have mistresses, or have had-or will do. And that is a conservative estimate. If Mrs. Carswell is a well-bred woman with any sense of her own and her family’s survival, she will take good care that she never finds out, and will continue her life as usual.” Her face darkened for a moment. “You don’t mean that he is spending a ridiculous amount of money on this person, whoever she is?”
“I don’t know. It is possible, but Thomas didn’t say so.”
“Oh dear-then it may be worse. Is she married to someone who will take the matter ill, and be vindictive? That could be serious.” She sighed. “How very foolish. No one is so high in society that a scandal cannot ruin him, if it is ugly enough. Look at Doll Zouche and that miserable business with Wilfred Scawen Blunt. Amusing in its fashion, but all quite unnecessary. Are there letters, do you know?”
“No I don’t know. I don’t think it has got that far yet, but I didn’t ask Thomas. Perhaps he wasn’t familiar with the Zouche case.”
“He must be, my dear. Everyone is,” Vespasia said with total assurance.
Charlotte blinked. “I’m not.”
“Are you not? Well, Doll Zouche, daughter of Lord Fraser of Saltoun, and wife of the current Lord Zouche. They held a tournament-”
“Did you say a tournament?” Charlotte interrupted in amazement. “When did this happen, for heaven’s sake?”
“In 1875,” Vespasia said coolly. “Do you wish to hear it or not?”
“Oh yes! I just didn’t know they had tournaments in 1875!”
Vespasia’s face was almost straight. “They have tournaments whenever the ’romantic ideal’ grips hold of them, and they have more money than they need, and more time than things to do with it.”
“Go on,” Charlotte prompted. “Doll Zouche?”
“She came as the Queen of Abyssinia-they proposed making a trip to that country the following summer. The culmination of the tournament was a sham fight in which Doll and others dressed as Christian ladies were attacked by Moorish marauders, Blunt being one of them. They were rescued by two knights on horseback-Lords Zouche and Mayo. What began in fun ended in earnest. Unfortunately she was having an affaire with both young Fraser and Lord Mayo, who wished to elope with her-which he ultimately did-and of course, Blunt.”
Charlotte was speechless.
“On the day of the tournament,” Vespasia concluded, “she quarreled with her husband, and galloped away on her favorite horse. Blunt was nearly cited in the ensuing divorce.”
Charlotte’s eyebrows shot up. “Only nearly?”
“That is what I said. But you may be sure Mr. Carswell will know of it!”
“Oh dear.” Unconsciously Charlotte copied Vespasia’s exact tone. “Thomas seemed to feel Mr. Carswell was very much in love, not merely a matter of-appetite.”
“Who is she? Does he know?”
“Yes, but he did not tell me. He followed Mr. Carswell one day-over the river somewhere.”
They were prevented from continuing the conversation any further by the arrival of Lord and Lady Byam and the necessity of greeting them. Charlotte found the color distinctly warm in her cheeks as wild speculations raced through her mind while she spoke politely to Lord Byam, and looked at his remarkable eyes. She felt acutely guilty. She was swapping politenesses with him, saying how nice it was to see him, and all the time her mind was wondering if he had stood with a gun in his hand and shot William Weems’s head to pieces.
What was he thinking behind that sensitive, imaginative face and the formal words? Something equally wild and terrible? For that matter, what were any of them thinking? Could Eleanor Byam possibly feel as calm and sedate as she looked? She was dressed in black, which made her hair the more startling and her shoulders and throat whiter. She wore a necklace of onyx and diamonds, both unusual and very lovely. She was greeting Micah Drummond, and there was a faint flush of color creeping up her cheeks. She met his eyes with a directness not required or expected of such a ritual occasion.
Of course-she would know who he was, and that her husband had asked his help. Beneath the formal acknowledgments and inquiries for health, she would ache to know what he had learned. And presumably she knew both he and her husband were members of the Inner Circle, so his loyalty was assured. No-that was not true: women were excluded. She would not know, so perhaps she had no idea why Drummond should help, and consequently no reason to believe he was anything more than a police officer with breeding, a social equal, or something close. Perhaps “equal” was overstating it; at least not hopelessly inferior, like Pitt, and almost all the rest of the police force.
And what was Drummond thinking, behind the courteous expression and the pale, rather drawn face? Probably remembering Pitt’s confrontation over the secret brotherhood, the police corruption he must do something about because Pitt knew, and perhaps wondering about his own role in it. Charlotte trusted her judgment where he was concerned. She did not believe he was corrupt, not when he faced the reality of it. He might well be blind, a little naive; there was a quality of innocence in him which she had often observed in some of the nicest men. They were inclined to trust people no woman worth a fig would have trusted half as far as she could have thrown them. Funny how men thought it was women who were the innocents. In Charlotte’s experience, most women, underneath the daydreams and the trappings that gave a little glamour, were eminently practical. The human race would hardly have survived otherwise. Knights on white chargers had their place, in dreams which were completely necessary to sweeten some of the pills that must be swallowed, but one could divide off part of the mind for such a purpose. In the end one knew quite well which was which, and most women did not confuse the two.
Yes,
Oh my goodness. How totally idiotic of her.
“What is it?” Vespasia had noticed and was staring at her with interest.
“Nothing,” Charlotte lied instinctively.
Vespasia snorted very slightly, like a well-bred horse.
“Poppycock. You have observed that your Mr. Drummond is more than a little in love with Lady Byam. Which will make life very difficult for him-whether Lord Byam is guilty or not.”
“Oh dear.” Charlotte sighed. “I wonder if Thomas has any idea?”
“I doubt it,” Vespasia said with a tiny shake of her head. “I like him quite as much as any man I know-but he is as unobservant as most men over such things.” She seemed unaware of her astounding admission that she, Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould, held Thomas Pitt, policeman and gamekeeper’s son, in an affection unsurpassed by any man, even of her own station and breeding.
Charlotte held her breath, and felt a tide of hot emotion surge up her face, and an overwhelming pride burst open inside her like a flower.
She swallowed hard, and tried to sound nonchalant.
“I imagine not,” she said huskily. “I had better point it out to him. It may matter.” And with that parting shot she made her way into the main withdrawing room to speak to more of the guests who had arrived in the intervening time.
A few moments later she found herself talking polite nonsense with Fanny Hilliard. It was nonsense because neither of them cared particularly about the sort of subjects it was good manners to discuss: the weather (which was of no interest whatever), fashion (which neither of them could afford to follow), current gossip (which neither of them was acquainted with, not being in the rank of society which was privy to such confidences, nor being in the places to observe it at first hand), or theater, (which they visited very seldom, for the same financial reasons).
Indeed the whole conversation was simply a device through which they could express a certain liking for each other. One could not simply stand and stare without exchanging some words, however pointless.
Charlotte was not in the least put out to see Fanny’s eyes wander from hers several times, and a soft warmth come into them, and a trace of color up her cheeks as if her pulse were beating faster. She was quite aware that Fitz Fitzherbert was somewhere behind her and a little to her left.
Therefore she was not surprised when a few minutes later he joined them, talking of equally mindless and silly subjects. His fair face reflected an inner laughter and a complete acceptance that their words were of no importance whatsoever, their thoughts of the greatest importance possible.
