as she had so far seen him display nothing beyond extreme courtesy. Either he was far more discreet than Caroline or—more probably—he was unaware of the depth of her feeling. After all, he did not know Caroline as Charlotte did.
She cleared her throat. Now that she must either commit herself or allow the subject to drop and talk of something else, she found it unexpectedly difficult. She was very conscious of him sitting only a few feet away from her.
Once, she had considered him as the leader of a black magic ritual—that seemed preposterous now. But was she crediting him with less vanity and more compassion than he possessed? Might he not enjoy the fascination he held for them, seemingly without effort?
She swallowed and began again, sounding far more pompous than she wished. “It seems that Papa has been too much engaged in his business lately and has not paid the attention to his domestic life that he should. Poor Mama has felt a little neglected, I think. Of course she has not complained. One cannot ask for small signs of affection from one’s husband, because even if he responds they are then of no value—you feel you have prompted them yourself, and he does not truly mean them.”
“So you and your sister have prompted him?” he suggested, understanding beginning to show in his eyes.
“Quite,” she agreed quickly. “We would be deeply distressed to see our family hurt by a misapprehension. In fact, we do not intend to allow it to happen. These things grow out of hand very quickly—new affections form, other parties are drawn in, and before you can undo it, there is . . .”
He was looking directly at her, and she found herself unable to go on. It was quite obvious now that he knew what she meant.
“A domestic tragedy,” he finished for her. She noticed with surprise that there was a faint color under his skin, a consciousness of himself—a raw and unpleasing light. Suddenly, with a rush of warmth for him, she realized he had been unaware of his power, underrating its depth completely.
Either he had not understood other women in the past or he had considered their own natures the cause and himself merely the unfortunate catalyst.
“I think tragedy is the appropriate word,” she continued. “Perhaps we should look a little more closely at what passions can do. For example, take Mrs. Denbigh. You have seen her? Her despair over Mr. Lagarde would hardly be covered by so gentle and commonplace a term as unhappiness, do you think?”
For several minutes he was silent, and she began to grow uncomfortable as she became aware of his eyes on her. She was very sensitive to being alone in the room with him. Visiting him by herself in his home was a ridiculous thing to have done, and she should have insisted that Emily come with her. Someone was bound to have seen her; there was always a servant about. There would be talk! She had no reputation to lose—Paragon Walk did not care about her—but what about Emily? Someone might have recognized Charlotte from the time when she had stayed with Emily during the murders here.
And what of Paul Alaric himself?
She blushed with discomfort at her own thoughtlessness—and yet she had not wished Emily to accompany her!
Very slowly she raised her eyes to meet his and was startled by the perception in them, a closeness as if he and she had touched, as if her skin had felt a sudden warmth, a tingling.
She must leave. She had said what she came for. Emily’s carriage was at the door and would take her back to Rutland Place. She could join Emily at Theodora von Schenck’s house.
Thought of Theodora reminded her of the other purpose of her visit. She must force herself to ask him now; the idea of returning was unthinkable.
The maid brought the tea and retired. She took a sip of it gratefully; her mouth was dry and her throat tight.
“Emily has called to see Madame von Schenck,” she remarked as conversationally as she was able. “I believe you know her quite well.”
He was surprised, and his dark eyes widened. “Moderately. The acquaintance is more a business one than social, although I find her very congenial.”
Now it was she who was startled. She had hardly expected him to be so frank.
“Business? What sort of business do you mean?” Then, realizing how blunt that sounded, she went on: “I did not know Madame von Schenck had business. Or did you perhaps know her husband?” She stammered, “I—I mean—”
“No.” He smiled faintly at her embarrassment, but there was no unkindness in it. “I did not, although I believe he was a most charming man. So much so that she has never desired to remarry.”
Charlotte pretended that she found such a thing hard to understand, although in truth the thought of remarrying, should anything happen to Pitt, was quite absurd to her.
“Not even for the security of having a husband?” She tried to sound sincere. “After all, she has two children to support.”
“And an excellent business head.” He was quite openly amused now. “Not in the least a fashionable thing to have, which I imagine is why she is discreet about it. Especially since her particular interest lies in the area of bathroom furniture!” His smile broadened. “Not exactly what the ladies of Rutland Place would find suitable—the design of baths and other such hardware. And she is most imaginative in selling and precise in her finances. I think she has begun to make a considerable profit.”
She knew there was a silly smile on her face. It was all so ridiculously harmless, even funny, that she wanted to laugh. She gathered herself and was ready to rise, but before she could frame the words to excuse herself, the maid opened the door again to bring in a choice of cakes and was followed immediately by Caroline.
Charlotte froze, halfway to her feet, the smile dead on her lips.
For an instant Caroline did not see her; her face was turned to Alaric, soft with excitement and pleasure.
Then she saw Charlotte, and every vestige of color bleached out of her skin. She looked at her as she might have at some horned thing risen out of the ground.
