Belgrave Square (49 page)

It was not an attractive story and he was painfully aware of it, yet she could very easily understand how it had happened. Told in the space of a few minutes it was bereft of the shock, the sense of humiliation and loneliness; the young man fall of overwhelming inadequacy, fearing ridicule, coming home tired to the house where so shortly before he had been met by wife and children, now finding only servants, polite, distant and unsympathetic.

At last he had simply denied it, pushed it from his mind. Then when happiness had offered itself in the form of Regina, he had grasped it, paying the necessary price. And now twenty-three years later the price had suddenly become so very much higher, and not only he had to pay it, but Fanny—or else Regina and his other children.

“Did you pay Weems?” she asked without warning. His face was slack with surprise.

“No. As God is my judge, I never even knew the man.”

“But you let Horatio Osmar off. You threw the case out without calling Beulah Giles.”

“That had nothing to do with Fanny or my first marriage—or with Weems or his murder.”

“No.” She was about to add that it had everything to do with the secret society of the Inner Circle, when Pitt’s warning about their power rang sharply in her mind, and she bit the words back. “No,” she said again. “I did not think so, but I had to ask. What are you going to do about Fanny and Herbert Fitzheibert?”

“What are you going to do, Mrs. Pitt?”

“Nothing. I have already done all I can. It is your decision.”

“Fitzherbert may betray me, in Fanny’s interest—and his own.”

“He may. But if he does he will lose Fanny’s love forever, and he is quite intelligent enough to know that.”

“I must think.”

“Please do not leave it long. Once Fanny has refused him he may believe her and not ask again.”

“You press me hard, Mrs. Pitt.”

For the first time she smiled. “Yes. It is a very hard matter. I daresay Mrs. Carswell—by that I mean Regina—may find it very difficult to accept that your marriage to her is bigamous.” She saw him wince but carried on. “But I think she might find it no more painful than the thought that you have been currently having an affaire with a girl Fanny’s age. Surely when faced with two such awful alternatives, there is something to be said for the truth—and before the lie can bite too deep with its pain.”

“Do you believe that? How would you feel, Mrs. Pitt, to discover that your husband was not your husband at all, and that your beloved children were illegitimate?”

“I cannot think how dreadful I should feel, Mr. Carswell. Or how angry and how confused and betrayed. But I think I might find it easier to forgive than the thought that my husband had loved and been intimate with a girl not much older than my own daughter.”

He smiled very bleakly. “How very aspiring to the genteel, Mrs. Pitt. I might even say working class. A lady would accept such a thing as part of life, and as long as it was not forced upon her attention or made public to her embarrassment, she would scarcely observe it at all. Indeed, a lady of refined tastes might very well be glad her husband satisfied his less pleasing appetites elsewhere without troubling her, and causing her to bear a larger family than she wished, or her health could support.”

“Then I am quite definitely of a distinctly lower class, Mr. Carswell,” she said with crisp satisfaction. “If that is the guide by which to judge. And I would not be surprised if Mrs. Carswell is as well. But the decision is yours.” And with that she bent to eat some of her almost cold pork chop, and drink a little of the really very good wine.

“I will speak to Fitzherbert,” he said at last, just before they rose to leave. “And to James.”

“Thank you,” she accepted, matter-of-factly, as if he had passed the salt. But inside she felt a little swift, singing happiness, very small, very bright.

In the days after the garden party at which Fitz had made it only too apparent that he did not intend to marry Odelia, and had virtually defied Lord Anstiss, Jack Radley became very slowly and painfully aware of just what such an act had cost him.

Nothing was said. No overt comments were made and Jack did not hear Anstiss himself make any remark at all, and he saw him on several social occasions. The first thing he came across was at his club, where he overheard quite by chance two men he knew slightly, discussing Fitz and shaking their heads over the fact that he had been blackballed from another club of which one of them was a member.

“Good heavens, George. Herbert Fitzherbert? Really!” The man’s blond eyebrows rose in amazement. “Whatever for? Always thought he was a pretty decent chap—one of us, and all that.”

“So did I,” his friend agreed. “That’s what made it stick in my mind.”

“Sure it was Fitzherbert?”

“ ’Course I’m sure. Take me for a fool, Albert?”

“Whatever for? Not because that girl Morden jilted him, surely? Don’t care what he did, you don’t blackball a fellow for that sort of thing. Good God, if they started doing that, there’d be precious few of us left, what.”

“No, of course not. Something else. Don’t know what exactly. Word went out. That’s all I know. But I’ll tell you this: White’s follows—and then all the other clubs worth belonging to.”

“You think so? But what’s he done?”

“Doesn’t really matter, poor fellow. Don’t need to know, people just follow suit. Too bad. Liked him. Nice chap, always agreeable, and generous.”

“Can’t be that Hilliard girl, can it?”

“Don’t be an ass. Who the devil cares if a fellow sees a lady of dubious reputation? Long as you don’t insult your
wife, or expect decent people to treat her like one of the family …”

“Oh really? Does the Prince of Wales know that?”

“What? Oh—Mrs. Langtry? Well what the Marlborough House set do isn’t really the pattern for all of us. Can’t get away with it just because they do. Anyway, all he did, as I hear, was flirt with the girl a bit. No harm in that. No—no, it’s something else. No idea what.”

Jack did not know that it was Anstiss, but he feared it. He remembered the anger in his eyes, the sudden hard line of his mouth. It had changed from being an amiable, intelligent face into one that held a ruthlessness that was final.

He heard other remarks, saw the change in people’s expressions when Fitz’s name was mentioned.

“It is a curious comment on one’s acquaintances,” he said to Emily and Charlotte one afternoon as they were sitting in Charlotte’s garden in the sun. They had called briefly to tell her of their change in plans. He smiled with an uncharacteristic twist of cynicism. “I think I can almost divide them into two classes: those I admire and those I don’t, according to their reactions. It is a very sour thing to discover how many people are prepared to condemn a man without knowing even what it is he is supposed to have done, let alone whether he is guilty of it or not.”

“You shouldn’t be surprised, my dear,” Emily said with a sad little grimace. “Society is all about influence and fashion. Someone with influence has blackballed Fitz, and suddenly he is no longer fashionable. Everyone, or almost everyone, is a follower, trying desperately to climb a little higher. And since no one knows where they are going, it is imperative one follows the right people.”

Charlotte shot her a glance to see if she were as bitter as her words, but saw the flicker of amusement in her eyes, and was reassured that it was a tolerant understanding and not a matter of self-pity, or worse, of hatred.

“What are you going to do?” Charlotte asked, looking at Jack.

“Tell Lord Anstiss that I will seek selection, but that I will not enter the society to which he has invited me,” Jack answered with sudden deep seriousness. And looking at him more closely Charlotte saw the gravity in him, and a flicker
of fear. She knew then that he believed it was Anstiss at the back of Fitz’s disfavor. They were all aware of his real power, not the money, the philanthropy, the open counsel, patronage and hospitality, but the influence that made or broke people according to his wish. He was a Mend one could not do without, he was also an enemy one could not afford.

“He will not like it,” Charlotte said quietly, but inside she was immensely relieved. No hope of failure Anstiss could threaten was anything like the horror that the Inner Circle visited on its members, the twisting of conscience, the tearing of loyalties, the secrecy and uncertainty, not knowing who to trust, and thus in the end the distrust of everyone, and the final utter loneliness.

“I know,” Jack agreed. “And I don’t know whether it is the same secret society that Thomas mentioned, but just in case, I should prefer not to.”

“But you will still stand?”

“Of course. But independently, if that is the price.” His smile was a little bleak. Perhaps already he had some idea that indeed that was the price, and in the end without the help of Anstiss and people like him, he would have no better a chance than Fitz.

Charlotte felt an overwhelming rush of sadness for all that he might have accomplished, and a pride in him that he would not do it at such a cost. She glanced across at Emily, and saw the answering pride in her eyes, and a happiness that was brighter than ambition, even for the opportunity to serve.

“I’m glad,” Charlotte said quietly. “No one can please everyone. It is very important indeed to know whose approval matters in the end.”

11

P
ITT STOOD
in Micah Drummond’s office in the hazy sun. It was mid-afternoon and he had come to the point in his thoughts when he could no longer put off asking Drummond further about Byam. He was sinking in a morass of facts and suppositions, few of which he could fit into any coherent order. He did not even know fully how Weems had been killed, let alone by whom. Someone had visited him that night, found the blunderbuss and the powder, either seen or brought with him the coins, and had loaded the gun and fired it. But why had Weems sat still and permitted him to do that? From all he had learned, it seemed that Weems was a cautious man and well familiar with the danger he might be in from desperate clients pushed beyond endurance.

Drummond was standing by the window as he so often did. Pitt, hands in his pockets, was close to the desk, his thoughts still racing.

Surely Weems’s other occupation as a blackmailer would have made him even more careful still? The bars on the door to the single entrance testified to that. Who would he permit to visit him at that hour, and for what purpose?

If they knew that, Pitt felt they would be a great deal closer to knowing who killed him.

And why? Was it debt? That seemed less and less likely. Or blackmail? If blackmail, then was it Byam, in a double bluff, or Carswell, or Urban, or Latimer? He thought not
Urban, for all the excellent motive. Or was that simply because he liked the man? He had not yet told anyone about the picture frame in the Stepney music hall.

Charlotte was convinced it was not Carswell, and he was disposed to agree. Latimer? Or Byam himself, after all?

Or was it not blackmail, but some other motive, a more deep and ugly personal reason to do with Weems. Or perhaps his death was simply a necessary part of some other plan, and someone else was the real victim.

If that was true, they might be as far from a solution now as they had been when Byam first sent for them, which was a frightening thought.

“What is it?” Drummond said aloud, his face creased with anxiety. This case troubled him as very few before, and in an entirely different way. Pitt understood it, but he could do nothing to ease it; in fact it was probable he would make it worse.

He hitched himself sideways a little to sit on the desk. It was a very disrespectful attitude, but neither of them noticed. Drummond was sitting on the windowsill, his back to the sun.

“What if the motive was not debt or blackmail, but something else?” Pitt said aloud. “What if it was part of something personal …”

Drummond frowned. “But you said you had already investigated that, and you could find no personal relationships at all. He had no family of any sort, his only employees were the errand runner and the housekeeper, neither of whom seemed suspects, and no connection with any woman that you could find. Who would feel violently enough about him to kill him? There isn’t even an heir.”