self-doubt and petty vanities and deceptions as any woman's. Only their outer garb was diiferent, and their outer power.
But there was no purpose in telling this to Florence Ivory. Her wounds were too deep, and her cause was just. Charlotte imagined her emotions, thought for an instant how she would have felt had her own children been lost to her and knew reason would be misplaced.
But only reason could help now. She changed the subject entirely, looking at Florence with a calm she did not feel. 'Where were you when Mr. Sheridan was murdered?' she asked.
Florence was startled. Then she smiled without humor, her remarkable face as quick to change as reflections in a pool of water.
'I was here, alone,' she said quietly. 'Africa had gone to spend a little time with a friend who is confined with her first child and feeling unwell. But why in heaven's name should I kill Mr. Sheridan? He has done me no harm-no more at least than any other man who denies us the right to be people, not merely appendages to men. Do you know you can't even make a contract in law? And if you are robbed it is your husband who is offended against, not you, even if it is your purse that is taken?'' She laughed harshly. ' 'Nor can you be sued! Or be responsible for your own debts. Unfortunately, if you commit a murder, that is your fault-your husband will not be hanged in your place! But I did not kill Mr. Sheridan, or Mr. Etheridge, or Sir Lockwood Hamilton, for that matter. Though I doubt you will prove it, Miss Ellison. Your good intentions are a waste of time.'
' 'Possibly.'' Charlotte stood up, staring rather coldly.' 'But it is mine to waste, if I so choose.'
''I doubt it,'' Florence answered without moving. ' 'If you pursue the matter I daresay you will find that it is your father's, or your husband's if you have one.' She turned her back and bent to pick up the raffia basket from where it had fallen, as though Charlotte had already left.
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Africa showed her to the door, white-faced, searching for words and discarding each before it touched her lips. Every line of her body, every stiff, awkward movement betrayed her fear. She loved Florence, she pitied her desperately, she burned for her injuries and injustices, and she was mortally afraid that the torment of the loss of her child had driven her to creep out at night with a razor in her hand, and kill-and kill-andkill.
The same thought was in Charlotte's mind, the same chill voice inside her, and she could not pretend. She looked at the girl with her ashen Pre-Raphaelite face, strong and young and so frightened, full of resolve to fight a losing battle, and she grasped her cold hands and held them tightly for a moment. There was nothing useful or honest to say.
Then she turned away and walked briskly down the street towards the place where the public omnibus might be caught for the long ride back.
Zenobia Gunne faced the prospect of calling upon Lady Mary Carfax a second time with the same resolve of fortitude she had summoned to sail up the Congo River in an open canoe, only this was a task which promised less reward. There would be no brazen sunsets, no mangrove roots rising out of the dawn-lit water, no screaming birds the color of jewels flung haphazard against the sky. Only Mary Carfax's thirty-year-long remembrance of contempt and a hundred old grudges.
With deep misgivings, a churning in the pit of her stomach, and a sense of her own inadequacy, she had her Carriage brought round and obeyed Vespasia's instructions. She had nothing in common with Mary Carfax but old memories.
She was also afraid that Florence Ivory might well be guilty, and that Africa's overaetive sense of pity might have driven her, if not actually to help Florence, then at least to shield her now the deed was done.
And then a grimmer, uglier thought forced itself upon her. 222.
Was it done? Or would it continue? Sheridan had been killed after any injustice by Etheridge was more than avenged. Did Africa know it was Florence, or did her sympathy permit her to be blind?
Zenobia should have befriended her, visited her more often, not allowed her to become so close to so compelling a woman in such distress, one so passionate about her injustices, so likely to lose her emotional balance and her sanity. Africa was her youngest brother's child; she should have taken her duties more seriously after her parents' death. She had followed her own interests across the world, selfishly.
But it was too late now to offer time and friendship; the only thing that could help would be to prove Florence innocent, and as Charlotte Pitt had said-what a curious woman
