time. Don’t you see?” she asked, her tone scathing with sarcasm. “Or do you imagine Thomas pushed the maid out of the window as well? And presumably killed Robert York too—God knows why.”
Ballarat put his hands up ineffectually, as if he would pat her, then saw the passion in her eyes and backed away instead. “My dear lady, you are overwrought. It’s very understandable, in your circumstances, and believe me, I have the deepest pity.” He drew breath again and steadied himself. Reason must be paramount. “Robert York was killed by a burglar, and the maid fell quite accidentally.” He nodded. “It does happen sometimes, unfortunately. Extremely sad, but not in the least criminal. And really, my dear lady, Miss Adeline Danver is quite elderly, and I believe not the most reliable witness.”
Charlotte stared at him in disbelief at first, and then with sickening comprehension. Either he was frightened of all the unpleasantness, the anger, the blame if it were true and there really was treason in the Foreign Office—or else he was part of it! She looked at his rounded jowls, his blustery complexion, his lidless brown eyes, round as buttons. She could not believe he was a brilliant enough actor to seem so much the ambitious man tricked and caught out of his depth. For a second that passed like a ripple of wind over the surface of a pond, she was sorry for him; then she remembered Pitt’s bruised face and the fear she had seen in his eyes.
“You are going to feel very foolish when this is all over,” she said icily. “I had thought you had more love for your country than to allow treason to flourish merely because up-rooting it might prove distasteful, and embarrass certain people whose favor you would like to keep.”
Ballarat’s face mottled purple as a turkey cock, and he took a step forward. “You insult me, madam!” he said furiously.
“I’m glad!” She glared at him with scorching contempt, cutting off his words. “I had feared I merely spoke the truth; prove the wrong and no one will be happier than I. In the meantime I believe what I see. Good day, Mr. Ballarat.” She walked out without looking back, leaving the door open behind her. Let him come after her and close it himself.
She knew what she must do. Ballarat had left her no choice. Had he promised to investigate she would have left it, but now there was nothing else she could think of. There was a ruthlessness in it of which she would not have thought herself capable, but it was shocking to her how easily it came, because she was fighting to protect those she loved more than herself, whose pain she could not bear as she might have her own. Her response was primal and nothing to do with the mind.
Charlotte had understood that look in Loretta’s face in the doorway of the conservatory. She was in love with Garrard Danver—totally, obsessively in love, which was not hard to believe. He had a grace, an individuality that was unusual. And he would be a challenge to most women; there was something elusive in him, the suggestion of great passion beneath his rather brittle shell and self-protective humor, if only one could find the secret of touching the heart or the soul inside. To lovely Loretta, bored with the charming but controlled Piers, the hint of something much wilder might be irresistible.
And obviously Garrard had loved only Cerise. All that hunger and flood of emotion, all Loretta dreamt of awakening herself, had been plain in his face when for a moment the sight of Charlotte outlined in the half light, and the flame of the dress, had stirred an anguished memory.
She must get them all together and press and press until someone broke. Garrard was the weakest link. He was afraid—she had seen that in his face too—and repelled by Loretta’s hunger for him. Charlotte could remember when a man had once felt such a lust for her and Caroline had blindly thought him suitable as a husband. Charlotte had been nearly hysterical when left alone with him briefly. It had seemed ridiculous later; Caroline had been angry, not understanding. It was years ago now and the incident had vanished from her mind, until she saw Garrard’s face in the lamplight and the peculiar mixture of horror, embarrassment, and revulsion brought it back with such precision that it made her skin crawl.
Garrard was the one she must press with all the force she had.
But there was no way within her power to make the Yorks invite the Danvers, the Ashersons, and herself, and no one else. They might not ever do it—certainly not within the few remaining days before Pitt would be arraigned and brought to trial. To have such a gathering in Emily’s house would be inexplicable, and Jack had no facilities either, although Emily would willingly have financed the event. No, the answer lay with Aunt Vespasia, and surely she would be willing.
Accordingly Charlotte abandoned the public omnibus and recklessly took a hansom cab to Aunt Vespasia’s house. Having paid the cabbie and released him, she climbed the shallow steps up to the front door and rang the bell. She had been here many times before and the maid showed not the slightest surprise at seeing her.
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 jardiniere 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
