “I imagine not,” she said huskily. “I had better point it out to him. It may matter.” And with that parting shot she made her way into the main withdrawing room to speak to more of the guests who had arrived in the intervening time.

  A few moments later she found herself talking polite nonsense with Fanny Hilliard. It was nonsense because neither of them cared particularly about the sort of subjects it was good manners to discuss: the weather (which was of no interest whatever), fashion (which neither of them could afford to follow), current gossip (which neither of them was acquainted with, not being in the rank of society which was privy to such confidences, nor being in the places to observe it at first hand), or theater, (which they visited very seldom, for the same financial reasons).

  Indeed the whole conversation was simply a device through which they could express a certain liking for each other. One could not simply stand and stare without exchanging some words, however pointless.

  Charlotte was not in the least put out to see Fanny’s eyes wander from hers several times, and a soft warmth come into them, and a trace of color up her cheeks as if her pulse were beating faster. She was quite aware that Fitz Fitzherbert was somewhere behind her and a little to her left.

  Therefore she was not surprised when a few minutes later he joined them, talking of equally mindless and silly subjects. His fair face reflected an inner laughter and a complete acceptance that their words were of no importance whatsoever, their thoughts of the greatest importance possible.

  “How good of Mrs. Radley to invite me again,” he said to both of them, including Charlotte equally, although she knew perfectly well she served only as a chaperon to make the exchange possible. “She is playing this extremely fairly, don’t you think?”

  Fanny smiled and looked up at him, not through her lashes—she was too candid for that, and too sincere in her feelings. Her eyes were wide and bright, and there was a vivid color in her cheeks.

  “Indeed,” she agreed, although Charlotte was not sure if Fanny had any idea what Fitz meant; no one had said anything about selection for Parliament, or Fitz’s and Jack’s rivalry.

  “Have you spoken with Lord Anstiss?” Fitz went on. “He is one of the most interesting men I have met. I have no difficulty whatever in listening to him with rapt attention. It is so gratifying when the people to whom one has to be polite and flattering are so distinguished as to earn it naturally.” He was looking at Fanny, his eyes never leaving her face.

  She could not have been unaware of it as she gazed at the glass in Charlotte’s hand, although probably she was not seeing it at all.

  “I have spoken to him only briefly,” she admitted. “I believe he is an expert in much o
f art, is that so?”

  “Extremely,” Fitz replied. “I wish I could remember all he said, so I could repeat it to you. His opinions were most enlightening—on almost everything.”

  “Oh please don’t!” Fanny said quickly, looking up at him. “I should far rather hear your own.” Then she realized she had been forward, and as on this occasion it mattered extremely to her what he should think, she colored furiously and looked away.

  “You are very generous,” he said quietly. “I am afraid my knowledge is pretty poor by comparison.”

  “I should not know how to reply to someone who knew everything,” she said with a tiny smile. “I should feel very overwhelmed.”

  “Would you?”

  “Although of course I should try not to show it,” she added with a touch of spirit.

  He laughed.

  “So I shall not know whether I have impressed you or not?”

  “I most profoundly hope not.”

  And so they continued, on the very outermost surface speaking of nothing that mattered, on the second surface, just a trifle below, flirting mildly as people do at parties when they find each other agreeable. And underneath they cared more and more deeply as all the unspoken things were understood between glances, through inflections of the voice and expressions of the face changing from laughter to self-awareness, wry knowledge of their own frailty, tenderness for the other, excitement because it was new and piquant, and fear because the hurt could cut so deeply.

  When they were joined by Odelia Morden, her face pale, her glass clutched in clammy hands, Charlotte felt a stab of pity which took her by surprise. She had not liked Odelia, thinking her both cold and complacent. Now she watched her face and saw in it the sudden awareness of defeat, not necessarily of fact—Fitz was betrothed to her and to break the engagement would be an act of folly in the face of his ambitions—but she recognized in him now a laughter and a magic she had never seen for herself, and the pain of it cut very sharp. For the moment she was too stunned to fight.