Silence in Hanover Close (42 page)

Vespasia received her in the boudoir, which was full of light and space, sparsely furnished in cream and gold with touches of deep green. A great green fern in a jardinière stood against one wall. Only the steeply banked fire saved it from chill.

Vespasia herself looked more fragile but she still had the perfect bones of the amazing beauty she had been forty, even thirty years ago. She had aquiline features, heavy-lidded eyes under arched brows, and coiled hair like old silver. She was dressed in dark lavender, with a high fichu of Brussels lace at her throat.

“How are you?” Charlotte asked immediately, and it was not merely good manners, or the need for help. There was no one outside her family, and few within it, she cared for as much as she did for Aunt Vespasia.

Vespasia smiled. “Quite recovered—and probably far better than you, my dear,” she said frankly. “You look pale, and considerably fatigued. Sit down and tell me how you are progressing. What may I do to help?” She looked beyond Charlotte to the maid, who hovered in the doorway. “Tea please, Jennet, and cucumber sandwiches and some cakes— something with whipped cream and sugar icing, if you please.”

“Yes m’lady.” And Jennet disappeared, closing the door softly.

“Well?” Vespasia demanded.

When Charlotte left, her plans were perfected down to the finest detail. She felt immensely better for the food, and realized she had not been eating as she should—either she’d forgotten or she had no heart for it. Aunt Vespasia’s determination eased a great deal of the despair tightening inside her. She had very gently encouraged Charlotte to let go of the self-control which had kept her dry-eyed and rigid for so many days. Charlotte wept fiercely, with abandon. Naming all her fears, rather than forcing them down inside her like black devils, had robbed them of some of their horror; now that she had spoken them aloud and shared them, they no longer seemed unconquerable.

When Aunt Vespasia sent a handwritten letter two days later to say that the dinner was arranged and the invitations accepted, it was time to prepare Jack for the last and best gamble of all. Emily knew of it also, in as much detail as Charlotte dared tell her in a rather oddly coded letter, delivered by Gracie by omnibus.

Jack was far more nervous than Charlotte had expected when he collected her at quarter to seven on the evening of the dinner. But as soon as she was settled in the carriage and had a chance to weigh her thoughts, she realized that this was her own blindness. Just because he had done all he could right from the beginning, never questioning Pitt’s innocence or Emily’s harebrained plan to go to the Yorks’, did not mean he had no emotion under his rather casual exterior. After all, he was born and bred in a society where manner was all; one very quickly became out of fashion if one either loved or offended, and real emotions were apt to embarrass, which was even worse. They could disturb the peace of mind, unsettle, spoil the pleasure, and that was inexcusable. If Jack were worth anything, then of course he was nervous. He probably had a sick fluttering in his stomach just as she did, and a racing heart, and hands that were clammy no matter how often he wiped them.

They did not speak on the journey. They had made all the plans they could, and there was no time for trivia. It was bitterly cold, a rare winter night when the ice was crackling hard on the road and in the frozen gutters. The keen wind off the sea had blown the fog clear, and even over the city the smoke did not obscure the stars, which seemed to hang low as if someone had exploded a chandelier across the sky.

Vespasia had chosen Charlotte’s gown for the evening, and had obtained it for her, disregarding her protests. It was of deep ivory cream satin, touched here and there with gold, the bodice scattered with pearls. It was quite the most flattering garment she had ever worn, low-cut and with a beautiful bustle. Even Jack, who had wined and dined with the great beauties of the age, was startled and impressed.

They were shown into Vespasia’s withdrawing room and found her seated by the fire on a high-backed chair as if she were a queen receiving court. She wore gun-metal gray with a choker of diamonds and pearls, and her hair above her arched brows was coiled like a wrought silver crown.

Jack bowed and Charlotte, without thinking, dropped a curtsy.

Aunt Vespasia smiled; there was deep conspiracy in it. The situation was desperate, but there was also exhilaration going into battle.

“England expects that every man will do his duty,” Aunt Vespasia whispered. “I believe our guests are about to arrive.”

The first to come were Felix and Sonia Asherson, looking agreeably surprised to be there. Vespasia Cumming-Gould was something of a legend, even to their generation, and they knew of no reason why they should be among the very few invited to her house. What had seemed in Sonia to be an unbearably placid complacency, in this light appeared merely the rather regular cast of her features and an expression of politeness.

Felix appeared frankly interested. He could be extraordinarily charming when he wished; he knew how to flatter without words, and his infrequent smile was devastating.

Aunt Vespasia was nearly eighty. As a child she had seen the celebrations after the victory of Waterloo; she remembered the Hundred Days and the fall of Napoleon. She had danced with the Duke of Wellington when he was prime minister. She had known the heroes, the victims, and the fools of the Crimea, the empire builders, statesmen, charlatans, artists, and wits of the greatest century in the history of England. She was happy to play with Felix Asherson and kept the smile on her own lips flawlessly unreadable.

The Danvers were shown in ten minutes later. Julian seemed perfectly at ease; he felt no compulsion to show off or to push himself into the conversation. Charlotte decided Veronica might well be fortunate.

Garrard, on the contrary, was quick to speak, his face drawn, his hands moving nervously as though stillness were an unbearable strain. Charlotte instinctively scented the kill, and hating herself for it made no difference at all to her intentions. The choice lay between Garrard Danver and Pitt. It was no choice at all.

Harriet Danver was also far from comfortable. She looked more fragile than she had on previous occasions, although it was possible that was due to her wearing a shade of smoky lavender which echoed the shadows in her pale skin and made her eyes look even larger. Either she was very much in love and finding the pain unendurable, or there was some other knowledge or fear preying on her mind.

Aunt Adeline was dressed in topaz and gold, which suited her very well. There was a slight flush on her cheeks, which robbed them of their usual sallowness. It was several minutes before Charlotte realized Adeline felt vastly complimented to be invited to Aunt Vespasia’s home, and the occasion had excited her greatly. Charlotte felt a sharp spear-thrust of conscience. She would dearly like to have abandoned this, but it was not possible.

Last to come were the Yorks, Veronica ethereal and magnificent in black and silver, sweeping in with her head high and color in her cheeks. She checked herself almost before she was through the door at the sight of Charlotte standing close to Julian Danver. His admiration for her was extremely obvious; and it was equally obvious, just for an instant, that Veronica had never before appreciated what a potential rival Charlotte might be. Little Miss Barnaby from the country was a considerable beauty, when she chose! Veronica’s greeting had lost several degrees of warmth by the time they met in the center of the floor.

For once Loretta also looked less sure of herself; her aplomb was a shadow of her old certainty. As always, she was meticulously groomed, exquisitely feminine in golden peach, but the fluidity had gone, the wound Charlotte had seen in the conservatory was still raw. She did not look at Garrard Danver. Piers York was grave, as if aware of tragedy without knowing its nature or direction; either that, or he chose to ignore it. His face lit when he saw Vespasia, and Charlotte realized with surprise that they had known each other for years.

All the customary greetings were made, petty courtesies exchanged, but already the undercurrents had begun to pull, to tear and distort.

For half an hour they talked of the weather, the theater, figures of fashion and politics. They all seemed to be enjoying themselves except Garrard and Loretta. If Piers had any reservations he was too practiced to reveal them.

Charlotte found her attention wandering. She must not begin yet; she would wait until dinner. Begin too early and she could dissipate the very tension she was seeking to build. They must all be seated, facing each other, with no escape except the violent act of physically leaving a hostess’s presence. Only illness could excuse that.

The moments dragged by, the inane conversation fell word by word as she watched their faces and planned. Felix was enjoying himself, even with Harriet, and gradually she lost her pallor and joined in. Sonia was swapping gossip with Loretta. Veronica was flirting with Julian, looking in his eyes, ignoring Charlotte. Vespasia smiled and spoke to each of them in turn, drawing out small, self-revealing comments, and now and again her eye caught Charlotte’s with the faintest nod.

At last dinner was announced and they went in, two by two, taking the places Vespasia had set for them with meticulous forethought: Harriet next to Felix Asherson and opposite Jack, so he could see any expression in their faces; Julian next to Charlotte; and most important, Loretta and Garrard next to each other, under the chandelier, so no flicker of muscle, no shadow in their eyes could escape Charlotte directly opposite.

Soup was served, lobster bisque, and conversation flagged. Next came the fish, deviled whitebait, then the entree of quenelle of rabbit. When they were just beginning the removes of quarter of lamb, Aunt Vespasia regarded Julian Danver with an agreeable smile. “I understand you are quite a rising star in the Foreign Office, Mr. Danver,” she said. “A most responsible situation, not without its dangers.”

He looked surprised. “Danger, Lady Cumming-Gould? I assure you, I seldom leave the extremely comfortable and eminently safe rooms of the Foreign Office itself.” He smiled at Veronica quickly, then back again at Vespasia. “And even if I were posted abroad to some embassy, I would insist on it being in Europe.”

“Indeed?” Her silver eyebrows rose. “In what country’s affairs do you specialize?”

“In the affairs of Germany, and its interests in Africa.”

“In Africa?” she asked. “I believe the kaiser has some imperial designs there, which may inevitably conflict with ours. You must be involved in delicate negotiations.”

His smile remained. All the other conversation had stopped and faces were turned towards him.

“Of course,” he agreed.

The corners of Vespasia’s mouth curled upwards very slighdy. “And do you never fear betrayal, or even some slight, quite honest mistake that could hand the advantage to your opponents—your nation’s opponents?”

He opened his mouth to reply, dismissing her fears; suddenly the words died and a shadow touched his face. Then he banished it.

“One has to be careful, of course, but one doesn’t speak of state matters outside the Foreign Office itself.”

“And of course you know exactly whom to trust.” Charlotte made it more of a statement than a question. “I imagine treason begins little by little. First a small confidence elicited, perhaps by someone in love.” She glanced at Harriet and then back at Felix. “Personal loyalties can make such a mess of morality,” she said quietly, aware of what she herself was doing even at this moment, aware of friendship, the unwritten laws of hospitality—and of love that overrode them all. It was not that she thought she was right, or that love excused it, simply that it was elemental, as an animal protects its own.

There were spots of color in Felix’s pale cheeks. Sonia had stopped eating, and she clutched her fork in a white hand whose knuckles shone. Perhaps she was not as complacent as she seemed after all.

“I think you are—romanticizing, Miss Barnaby,” Felix said awkwardly.

Charlotte looked at him innocently. “Do you not believe in the strength of love to overcome judgment, Mr. Asherson, even for a moment?”

“I. . .” He was caught. He smiled to cover his dilemma. “You press me to be ungallant, Miss Barnaby. Shall I say I know no woman, however charming, who would ask the questions I was not free to answer?”

For a moment Charlotte was beaten. But then if it were so easy, it would not have eluded her thus far.

“You don’t know the mysterious woman in cerise?” The words were out before she had time to judge them. She saw Jack’s eyes widen and Aunt Vespasia let her fork fall onto her place with a little click. Veronica held her breath, staring at Charlotte as if she had cast aside a mask to reveal a reptile’s form. Garrard’s face was bloodless, his skin yellow-gray.

It was Loretta who broke the silence, her voice grating in the stillness. “Really, Miss Barnaby, you have a taste for the melodramatic which is unfortunate at best. I think you would be well advised to reconsider your reading matter.” There was only the slightest quiver in her words, barely a tremble. Of course she did not know Charlotte had seen her face in the conservatory doorway. “You should not read novels of the trashier sort,” she continued. “They coarsen the taste.”

“I think she has been reading the newspapers,” Jack said hastily.

“Certainly not!” Charlotte lied with a touch of irony. “I heard it from a running patterer! It was quite unavoidable; he was crying it out all over the street. Apparently this marvelously beautiful woman led some poor diplomat into revealing secrets, and then betrayed him. She was a spy.”

“Rubbish!” Felix said loudly. He stared straight at Charlotte, avoiding even the slightest glance at Harriet or her father. He might have wavered had he looked at Garrard—his face was so ghastly he seemed to be suffering some physical pain. “Rubbish!” Felix said again. “My dear Miss Barnaby, running patterers make their living by entertaining the masses. They invent half of it, you know.”

For a moment the tension eased. Charlotte could feel it slipping away. She must not lose it: the murderer was here at this shining dinner table with its silver and crystal and white flowers.