Belgrave Square (37 page)

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 of 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.

Once her eyes met Fanny’s and the color drained from Fanny’s face as she understood. They looked at each other and the rest of the busy, chattering crowd faded from their awareness. Even Fitz himself seemed shadowy, his reality pushed to the edge of vision. They both understood precisely what the issue was. For the first time in his life Fitz was held by the same sort of enchantment that he had exercised over so many others, the charm that wakens all sorts of dreams, the feeling of warmth and the possibility of never being alone, of being understood in all that was best in oneself. It was too sweet ever to let go of entirely, no matter what the reality became.

Odelia saw something she had not realized before, and at
the moment she understood it, she also knew it was beyond her reach.

Fanny realized she was in love with another woman’s betrothed as she could probably not love anyone else. And he was socially above her, and his ambition made their union impossible. If he were to jilt Odelia he would not be forgiven.

And Fitz knew it also, but he did not accept it. Only the guilt hurt as he perceived at least in part what he was doing to Odelia, although he had not sought to feel as he did, nor was there anything he could do to govern it.

They were still all four standing motionless. Charlotte began talking to cover the confusion and the pain, not because she imagined for an instant that anyone was listening to her or cared in the slightest what she said. Then Regina Carswell stepped back and almost bumped into them, turning to apologize.

Over her shoulder Fanny’s startled gaze met that of Addison Carswell.

“I’m so sorry,” Regina said hastily, regaining her balance. “Oh—Miss Hilliard, is it not? How pleasant to see you again.”

Fanny gulped, all the color and excitement blanching out of her face.

“G-good evening, Mrs. Carswell.” She swallowed and coughed as the air caught in her throat. “Good evening, Mr. Carswell.”

“Good—good evening, Miss—er—Hilliard,” Carswell said awkwardly. “I—I’m delighted to make your acquaintance—again.”

Regina looked puzzled. Their discomposure was hardly accounted for by the triviality of the occasion. She sought for some reason for it, without understanding in the slightest.

“I do apologize, Miss Hilliard, if I trod upon your gown. It was most clumsy of me. I seem to have lost my balance.”

“Not at all,” Fanny said quickly. “You did not tread on me, I assure you. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Perhaps you are a little warm?” Charlotte suggested, looking at the tiny waist and wondering how much of it was owed to stays and a good maid with one foot on the bedpost.
“The garden is quite charming, and we shall not be going in to dine for some minutes yet.”

“Oh how kind of you.” Fanny grasped at the escape, her eyes brimming with gratitude. “Yes I am sure that is the answer. I shall take a little air.”

“Shall I come with you?” Fitz offered, then realized he had overstepped propriety. He was still with Odelia, at least in fact, if not at heart. He blushed at his own most uncharacteristic awkwardness.

“Oh no—thank you.” Fanny at least remembered herself so far as to decline, no matter how much she might have wished it; although Charlotte, looking at the quite sudden unhappiness in her eyes, thought perhaps she did not wish it after all.

Odelia opened her mouth to offer, then thought better of it.

Regina Cars well, who had daughters of her own and was quite used to such sudden feelings of faintness with all their causes, took charge of the situation.

“I shall come with you,” she said firmly. “I could do with a moment’s air myself. And if you feel faint, it is better that you should not be alone, just in case you trip.”

“Oh please,” Fanny said in something approaching distress. “I shall be perfectly all right, please believe me. It was only a moment—I should not dream of troubling you—”

“It is no trouble, my dear,” Regina said with a smile which gave an unusual radiance to her otherwise ordinary face. “I have already contributed anything I can to the conversation, and I shall be no loss to it. Come—we shall have a few minutes in the air before going to the dining room.” And taking Fanny’s arm she excused them and gently but irresistibly escorted her towards the French doors at the far end of the room.

Carswell cleared his throat uncomfortably and stared at no one.

Charlotte was suddenly furious with him for having taken a young mistress and betraying a woman of such innate kindness as Regina. What was a little laughter and a pretty face, compared with the years shared, the understanding and the loyalty of his wife? Perhaps she was a little domestic at times,
not always as glamorous and sometimes boring. For goodness sake, no doubt so was he.