the Haymarket, or the-Well, I certainly would not go to the Devil’s Acre.”
“And what would you think of me, if I did?” she asked.
“Don’t be absurd.” He did not even consider it seriously.
“There must be women there,” she pointed out, “or there would be no brothels.” She momentarily forgot to use the euphemism for such establishments.
“Of course there are women there, Emily,” he said with exaggerated patience. “But they are of a different sort. They are not-well-they are not women that one would-would do anything but …”
“Fornicate with,” she finished incisively. Another euphemism was abandoned.
“Quite.” He was a little pink in the face, but she preferred to think it was due to a general discomfort for his own sex at large, rather than any personal guilt. She was perfectly aware that his conduct had not always been exemplary, but she was wise enough not to inquire into it. Such curiosity would bring nothing but unhappiness. To the best of her belief, he had been loyal since their marriage, and that was all she could reasonably ask.
She smiled at him with quite honest warmth. “But Bertram Astley did.”
The shadow returned to his eyes and he looked confused. “Odd,” he muttered. “I don’t think you should inquire into that, Emily. It’s really very sordid. I don’t mind your taking an interest in Charlotte’s investigations when they are moderately respectable-if you absolutely must.” He was aware of the limitations of the authority he could exercise without unpleasantness, and he hated unpleasantness. “But I think you should not seek to know about certain aberrations. It will only distress you.”
Suddenly she was overwhelmingly fond of him. His concern was quite genuine; he knew the world she was beginning to examine, knew the frailties and the twisted hungers. He did not want her to be touched by it, and hurt.
She put her hand on his arm and moved a little closer. She had no intention whatsoever of doing as he suggested. She was far tougher than he supposed, but it was very pleasant indeed that he imagined her so tender, so untouched. It was an idiotic notion, but just for a little while, perhaps till the end of the evening when the laughter and the lights died down, she would pretend to be the innocent creature he thought she was.
Perhaps in the hard light of truth of Astley’s and Max’s deaths, and because of his fears for Alan Ross whom he liked, he, too, needed to pretend for a while.
Alan Ross did not enjoy the ball; the lights and the music gave him no pleasure. All he could see was Christina’s laughing face staring up at one man after another as she danced closely and easily in their arms. He turned and saw Augusta staring in the same direction. She was quite still. Her hand was resting on the balustrade of the staircase, and it was gripping so hard the fingers were crooked and clenched inside her lace gloves.
Ross’s eyes traveled past the bracelets on her wrists, over her white shoulders to her face. He had never realized she was capable of such emotion. He did not understand what it was-desperation, fear, a tenderness that made her angry?
Beyond the dancers in their flower colors was the conservatory door where General Balantyne stood leaning forward a little, his face soft as he spoke to Charlotte Ellison. Ross’s eyes were drawn to her because she was beautiful. She had not the flawless loveliness of the young girls, or the chiseled bones of classic beauty, but a sheer intensity of life. Even across the swirl of the room he could feel her emotions. And next to her, so close that his hand brushed her arm, Balantyne was oblivious of all the world.
Was that what Augusta saw that wounded her and caused the confusion he had seen?
“He looked again. No-her head was turned the other way now, and she could not possibly see the general. She was still looking at Christina, at the foot of the curved stairway leading to the gallery, her mulberry-colored taffeta skirt billowing, gleaming where the light caught it, her cheeks flushed. The man beside her put his arm around her waist and whispered something so close to her ear she must have felt his breath on her skin.
Alan Ross decided that moment that the next evening Christina went out alone in the carriage, whomever she was going to visit, he would follow her and know for himself the truth. However painful, the truth must be better than the hideous thoughts that were crowding his imagination now.
His opportunity came almost before he was ready for it. It was the following day, shortly after dinner. Christina excused herself, saying she had developed a headache and would take a short drive to get a breath of fresh air. She had been in the house all day and felt the atmosphere too close. She might call upon Lavinia Hawkesley, who had been indisposed lately, and Ross was not to wait up for her.
He opened his mouth to protest; then, with cold fear inside him, he realized she had offered the perfect opportunity. “Very well, if you think she is well enough to receive,” he agreed, with only the smallest shake in his voice.
“Oh, I’m sure,” she said cheerfully. “She is probably bored stiff, poor soul, if she has been alone all day and confined to the house. I expect she will be delighted with an hour or two’s company. Do not wait up for me.
“No,” he said, turning away from her. “No. Good night, Christina.”
“Good night.” She picked up the ruched skirt of her dinner dress and swept out. How different she was from the girl he had thought her! They were strangers, without humor and without trust.
Five minutes later, when he heard the front door close, he stood up and went to the cloakroom where his heavy coat was hanging and put it on. He added a muffler and a hat, then went out into the icy street after her. It was not difficult to follow the carriage; it could not go quickly on the rime-encrusted cobbles, and at a brisk walk he kept within twenty feet of it. No one paid him the least attention.
He had gone over a mile when he saw the carriage draw to a halt outside a large house. Christina got out of the carriage and went into the house. From the opposite pavement he could not distinguish the number, but he knew Lavinia Hawkesley lived in this area.
So Christina had come, precisely as she had said, for a simple call upon a woman friend. He was standing here shaking with cold for no reason at all. It was stupid-and pathetic! The carriage was moving away. It was turning and coming back, not round to the mews. Christina must have dismissed it. Was she proposing to remain here all night? Or simply to use the Hawkesley coach to come home?
Alan Ross was left to wait like a loiterer on the corner and decide whether to go home himself, soak the chill out of his bones in hot water, and go to bed, or to remain here until Christina came out and to follow her again. But that would be ridiculous; the whole idea had been futile, an aberration of his normal sanity. Christina was frequently selfish, but she was innocent of anything worse than indiscretion-a spoiled and pretty woman’s exercise of power, the hunger to be the center of attention, always lavishly admired.
The door of the house opened, a stream of light fell on the path, and Christina and Lavinia Hawkesley came out. The door closed behind them and they set off down the street on foot.
Where in heaven’s name were they going? Ross went after them. When they came to the main road and stopped a hansom cab, he hailed one as soon after as he was able, and ordered the cabbie to follow them.
The journey was farther than he expected. Again and again they turned corners until he lost sense of direction, except that he thought they were coming closer to the river and the heart of the city. The way was narrower, the lights farther between. A dim halo of mist reflected the glow and the damp air smelled stale. High above loomed a great shadow against the sky. His throat tightened and suddenly he found it hard to breathe.
The Acre-the Devil’s Acre! Why in God’s name was Christina coming here? His mind was whirling, thoughts like a dark snowstorm battering him and melting into each other. There was no bearable answer.
The cab ahead stopped and one of the women alighted. She was small, slight, head high and feet quick on the stones. Christina.
Ross opened his cab door, thrust a coin into the driver’s hands, and stumbled out onto the dim pavement, trying to discern the outline of the house Christina had by now entered. It was high, standing straight, windows glimmering in the faint gaslight-a merchant’s house?
The other cab with Lavinia Hawkesley in it had disappeared. Wherever she was going, it was still farther into the labyrinth of the Acre.
For the first time, he looked around at the rest of the street. He had been so absorbed in watching the women he had not thought of anything else, but now he saw a group of four or five men about thirty yards to the left, and on the far side another three lounging in an alley entrance. He turned. There were more to the right, watching him.
He could not stay here; he was dressed conspicuously, and his coat alone would be worth attacking for. He might fight off one man, even armed, but not half a dozen.
He started to walk toward the door through which Christina had disappeared. After all, his purpose in
