Death in the Devil's Acre (16 page)

She felt a sudden gratitude for Emily’s generosity, both in providing the gown, which flattered her so much, and for doing it in such a discreet manner. She decided to say nothing, and thus let the gift reach the fullest measure. Instead she swept down the stairs from the spare dressing room like a duchess entering her own ballroom, and swirled to a grand curtsy in the hallway at Emily’s feet. The sense of excitement inside her was as vivid as the light on the chandeliers.

“Your dress is perfect,” she said, rising with a little less grace than she had intended. “I feel fit to dazzle everyone and make Christina quite sickly with envy! Thank you very much.”

Emily was in the palest aquamarine, with diamonds at her ears and throat sparkling like sunlight upon clear water. They were as different as could be, which of course had been the intention—although possibly Emily had not expected Charlotte to look quite so splendid. But if she hadn’t, she rapidly adjusted her thought, and smiled back with unclouded approval.

“Now, just remember not to say anything too candid,” she warned. “Society adores mirrors to its face and its attire, but has no love whatsoever for a reflection of its morals or its soul. I shall be obliged if you bear that in mind before you express your opinions!”

“Yes, Emily.” She did owe her something for the dress.

Emily had obviously taken some care in forewarning George of the purpose of their visit. He had agreed to accompany them, and to refrain from enlightening their hosts about Charlotte’s marriage and thus her current social status, although Charlotte did not know if Emily had also told him the reason for this!

Christina Ross received them distinctly coolly. Obviously the invitation had come from her husband, and she had been obliged to go along with it, since it could hardly be withdrawn. “How kind of you to come, Lord Ashworth, Lady Ashworth,” she said, with a very small smile.

George bowed and passed some civil remark, vaguely complimentary.

“And Miss Ellison.” Christina’s eyes swept over Charlotte’s gown with slight surprise. She allowed it to show, as a delicate insult to what she considered to be Charlotte’s station, and therefore the unsuitability of the gown—let alone how she might have come by it! “I hope you are in good health?” There was a lift in her voice, which was wasted. Charlotte too obviously glowed with an abundance of well-being of every sort.

Christina abandoned the inquiry without waiting for an answer, and indicated where they were welcome to seat themselves.

George did not believe that they should interfere in the solving of the crimes, and he had in fact barely known Bertie Astley. But he was generally good-natured, as long as he was not unduly criticized or robbed of his habitual pleasures. Emily had proved an excellent wife. She was neither extravagant nor indiscreet, she rarely lost her temper, she never sulked or rebuffed him, and she was far too subtle in her dealings with him to need to nag.

He was aware, in afterthought, of having changed one or two of his amusements—maybe even three or four—in order to please her. But it had proved less painful than he had anticipated, and one had to be prepared to make some adjustments. He therefore did not really object to humoring her with regard to cultivating Christina Ross, if she felt it was useful. Of course he knew quite well it was absolutely pointless, but if it entertained her, what matter? And he could see no reason why it should not be pleasant.

Charlotte he had never understood, nor had he tried to. He liked her well enough; in fact, to be honest, he even liked Pitt!

Accordingly, he put himself out to be charming to Christina and, without any great effort, was devastatingly effective. His face was handsome, especially his eyes, and generations of privilege and money had given him an assurance so easy it required no attention at all. He could sit and stare at Christina with appreciation, and flatter her merely by giving her his undivided concern.

There was little enough time, and Emily wasted none of it, but began immediately on the subject that had brought her. “It is so pleasant to see you again,” she said to Alan Ross, with a smile. “George was delighted when I gave him your invitation. We spend so much time with those in society who are not of the most attractive. I confess, I am not as clever at judging people as I had imagined I was. I have been somewhat naive, and have found myself in the company of persons I would not have chosen had I been wiser. But one so often learns these things too late. Even now I do not fully understand.” She dropped her voice as if imparting a confidence. “But I have heard whispers that some ladies of what one would have thought to be impeccable family have been behaving in ways too appalling to speak of!”

“Indeed?” A shadow crossed Alan Ross’s face, so brief Charlotte was not sure if she had imagined it, but it left her with an impression of pain. Had the unintended clumsiness of Emily’s remark disturbed some memory of the past? The murder in Callander Square?

“Emily,” she said quickly. “Perhaps it is a subject indelicate to discuss!”

Emily gave her a blue stare of amazement, then turned back quickly to Alan Ross. “I do hope I have not offended you by speaking my feelings too candidly?” She looked wounded, anxious, but underneath the wide swirls of her skirt she gave Charlotte a sharp kick. Charlotte winced, but was obliged to keep her face expressionless.

“Of course not!” Ross said with a slight movement of his hand, the smallest gesture of dismissal—it was too trivial to require more. “I quite agree with you. There is only one thing more boring and more unpleasant than debauchery, and that is to hear of it interminably and at second hand.” He smiled very slightly, and Charlotte could only guess at the thoughts that had prompted the remark.

“How I agree with you!” Emily’s foot gave Charlotte a warning tap—painful, since it caught exactly the spot where she had landed the first kick. “I find it most embarrassing when women speak of such things. I hardly know what to say.”

Charlotte moved her feet discreetly out of Emily’s reach. “And that is a mark of how deeply she is affected,” she put in. “It quite robs her of a response—and what a remarkable instance that is you may judge!”

Emily’s foot came out sharply and met only piles of skirt. She looked at Charlotte with acute suspicion out of the corner of her eye. Charlotte smiled ravishingly at Alan Ross.

At that moment the door opened and the footman ushered in General Balantyne and Lady Augusta. George and Alan Ross both rose to their feet, and the rest of the party remained perfectly still. Balantyne stared at Charlotte until she could feel the color burn in her face. She wished desperately that Emily had not lied and introduced her as Miss Ellison.

Christina broke the pattern. She stood up and sailed forward, arms stretched in a theatrical gesture stopping just short of embracing her father. “Papa, how delightful to see you!” She half turned and held out a cool cheek to Lady Augusta. “Mama! You know Lord Ashworth, of course.”

Formal acknowledgments were made, George bowing gracefully.

“And Lady Ashworth.” Her voice dropped to a tone distinctly chillier.

Emily had risen, as was fitting for a younger woman to an elder when they both possessed titles. Again the acknowledgments were made.

Christina turned at last to Charlotte, also, of course, now standing. “And perhaps you recall Miss Ellison, who was so kind as to assist Papa with some clerical work a few years ago?”

“Indeed.” Augusta did not wish to be reminded of that time, or of anything to do with it. “Good evening, Miss Ellison.” Her incomprehension that Charlotte should be included in the company at all clearly showed.

“Good evening, Lady Augusta.” Suddenly, Charlotte’s guilt vanished, and she stared back as coldly as she imagined Augusta herself might have if confronted with a débutante who did not know her place.

There was a faint tinge of color on the general’s high cheekbones. “Good evening, Miss Ellison.” He caught something in his throat and coughed. “How pleasant to see you again. I was thinking of you only the other day—” He stopped. “That is—a certain event brought you to mind.”

“I have remembered you often.” Charlotte wanted to rescue him, and what she said was almost true. She never heard or read of any military event without in one way or other associating it with him.

Christina’s raised eyebrows showed her amazement. “Oh dear! I had no notion we had become so fixed in your mind, Miss Ellison—or perhaps you are referring only to Papa?”

Charlotte wanted to hurt her. “The circumstances of our meeting were not common enough in my life for me to forget anything of them,” she said, meeting Christina’s eyes icily. She saw Christina pale at the memory of murder. “But of course I learned to admire the general very much as I became acquainted with his memoirs. I am sure, knowing him so much better, you must share my regard.”

Christina’s face tightened. “Naturally—but then he is my father! That is an entirely different thing—Miss Ellison.”

The color deepened in Balantyne’s face, but he seemed to find nothing to say.

“You never read your father’s military papers, my dear.” It was Alan Ross who rescued them. “A daughter’s affection is quite a different emotion from the respect of someone quite impartial.”

The pink drained out of Balantyne’s cheeks and he turned away quickly. “Of course it is,” he said with some tartness. “I cannot imagine you meant that as it sounded, Christina. Miss Ellison was merely being courteous.” He did not look at Charlotte, but settled himself talking instead to George.

Emily engaged herself with Christina, leaving Charlotte to try to balance an awkward conversation with Alan Ross and Lady Augusta. She was immensely relieved when dinner was announced.

The table was rich, and Charlotte noticed Emily looking it over and probably adding up what she judged it to have cost. Emily knew the quality of crystal, silver, and napery to a nicety, and she was also precisely aware of what a cook was worth. Charlotte caught her eye a few moments after they had sat down, and from the slight incline of one fair brow, she gathered that in Emily’s opinion Christina was being extravagant.

The first course was served, and the general conversation turned to the kind of polite trivia appropriate to the importance of taking the first edge from appetite, and at the same time maintaining a degree of elegance. Charlotte took no part in it; she was not acquainted with the people referred to, and could not comment upon the likelihood of one person marrying another, or what a disaster it would or would not be.

She found her gaze straying toward General Balantyne, the only other person uninvolved, either from ignorance or lack of interest. She was a little discomforted to find him watching her, in spite of the fact that Christina was speaking with great animation.

There was a ripple of laughter around the table, and suddenly Christina became aware that her wit had left two of the company untouched. She looked directly at Charlotte, pulling a little face.

“Oh, I am so sorry, Miss Ellison. Of course I forgot you cannot know Miss Fairgood, or the Duke’s grandson. How very unkind of me. You must feel so left out. Do please forgive me!”

Nothing she might have said would be better calculated to make Charlotte’s exclusion more obvious. The conversation was tedious and Charlotte had not cared before, but now she felt her face burning with self-consciousness. She remained silent, because if she spoke she would be rude and thus give Christina yet another victory.

“I do not know Miss Fairgood either.” Balantyne picked up his glass. “I cannot say that I have been aware of the loss. And I am as indifferent as Miss Ellison as to whom the Duke’s grandson should marry. However,” he turned to Charlotte, “I have recently come upon some letters of a soldier who served in the Peninsular War. I think you might find them interesting, and most encouraging when one realizes how far we have progressed since then. I remember your admiration for Miss Nightingale’s work in organizing care for the wounded in the Crimea.”

Charlotte did not have to feign interest. “Letters?” she said eagerly. “Oh, that is so much more exciting than a history book.” Without a thought for Emily’s strategy, she leaned forward a little. “I should be so pleased if I might see them. It would be like—like holding a piece of the real past in my hands, not merely somebody else’s judgment of it! What do you know of him—the soldier who wrote the letters, I mean?”

The stern lines of Balantyne’s face softened and some reserve within him released itself. He put the glass down. He ignored the formality of saying that of course she might see the letters, as if that should be assumed and need not be put into words between them.

“He was a person of considerable intelligence,” he said intently. “It seemed he served as an enlisted man instead of as an officer by his own choice, and he was obviously well able to read and to write. His observations are most sensitive, and betray a compassion I admit I find very moving.”

“It is hardly an uplifting conversation for the dinner table.” Augusta looked at them with disfavor. “I cannot imagine that we wish to know of the sufferings of some pathetic common soldier in—wherever it was!”

“The Spanish peninsular,” Balantyne explained, but she ignored him.

“I should think they are quite as uplifting as the matrimonial aspirations of Miss Fairgood,” Alan Ross said dryly.

“To whom, for goodness’ sake?” Christina asked caustically.

“To me,” Ross replied. “To your father, and—unless she is being more courteous than others have been so far this evening—to Miss Ellison.”

Charlotte caught his eye, and looked down quickly at her plate. “I am afraid I cannot claim credit for such delicacy, Mr. Ross,” she said, forcing her face to remain modestly composed. “I am most genuinely interested.”

“How quaint,” Christina murmured. “Lady Ashworth, you were saying that you have lately made the closer acquaintance of Lavinia Hawkesley. Don’t you find her quite the most entertaining creature? Although I am not at all sure how much she has any intention of being!”

“I fancy the poor soul is bored to weeping,” Emily replied with a furious glance at Charlotte. “And I cannot say that I entirely blame her. Sir James is a man fit to bore anyone. He must be thirty years older than she is, at the very least.”