Silence in Hanover Close (11 page)

Jack looked a little startled. “You mean his reputation?”

Now she had no answer. To expect a man’s reputation to have the same purity as a woman’s was absurd; she would mark herself as eccentric to the point of idiocy if she suggested such a thing.

But the alternative was the truth, and that was worse. But how could she back out of this discussion without being caught in a lie? She could feel the hot blood in her cheeks. She must say something! The silence positively prickled.

“Well, they might be concerned that he was a man of honor as much as he seems,” she said, scrambling for something that sounded better, more specific. “Some men have most disreputable habits. Perhaps you don’t know, but having assisted in the investigation of one or two crimes, I have learned of some terrible things, which were quite unknown to their families.” She forced herself to look at Jack. She was talking too much.

“Would it have anything to do with Robert York’s murder?” he asked. His eyes revealed nothing.

“No,” she said slowly. “Unless, of course, he killed him.”

“Julian Danver?”

“Why not?”

“Because he was already Veronica’s lover?” He took her point. “Yes, that’s possible.” He said it with assurance. Apparently the idea did not seem farfetched to him. Divorce would not have been open to Veronica, even with grounds such as proven adultery, let alone with no grounds at all! Emily knew that. Only men could divorce for unfaithfulness, and even then the woman was ruined. Women were expected either to prevent such a misfortune or else to put up with it with grace. And if Veronica herself were cast aside as an adulteress, then Julian Danver would lose all prospect of a career if he were to marry her; in fact, they would not even be received in Society. To all intents and purposes, they would cease to exist.

“Do you suppose he was so infatuated with her that he lost his head, his morality, enough to do that?” she asked, not because she thought Jack could possibly know but because she wanted to test his opinion of Veronica. Did he see her as a woman who could inspire such a reckless passion?

The answer was the one she had feared.

“I don’t know Danver,” he answered seriously. “But if he was capable of it, then Veronica would be just the woman to waken such a feeling.”

“Oh.” Emily’s voice was tight, a little high. “Then we had better pursue the matter forthwith, for justice’s sake if nothing else.” She sounded businesslike, very crisp. “I shall write to Charlotte to follow up on the invitation to visit the winter exhibition, and you must do what you can to obtain an invitation for her to meet the rest of the people who might be involved.” Her frustration boiled up suddenly and erupted despite her intentions. “I
wish
I were not shut up here like a hermit! It’s damnable! I could do so much if only I were free to socialize—oh
hellfire
!”

He looked startled for a moment, but there was laughter in his eyes. “I don’t think you’re ready for the Honorable Mrs. Piers York’s withdrawing room yet, Emily,” he said wryly.

“On the contrary,” she snapped, her face hot. “I’m over-ready!”

But there was nothing she could do, and her choice lay between accepting it with a good grace or an ill one. After another few minutes of general chatter Jack took his leave with a commission to contrive the necessary invitation. Emily was left alone again to go over and over in her mind all that she had said, changing a word or two, an inflection here and there to make it more gracious, less revealing. She wished she could go back and conduct the whole meeting again, and this time be more casual, perhaps occasionally say something witty. Men liked women who amused them, as long as they were not too clever or too spiteful.

Could she possibly be in love with Jack? That would be indecent so soon after George’s death. Or was it just that she liked him, and she was bored, and so crushingly lonely?

It was six days later, past New Year’s and into January with all its bleak and desperate cold, snow lining the streets and freezing fog creeping up like a white presage of death, clogging the throat, devouring light, distorting sound, and isolating each person who ventured out into it, when Emily’s carriage called for Charlotte in the late afternoon. It took her to Emily’s house, where she changed into a royal blue silk dinner gown while Emily and her maid fussed over her. Then, wrapped in wool and fur, she rode in Jack’s carriage to the house of Garrard Danver and his family in Mayfair, at the farther end of Hanover Close.

The carriage moved slowly through the swirling fog, and Charlotte could barely see the faint luminescence of gas lamps above, one moment clear yellow and the next swathed and blinded with dirty white rags of vapor.

She was glad when they pulled up and it was time to begin being Elisabeth Barnaby again. It was easier to take the plunge into activity than to sit hunched up in the dark turning it over in her mind and worrying about all the things that might go wrong. If they were to catch her out, how could she possibly explain herself? It would be ghastly: she would be stuck there wriggling like a moth on a pin while everyone stared at her and thought how absurd and tasteless she was. She would have to say she had lost her wits—it was the only possible excuse.

And even if she were entirely successful in duping them, would she discover anything at all that could shed any light on Robert York’s death? Perhaps this whole attempt was nothing to do with Robert or Veronica York, but was merely a silly farce to take Emily’s mind off her boredom, and an opportunity for Charlotte to make some judgment on Jack Radley, and only a temporarily successful attempt at that!

The carriage door was open and the footman was waiting to hand her down. She stepped out, glad of his grip for a moment or two as the cold, acrid air hit her like wet muslin. Then she went quickly up the steps and into the wide, warm hallway.

There was no time to look at the furnishings or the pictures beside the flight of stairs that swept upwards to the landing. The butler took her coat and muff and a maid held open the door into the withdrawing room. Charlotte took Jack’s arm and tried to sweep in with confidence, holding her chin high, her silk skirt swishing—or to be accurate, Emily’s silk skirt.

Jack nudged her sharply and she realized she was overdoing it. She was supposed to be modest, and obliged for their help. She lowered her gaze with a sense of irritation. She was tired of being obliged.

They were the last to arrive, which was very suitable, since they were the only ones not known closely to the others already. The six people in the room turned to look at them with varying degrees of interest. The first to speak was a young woman in her late twenties with a most individual face which only just missed being pretty; her nose was tip-tilted too far from the classic, and there was a frankness in her dark eyes that seemed out of place in an unmarried woman. Her figure was not nearly rounded enough for fashion, but her dark hair was shining and thick enough to have pleased anyone. She came forward to greet Charlotte with a good-mannered smile.

“How do you do, Miss Barnaby. I am Harriet Danver. I am so pleased you were able to come. Are you finding London agreeable, apart from this wretched weather?”

“How do you do, Miss Danver,” Charlotte replied courteously. “Oh yes, thank you for asking. Even in this fog it is such a nice change from the country, and people are so kind.”

A tall, lean man with an aquiline, highly ascetic-looking face came forward from where he had been half sitting on the back of a huge armchair. Charlotte judged him to be in his mid-forties, until he passed directly under the chandelier and she saw that the graying at the temples touched the rest of his head as well; the lines on his face were finer and more numerous than the shadows had betrayed.

“I am Garrard Danver.” His voice had a fine timbre to it. “I am delighted to meet you, Miss Barnaby.” He did not take her hand but instead smiled at Jack, bidding him welcome also, and introduced them to the remaining people in the room. Of these the most interesting by far was Julian Danver; indeed he was the principle reason Charlotte had been so keen to come. He was about the same height as his father, with a more athletic build, but it was his face that held her attention. He must have gotten his features from his mother, because Charlotte could see no family resemblance to Garrard at all, whereas in Harriet it was quite recognizable, especially about the eyes. Julian was fair, his eyes were gray or blue—she could not tell in the light of the chandelier—and his hair was brown with a fair streak across the front. His features were strong, and there was intelligence and restraint in his bearing. She could well imagine that Veronica York found him most attractive.

The last member of the Danver family was Garrard’s maiden sister, Miss Adeline Danver. She was rakishly thin, her deep green dress failing to mask the sharp bones of her shoulders. Her features exaggerated the flaws in Harriet’s face—her chin was smaller, her nose more prominent—but she had the same dark eyes and fine head of hair, more faded but still thick.

“Aunt Adeline is hard of hearing,” Harriet whispered softly to Charlotte. “If she says something odd, please smile and disregard it. She frequently gets quite the wrong sense of what is said.”

“Of course,” Charlotte murmured politely.

The only other guests were Felix Asherson and his wife. A striking man with black hair and unexpectedly vivid gray eyes, he worked in the Foreign Office with Julian Danver. But it was his mouth Charlotte noticed. She could not make up her mind about it; was it sensuous and strong, or was that wide lip a sign of self-indulgence? His wife Sonia was a handsome woman with bland, regular features, empty of expression, the sort of face fashion advertisers like because it sets off a hat without drawing the eye from it in the least. Her figure was well-proportioned, and on this occasion she wore a gown in a most becoming shade of coral pink, revealing plump, milk-white shoulders.

After the formal greetings had been exchanged, the usual small talk began. Since all the others were known to each other, it centered upon Charlotte and Jack Radley, and Charlotte concentrated on giving answers that made sense factually and were also in keeping with the character she had created for herself. She was supposed to be a young woman of modest means and good breeding, and, naturally, in search of a husband. Maintaining this role required all her attention, and it was not until they were at dinner round a table gleaming with silver and crystal, partaking of a rather too salty soup, that she was able to take time to observe the rest of the company.

The conversation was still very general: comments upon the unpleasantness of the weather, then minor points of news—nothing political or even remotely contentious—and then remarks about a play that most of them had seen. Charlotte replied only when good manners demanded, which gave her time to think. She might not get this opportunity again, so she must take full advantage of it.

The things she hoped to discover were few, but they would add to the little she had learned from Pitt. How long had Julian Danver and Veronica been acquainted? Did their love predate Robert York’s death, and thus cause it? Was Julian Danver an ambitious man, either in his profession or socially? Was there a noticeable difference in their financial status, so that money might have been a motive, either for Veronica or for him?

Charlotte had grown up in a home where quality was intensely admired, even on those occasions when it could not be afforded. It was one of a well-bred young lady’s attributes that she should be able to distinguish the excellent from the merely good, and naturally also its cost. She had been in the hall and withdrawing room of the York house, and she judged that they had had money long enough to be comfortable with it. There was none of the tendency to show off which so often accompanied recent acquisition. They felt no necessity to parade new furnishings or decorations, or put objets d’art in prominent positions.

Of course, she was quite aware that people’s circumstances can change; she had seen many houses with fine rooms where guests were received, while the rest of the building lacked even a carpet and grates did not know a fire from one Christmas to another. And some prefer to keep a full complement of servants while they themselves eat barely enough to keep alive, rather than be seen to have a poor establishment. But Charlotte had noticed the women’s clothes. They were of the latest cut and there were no worn places on cuffs or elbows; nothing had been altered to fit another season, or turned to hide patches. And she had done enough of that kind of thing herself to know precisely where to look for the telltale needle holes, the slightly different shading of fabric.

Now as she pretended to listen to the conversation across the table, she glanced as discreetly as she could at the dining room and its furnishings. The whole effect was silver and blue, pale on the immaculate wallpaper, dark royal blue in the curtains, which seemed to be without the usual faded marks that the sun so quickly made in blues, which meant they were not above a season old. Perhaps that indicated a tendency to extravagance? There was a painting of a Venetian scene on the wall opposite her, but Charlotte could not tell whether it was excellent or merely agreeable. The table itself was mahogany, or at least the legs were; the top was completely covered by crisp damask of heavy quality. The chairs and two sideboards were of the Adam style, and might well be genuine.

After checking that no one was watching her, she took a quick glance to see the hallmark on the reverse of her silver spoon. Perhaps the salty soup was a mere mischance; even the best people could have an accident with a cook. Perhaps they even liked it like this.

She considered the women’s clothes again with an eye to cost as well as to the indications to character they might show. Presumably both Harriet and Aunt Adeline, as unmarried women, were dependent upon Garrard for their support. Adeline’s gown did not have the panache of high fashion, but then nothing she wore ever would; she was not that kind of person, and Charlotte guessed she never had been. Nonetheless, the dress was well cut and of excellent fabric. Much the same could be said of Harriet’s gown.