Bedford Square - Anne Perry [62]
Had he any idea how his color had betrayed him? Did he feel the heat in his skin, and then the faintness? She looked into his eyes and still was not certain. She continued because the only alternative was to retreat.
“Over something which, in fact, he did not do.” She gave a tiny smile. “But he cannot prove it. It was all many years ago, and rests now on the word of people whose memories are dulled or whose testimony may not be sufficient.” She gave the minutest shrug. “Anyway, I daresay you are as aware as I that a whisper can be enough to cause irreparable damage, whether it is true or not. Many of the people one would like to admire actually have very little charity when it comes to the chance to cause a stir with a piece of gossip. One has not far to look to know that is true.”
He started to say something, then swallowed convulsively.
“Do sit down, Dunraithe,” she said softly.” You look as if you are quite ill. A stiff brandy might help, but I think a word of friendship might do more. You also are carrying a great burden of some sort. One does not need the eye of a friend to see that. I have shared my concern with you, and feel better for it, even if you are not able to give me any practical advice. And I admit, I cannot think what such advice might be. What can one do against blackmail?”
He avoided her eyes, looking down at the roses in the Aubusson carpet beneath his feet.
“I don’t know,” he answered, his voice husky. “If you pay, then you only dig yourself in the more deeply. You have created a precedent, and shown the blackguard that you are afraid of him and will yield.”
“That is part of the trouble.” She watched him intently. “You see, he has not asked for anything.”
“Not … asked for anything?” His words were stilted, his face drained of color.
“Not yet.” She kept her own voice level. “It is most unpleasant, and of course my friend fears that in time he will. The question is what will it be?”
“Money?” There was a lift of hope in him now, as if a demand for money would have been almost a relief.
“I imagine so,” she answered. “If not, then it may be something far uglier. He is a man of influence. The worst possibility is that he may be asked to do something corrupt … to misuse his power ….”
He closed his eyes, and for a moment she was afraid he was actually going to faint.
“Why do you tell me this, Vespasia?” he whispered. “What do you know of it?”
“Only what I have told you,” she replied. “And that I fear he may not be the only victim. Dunraithe … I am very much afraid there may be a far larger conspiracy involved than merely the misery of one man, or even two. One cannot keep one’s reputation, however justly earned, by committing an act of dishonor, possibly even greater than that with which one is falsely accused.”
Suddenly he looked at her very directly, anger and desperation in his face. “I cannot tell how much you know, even if that is why you are here, and what of your friend is mythical, what true.” His voice was rough, almost angry. “But I confess I also am being blackmailed for something of which I am totally innocent. But I will not risk having it said … by anyone! I shall pay him whatever he asks, but I will keep him silent.” He was shaking. He looked so ill as to be on the point of collapse.
“My friend is as real as you are.” It mattered to her that he did not think she had lied, no matter for what reason. “I did not know you were also a victim, but your distress caused me to wonder. I am profoundly sorry. It is the filthiest of crimes.” She spoke more fervently. “But we must fight him. We must do it together, if necessary. We must believe in one another. My friend was accused of cowardice in the face of the enemy … a sin which would be anathema to him, a shame he could not live with.”
“I’m sorry.” The words were wrung from him. She could not doubt he meant them passionately. It was in his face, the angle of his body, the