“Has your brother stayed with you at Oakfield House?”
“No, not for years.” She did not look at him.
“In London?”
“Sometimes. A great many people stayed with us in London. My husband has … had a very important position.”
“Do you go to Ireland from time to time?”
She hesitated.
He waited. The coals settled in the fire.
“Yes. Ireland was my home. I go back occasionally.”
There was no point in pressing her. All the questions in his mind were there between them. She understood, and would not answer.
“I’m sorry to have had to speak to you of it,” he said after a few moments. “I wish I could simply have burned the letters.”
“I understand,” she replied. “At least I think I do.” She looked up at him. “Mr. Pitt? Did Piers read these letters?”
“Yes … but he was not there when I spoke to the servants. He knew nothing about Kathleen O’Brien, or that there were other women in London.”
“Will you please tell him only what he has to know? Ainsley was his father ….”
“Of course. I have no desire to damage Mr. Greville’s reputation in anyone’s eyes, least of all his family’s ….”
She smiled at him. “I know. I do not envy you your task, Mr. Pitt. It must be very distressing at times.”
“Because it causes others pain,” he said gently. “People who are too much hurt already.”
She looked at him a moment longer, then turned back to the fire.
He excused himself and went out and back downstairs to see if Jack was yet free. He was not yet ready to find Charlotte. She was so at home here, so very competent, moving easily in this great house with its high ceilings, exquisite furniture and discreet servants going about their business. He could remember too clearly being one of the servants himself ever to take them for granted. At heart he would always be an outsider.
6
E
When she did get up she had a steady dull headache, and her first cup of tea did not help, nor did the hot water her maid brought her to wash in, but the aroma of the oil of lavender she offered was very pleasant. Emily dressed carefully in a teal-blue gown and admired her reflection in the glass, although it gave her no pleasure. She looked perfect. Her figure was completely returned after the birth of her daughter Evangeline, at present safely with her nurse and her elder half brother, Edward, in their London house. The morning dress was the latest fashion, and the color became her, as did any green or blue. Her fair hair, with its soft, natural curl which Charlotte used to envy so much, was elaborately dressed and set exactly as intended. No maid ever had difficulty with it.
But all these things were trivial. Even the wretched thought of having to cajole and persuade the staff to do their duties, calming upset nerves, soothing fears, assuring them there was no lunatic in the house, no one else was going to be killed, was merely the duty of a good hostess. What underlay everything else was her fear for Jack. Cornwallis had asked him, and he had stepped into Greville’s position as chairman as if he had no conception of the danger in which he was placing himself. If there were people who cared so intensely about preventing the conference’s success that they would murder Greville to achieve that, then they would almost certainly be prepared to murder Jack also.
And Pitt was doing nothing to protect him, except leave that wretched Tellman at Jack’s elbow … as if that were any use! He did not even know who or what he was protecting him from. They should have canceled the conference. It was the only sane thing to do. Bring in more police and question everybody until the answer was clear. Cornwallis himself should have come.
She could feel the panic rising inside her. She saw pictures in her imagination of Jack lying dead, his face white, his eyes closed, and the tears prickled her eyes, her stomach knotted and suddenly she felt sick. There was no point in any false comfort of saying it could not happen. Of course it could. It had already happened once. Eudora Greville was a widow. She was alone, she had lost the man she had loved. Presumably, she had loved him? Not that that had anything to do with it. Emily loved Jack. This morning, sitting at her dressing table with a brooch in her hand, fingers shaking, she realized how very much.
And she was furious with him for accepting the chairmanship, even though she would have done the same herself, could she ever be in such a position. She had never run away from anything she wanted in her life. She would have despised him if he had. But he would at least have been safe.
And the other fear, which she refused to look at, was that he would fail, not just because the task was probably impossible, but because he was not the diplomat Ainsley Greville had been. He had not the experience, the polish, the knowledge of Irish affairs, simply not the skill.
All that hovered on the edge of her mind, and she would not allow it to the center. She would not permit herself to put it into words. It was disloyal, and it was untrue … possibly. She loved Jack for his charm, for his gentleness with her, his ability to laugh, to be funny and brave, to see the beautiful in things and enjoy it, and because he loved her. She did not need him to be clever, to become famous or earn a great deal of money. She already had money, inherited from George.
Perhaps Jack needed to do these things for himself, or at least to try, to find his own measure, succeed or fail. She would rather have protected him … from both dangers. Her son, Edward, was George’s son, not Jack’s, and
