have to do my own laundry!”
It was all perfectly true.
“Do you want to change Jago into something he isn’t?” Emily asked her.
“No!” Tallulah drew in her breath slowly. “No, I don’t. Of course not … I …” She stopped. She did not know what she meant. The decision was enormous.
“No one gets everything,” Emily said softly. “If what you care for in him is that part which clings to his own values, then you have to accept all that goes with it. Perhaps it is time to weigh up exactly what life with him would mean and what life without him would be for you, and then decide what you really want. Don’t let it go by default. It is too important for that. It could be your whole life.”
Tallulah’s curious face was twisted in self-mockery, but there were tears in her eyes.
“There’s no decision for me to make. Jago wouldn’t even look at me in that way. He despises everything I am. It’s just a matter of trying to help Finlay through this, and I can’t even think of a way to do that. And then not letting Papa marry me to anyone too stultifyingly tedious.” She sniffed. “Maybe he’d marry me to someone very old, and they’d die. Then I can be a widow, like your great-aunt, and do as I please.”
Below them the dining room door opened again and Finlay came out, walking quickly and a little angrily towards the front door.
“Jarvis!” he shouted. “Where’s my hat and my stick? I left them in the stand last night. Who’s moved them?”
A footman materialized, duly deferential.
“Your stick is there, sir, and I took the hat to brush it.”
“Oh. Thank you.” Finlay reached for the stick. “Well, fetch the hat, Jarvis. Why did you take it anyway? I don’t need a hat brushed every time I wear it.”
“A bird unfortunately …” Jarvis began.
Tallulah smiled in spite of herself and took Emily by the arm to guide her back to the room to make the necessary arrangements to have her own dress packed so she could take it with her on her return home.
Emily made her farewells, then rode home in the FitzJameses’ second carriage, Augustus having taken the first. Her thoughts were engaged in Tallulah’s problems. Was it possible that Finlay was guilty?
Why would he do such a thing? What was there about him that his father knew, or suspected, which made him so cold, so uncertain, and yet unhesitant to defend him?
Or had she misread the emotions in his face? She had been an onlooker at one meal. Perhaps she was being foolish, absurdly overrating her own judgment.
She wondered idly what Jago was like that he could have captured Tallulah’s dreams so completely. Apparently he was the opposite of everything she treasured in her present life. Perhaps that was it? Not reality at all, simply an enchantment with the idea of the different. Whatever it was, she liked Tallulah, liked her vividness, her ability to care, and the fact that she was teetering on the edge of dreams for which she would have to pay for the rest of her life. She was worthy of all the help Emily could give her. There was no decision to be made about that.
When she arrived she thanked the FitzJameses’ coachman, alighted and went up her own front steps. The butler opened the door to her without raising his eyebrows.
“Good morning, Jenkins,” she said calmly, walking in.
“Good morning, ma’am,” he replied, closing the door behind her. “Mr. Radley is in the study, ma’am.”
“Thank you.” She passed him the package containing her dinner gown with instructions to give it to her ladies’ maid. Then, feeling a trifle odd in Tallulah’s muslin morning dress, she walked, head high, to the study to explain herself to Jack.
“Good morning,” he said coolly when she opened the door. He was sitting at the desk with a pile of papers, a pen in his hand, his expression unsmiling. “I received your message. Rather incomplete. Where were you?”
She took a deep breath. She found herself resenting the need to account, but she had known it would be unavoidable.
“I accepted a ride to another party, and did not realize how late I had stayed. They were interesting people, and I met someone …” She still had not made up her mind whether to pass it off as help to a friend in trouble or enquiring into Pitt’s current case. Looking at Jack’s displeased face did not assist her. Whatever she said, it had better be something she could substantiate.
“Yes?” he prompted, his eyes chilly.
She must decide immediately, or it would look like a lie. He was not as easy to mislead as she sometimes wished. She had once assumed that his attention could be diverted by a smile, and she had been wrong.
“I’m waiting, Emily….”
“I met a young woman I liked very much, and she was in great distress because her brother has been accused of murder…. Thomas is investigating the case. I couldn’t leave it, Jack! I had to find out all I could about it … for her sake, and Thomas’s … and for the truth itself!”
“Indeed …” He sat back in his chair, regarding her skeptically. “So you stayed the night in her home. What did you learn in this generous effort? Is he guilty?”
“Don’t be sarcastic,” she replied tartly. “Even I can’t solve a murder over breakfast.” She looked at him with a hesitant smile. “It will take me at least until dinner … maybe even longer.” And with that she met his eyes for an instant, saw the beginning of humor in them, then turned and went out, closing the door behind her.
In the hall she gave a sigh of relief and ran swiftly upstairs to change.
4
At the time Emily was talking to Tallulah at the stairhead, and Finlay was taking his hat and stick from the footman and going out of the door, Pitt was sitting in a hansom on the far side of Devonshire Street with Rose Burke beside him. As the door to number thirty-eight opened and Finlay came out, she leaned forward, peering out of the side, her body stiff. She remained watching, her head turning very slowly to follow his path along the pavement until he disappeared around the corner of Upper Wimpole Street, then she sat back again.
“Well?” Pitt asked. He did not know what he wanted her to say. If she identified him it would be the beginning of a very unpleasant gathering of facts for an arrest and prosecution. The FitzJames family would muster all its resources to fight back. There would certainly be accusations of police incompetence. Rose herself would be attacked and every attempt would be made to undermine her resolve, slander her character-which would not be hard-and generally discredit her testimony.
On the other hand, if she did not identify him (or worse than that, said it was not him), then they were thrown back to the cuff link and the badge, and to searching for any resolution which explained their presence but excluded Finlay from the murder itself.
Rose turned and looked at him. She might have relished her moment of power. He expected to see it in her eyes. Instead there was only anger and a bright, hard hatred.
“Yeah, it was ’im,” she said in a tight, harsh voice. “That’s ’im wot I saw goin’ in ter Ada just afore she were killed. Arrest ’im. Get ’im tried so they can ’ang ’im.”
Pitt felt his chest constrict and his heart beat harder.
“Are you sure?”
She swung around to glare at him. “Yeah, I’m sure. You gonna argue, ’cos ’e lives in a posh ’ouse in a fancy street an’ got money ter pay ’is way abaht?” Her lip curled with disgust close to hatred.
“No, Rose, I’m not,” he said softly. “But when I go after him, I want to be sure I have everything exactly right. I don’t want any clever lawyer finding mistakes and getting him off because of them.”
“Yeah …” She settled back, mortified. “Yeah … well … I suppose so. But yer got ’im this time.”
“This time?” he asked, although with a little twist of misery he knew what she was going to say.
“Yeah. Well, yer never got Jack, didjer?” Her body was stiff, her shoulders rigid under her shawl. “ ’E’s still around, fer all we know, waitin’ in some dark doorway ter cut someone again. Well, get this bleedin’ murderer an’ top ’im before ’e does another poor cow.”
He would have liked to tell her this was not another serial murderer, that that would never happen again,
