“Who are those persons?” she asked her neighbor in a penetrating voice. “I don’t believe I know the person in the pink gown. Do you?”
“Certainly not,” the neighbor replied with a sniff. “Whatever made you suppose I might know her? Really, Mildred. I don’t know anyone who dresses like that.”
“Oh, you mean the brown? Yes, extraordinary, isn’t it. I swear Jane Digby-Jones had something like that—two years ago.”
Charlotte was aching to retaliate. She looked at Clio and saw the tide of color up her cheeks.
“Who is the lady with the loud voice?” she asked, smiling at the pianist, her own voice carrying at least the distance between them. “The one with the crystal necklace.” She knew perfectly well it was diamonds, and heard the gasp of outrage with satisfaction.
“A Miss Cartwright, I think,” the pianist replied, trying to keep his face straight. “Or maybe it is Wheelright?”
“Waggoner,” Clio corrected with a smile.
“Something like that,” Reggie agreed. “To do with transport of some sort. Why?”
“Why?” Charlotte was confused.
“Why do you ask? Would you care to know her dressmaker?”
“No!” It was a squeak. “I mean, no, thank you,” she amended. “Really—we must …”
“Of course. The matter is in hand,” Clio agreed. “I’m so sorry.” She linked her arm in Charlotte’s and together they walked past Miss Waggoner with dazzling smiles. They continued on through the crowd until Clio stopped next to a young woman with fair hair swept up stylishly and a most individual face, high cheekbones and brown eyes.
“Good evening, Kathleen,” Clio said, affecting great surprise. “How very nice to see you again. You look so very well. May I introduce my dear friend Charlotte? Actually she is a sort of cousin, come up to stay with us for a while. I was sure this would be the most excellent evening for her, and now doubly so for the chance of meeting with you. It seems such a long time. How are you?”
Kathleen O’Neil had little alternative but to accept the introduction so ingenuously required, but she showed no disinclination.
“How do you do.” She could not add Charlotte’s name because Clio had not supplied it, presumably a deliberate omission to avoid lying. “I am delighted to make your acquaintance. I hope you are enjoying your stay. Have you come far?”
“Oh, not very,” Charlotte said, swallowing her guilt and dismissing it. “I am sure I shall have a most interesting and enjoyable time. It is kind of you. I imagine you are used to an evening like this, but it is quite a treat for me.”
“Indeed?” Kathleen was saved from having to find anything else to say by the arrival of a man Charlotte knew immediately must be Devlin O’Neil. He was very dark, with the cast of features filled with humor and a certain fey imagination which she had seen only in Irishmen. He was not strictly handsome, there was something uncertain in his face, possibly a weakness but more probably only ambivalence. But he was confident and full of charm. He responded warmly to Clio’s greeting and the introduction to Charlotte.
“How delightful to see you again.” He smiled at Clio. “It has been far too long. We have met the stuffiest people lately.” He put his arm around his wife proprietorially and stood close to her. “Forgive me, my dear?” He pulled a very slight face and glanced around them. Indeed, his comment was easy to understand. The company was unusually proper, even for such an event.
Charlotte plunged in. She must at least attempt some detecting. She was not here to be entertained merely by social observation to no purpose.
“Are you here more by duty than inclination, Mr. O’Neil?” she said sweetly.
He smiled back at her. “Entirely by duty, ma’am. To accompany my father-in-law and his mama. She is fond of amateur musical evenings—at least she is fond of being seen by those who frequent them. And of catching up with events.”
“But of course,” Charlotte agreed quickly. “There is nothing so interesting as gossip if you know the people spoken of and have someone to whom you can repeat it who will appreciate all its nuances to the full.”
“My goodness, you have no fear in speaking your mind,” he said with a sharp light of amusement in his eyes.
Two young women passed by them, glancing at O’Neil over their fans and swishing skirts with ostentatious grace.
“Do you not find it so, Mrs. O’Neil?” Charlotte turned to Kathleen.
Kathleen smiled, but it was the guarded gesture of one who had been wounded by precisely such thoughtless acts. “I confess it interests me only occasionally. I find people can be most malicious at times.”
Charlotte wondered if quite suddenly in the midst of all the inconsequential chatter she had heard a word of true emotion. She was reminded sharply that here was a woman whose husband had been murdered, after having an affair with someone else. It said a great deal for Kathleen O’Neil that she could continue a friendship with Clio Farber, a woman so close to the cause of such misery: not only another actress, but a friend and colleague of Tamar Macaulay herself. Charlotte felt a surge of admiration for her, and a dislike for her own role of one seeking to place the guilt on the shoulders of her second husband. The duplicity alone was offensive, and the fun she had felt for a moment fled out of it.
“Of course,” she said with instant sobriety. “When it is hurtful it is quite a different matter. I suppose a great deal of it is. A lot of people are ill informed, and their remarks better not made. I was thinking only of trivia, and perhaps I spoke too lightly anyway.” She accepted a glass of lemonade from a passing footman, as did the others.
“Oh no, it is I who should apologize,” Kathleen said, blushing a little. “I did not mean to be so contrary. It is only that I am acquainted with people who have been hurt by unthinking repetition of matters which were not fully
