Bedford Square - Anne Perry [76]
He left Pitt on the step while he went to enquire, carrying the card on his silver tray.
The slight wind was already welcome in the rising heat of this unusual July. By midday it would be sweltering. It was an uncomfortable wait, reminding Pitt sharply of his social status. A gentleman would have been asked in, even if left in the morning room.
The footman returned with a look of slight surprise and conducted Pitt into a large study, where he had only a moment to wait before the door opened and Sir Guy Stanley came in. He was a tall, thin man only barely recognizable from the newspaper photograph, which must have been taken at least two or three years previously. His white hair was markedly thinner now, and his side-whiskers shorter and neater. He walked carefully, as if uncertain of his balance, and he banged his elbow against the oak-paneled door as he closed it. His face was almost bloodless.
Pitt’s heart sank. Stanley did not look like a man who had faced the enemy down, at whatever the cost, but like someone who had received a fearful and unexpected blow. He was still reeling with the shock and barely in command of himself.
“Good morning, Mr ….” He glanced at the card in his hand. “Mr. Pitt. I am afraid this is not a fortunate morning for me, but if you tell me in what way I may be of assistance, I shall do what I can.” He indicated the overstuffed chairs, leather buttoned into complex patterns. “Please sit down.” He almost fell into the closest of them himself, as if not certain he could remain on his feet any longer.
Pitt sat opposite him. “There is no pleasant or diplomatic way of putting this, sir, so I shall avoid wasting your time and simply tell you the situation. However, I shall omit the names of the people concerned in consideration of their reputations, as I will yours, should you be able to assist me.”
There was no understanding in Stanley’s face, only polite resignation. He was listening only because he had promised to.
“Four prominent men of my acquaintance are being blackmailed—” Pitt began. He stopped abruptly, seeing the sudden blaze of interest in Stanley’s face, the rush of blood up his thin cheeks and the clenching of his hands on the wood-and-leather arms of the chair.
Pitt smiled bleakly. “I believe each to be innocent of the charge leveled against him by the writer of the letters, but unfortunately, in every case it is almost impossible to prove it. They are also, in every case, the offenses of which each would be most profoundly ashamed, and therefore peculiarly vulnerable to pressure.”
“I see ….” Stanley curled and uncurled his fingers on the arm of the chair.
“No money was asked for,” Pitt continued. “In fact, so far nothing at all has been named, or given, except one small token of faith … or if you like, submission.”
Stanley’s hands knotted more tightly.
“I see. And what is it you think I may be able to help you with, Mr. Pitt? I have no idea who it is or how to battle against such a thing.” He smiled with bitter self-mockery. “Surely today I am the last man in England to offer advice on the safeguarding of one’s honor or reputation.”
Pitt had already decided to be honest.
“Before I came here, Sir Guy, I had wondered if perhaps you were also a victim of this man, and when he had named his price for silence, you had told him to go to the devil.”
“You thought better of me than I had warranted,” Stanley said very quietly, the color bright on his thin cheeks. “I am afraid I did not tell him to go to the devil, in spite of profoundly wishing him there.” He looked at Pitt very steadily. “He only asked one very small thing of me, a silver-plated brandy flask, as a token of good faith. Or perhaps ‘surrender’ would be more accurate.”
“You gave it to him?” Pitt asked, dreading the answer.
“Yes,” Stanley replied. “His threat was couched in roundabout terms, but it was perfectly plain. As you no doubt observed in this morning’s newspapers,