ways-however is easiest for us-and afford others the same comfort.'
Lovell's face paled, but before he could reply Caroline stood up, setting her cup and saucer on the table.
'It has been most charming,' she said to no one in particular. 'But we have other calls it would be only civil to make. I trust you will excuse us? My dear Ambrosine, I do hope I shall see you again soon. Good afternoon, Mr. Charrington, Inigo.'
Lovell rose from his chair and bowed. 'Good afternoon, Mrs. Ellison, Mrs. Pitt. So delightful to have made your acquaintance.'
Inigo opened the door for them and followed them out into the hall.
'I'm so sorry if I caused you distress, Mrs. Pitt,' he said with a little frown. 'It was not my intention in the least.'
'Of course not,' Charlotte answered him. 'And I think from what I have heard of her that I should have liked your sister very much indeed. I certainly find your mother the most comfortable person I have met for a long time.'
'Comfortable!' he said in amazement. 'Most people find her quite the opposite.'
'I suppose it must be a matter of taste, but I assure you, I like her a great deal.'
Inigo smiled broadly, all the anxiety slipping out of his face. He shook her hand warmly.
The footman was helping Caroline with her coat. She fastened it and Charlotte accepted hers. A moment later they were outside in the sharp March wind.
An open carriage rattled by, and the man inside raised his hat to them. Caroline had a brief impression of a dark, elegant head, with thick hair curving close to the nape of his neck, sleek and beautiful, and of dark, level eyes. She caught only a glimpse, and then the carriage had passed, but it woke a memory in her so sharp it left her tingling. The man in the carriage was Paul Alaric, the Frenchman who had lived in Paragon Walk, only a hundred yards from Emily, and who had stirred so many pas shy;sions that summer of the murders. Poor Selena had been so obsessed with him it had almost deranged her.
Against all her common sense, Charlotte herself had felt at shy;tracted by his cool wit, the charm that seemed almost unconscious, and the very fact that they all knew so little about him-no family, no past, no social category in which to fit him. Even Emily, with all her grace and elan, had not been entirely impervious.
Could it really have been he just now?
She turned and found Caroline standing very straight, her head high, the wind whipping color into her cheeks.
'Do you know him?' Charlotte asked incredulously.
Caroline began to walk again, her steps sharp on the pavement.
'Slightly,' she replied. 'He is Monsieur Paul Alaric.'
Charlotte felt the heat flood through her-so it was he. …
'He is acquainted with quite a few residents in the Place,' Caroline continued.
Charlotte was about to add that it seemed beyond question that Caroline was one of them; then, without being sure why, she changed her mind.
'He seems to be a person of leisure,' she said instead. It was a pointless remark, but suddenly sensible words had left her.
'He has business in the city.' Caroline walked more rapidly, and further conversation was whipped away from them by the wind. Twenty or thirty yards on, they were at the Lagardes' front entrance.
'Are they French?' Charlotte whispered under her breath as the door opened and they were conducted into the hall.
'No,' Caroline whispered as the parlormaid went to an shy;nounce them. 'Great-grandfather, or something. Came over at the time of the Revolution.'
'The Revolution? That was nearly a hundred years ago!' Charlotte whispered back, then fixed her face in an appropriately expectant expression as they were ushered into the withdrawing room.
'All right, then it was further back. I have heard so much history from your grandmother I am tired of it,' Caroline snapped.
'Good afternoon, Eloise. May I present my daughter Mrs. Pitt,' she continued with a total change of voice and expression, without drawing breath.
The girl who faced Charlotte was indeed, as Caroline had said, darkly lovely, with the translucence of moonlight on water. Her hair was soft and full, without sheen, quite unlike Charlotte's, which gleamed like polished wood and was hard to keep pinned because of its weight.
'How delightful of you to call.' Eloise stepped back, smiling and by implication inviting them to sit down. 'Will you take tea?'
It was a little late, and perhaps it was merely a courtesy that she asked.
'Thank you, but we would not wish to be of inconvenience,' Caroline said, declining in an accepted formula. It would be less than flattering to say that they had already taken tea elsewhere. She turned to the mantelshelf. 'What a delightful picture! I don't believe I have noticed it before.'
Personally, Charlotte would not have given it houseroom, but tastes varied.
'Do you like it?' Eloise looked up, a flicker of amusement in her face. 'I always think it makes the house look rather dark, and it isn't really like that at all. But Tormod is fond of it, so I let it hang there.'
'That is your country house?' Charlotte asked the obvious question because there was nothing else she could think of to say, and she knew that the reply would provide material for several minutes' polite discussion. They were still on the subject of town and country differences when the door opened and a young man came in who Charlotte knew immediately must be Eloise's brother. He had the same mass of dark hair and the same wide eyes and pale skin. The resemblance in features was not so great, however; he had a higher brow, with the hair sweeping away from it in a broad wave, and his nose was rather aquiline. His mouth was wide, quick to laugh, and, Charlotte judged, quick to sulk. Now he came forward with easy, quite natural grace.
'Mrs. Ellison, what a pleasure to see you.' He slipped — his arm around Eloise. 'I don't believe I have met your companion?'
'My daughter Mrs. Pitt.' Caroline smiled back. 'Mr. Tormod Lagarde.'
He bowed very slightly.
'Welcome to Rutland Place, Mrs. Pitt. I hope we shall see you often.'
'That is most kind of you,' Charlotte replied.
Tormod sat next to Eloise on a broad sofa.
'I expect I shall call upon my mother more often as the spring approaches,' Charlotte added.
'I'm afraid the winter is very grim,' he answered. 'One feels far more like remaining close to the fire than venturing out to go visiting. In fact, we quite often retreat altogether to our house in the country and simply close the doors all January and February.'
Eloise's face warmed as if at some sweet and lingering memory. She said nothing, but Charlotte imagined she could see reflected in her eyes the light of Christmases with trees and lanterns, pinecone fires and hot toast, and long, happy companionship too easy to need the communication of words.
Tormod fished in his pocket and brought out a small package.
'Here.' He held it out to Eloise. 'To replace the one you lost.'
She took it, looking up at him, then down at the little parcel in her hands.
'Open it!' he commanded. 'It's not so very special.'
Slowly she obeyed, anticipation and pleasure in her face.
Inside the parcel was a small, silver-handled buttonhook.
'Thank you, dear,' she said gently. 'That really was most thoughtful of you. Especially since it might so easily have been my own fault. I shall feel dreadfully guilty now if the other one turns up and I had merely been careless all the time.' She looked over at Charlotte, apology and a touch of embarrassment in her face. 'I lost my old one that I had for years. I think it went from my reticule, but I suppose I might have put it some shy;where else and forgotten.'
Charlotte's desire to know was stronger than her good judg shy;ment to keep silent on the subject. 'You mean you think it could have been stolen?' she asked, feigning surprise.
Tormod dismissed it. 'These things happen sometimes. It's an unpleasant thought, but one must face reality-servants do steal from time to time. But since it appears to have happened in someone else's house, it is far
