Belgrave Square - Anne Perry [123]
“Who is she? Does he know?”
“Yes, but he did not tell me. He followed Mr. Carswell one day—over the river somewhere.”
They were prevented from continuing the conversation any further by the arrival of Lord and Lady Byam and the necessity of greeting them. Charlotte found the color distinctly warm in her cheeks as wild speculations raced through her mind while she spoke politely to Lord Byam, and looked at his remarkable eyes. She felt acutely guilty. She was swapping politenesses with him, saying how nice it was to see him, and all the time her mind was wondering if he had stood with a gun in his hand and shot William Weems’s head to pieces.
What was he thinking behind that sensitive, imaginative face and the formal words? Something equally wild and terrible? For that matter, what were any of them thinking? Could Eleanor Byam possibly feel as calm and sedate as she looked? She was dressed in black, which made her hair the more startling and her shoulders and throat whiter. She wore a necklace of onyx and diamonds, both unusual and very lovely. She was greeting Micah Drummond, and there was a faint flush of color creeping up her cheeks. She met his eyes with a directness not required or expected of such a ritual occasion.
Of course—she would know who he was, and that her husband had asked his help. Beneath the formal acknowledgments and inquiries for health, she would ache to know what he had learned. And presumably she knew both he and her husband were members of the Inner Circle, so his loyalty was assured. No—that was not true: women were excluded. She would not know, so perhaps she had no idea why Drummond should help, and consequently no reason to believe he was anything more than a police officer with breeding, a social equal, or something close. Perhaps “equal” was overstating it; at least not hopelessly inferior, like Pitt, and almost all the rest of the police force.
And what was Drummond thinking, behind the courteous expression and the pale, rather drawn face? Probably remembering Pitt’s confrontation over the secret brotherhood, the police corruption he must do something about because Pitt knew, and perhaps wondering about his own role in it. Charlotte trusted her judgment where he was concerned. She did not believe he was corrupt, not when he faced the reality of it. He might well be blind, a little naive; there was a quality of innocence in him which she had often observed in some of the nicest men. They were inclined to trust people no woman worth a fig would have trusted half as far as she could have thrown them. Funny how men thought it was women who were the innocents. In Charlotte’s experience, most women, underneath the daydreams and the trappings that gave a little glamour, were eminently practical. The human race would hardly have survived otherwise. Knights on white chargers had their place, in dreams which were completely necessary to sweeten some of the pills that must be swallowed, but one could divide off part of the mind for such a purpose. In the end one knew quite well which was which, and most women did not confuse the two.
Yes, naive, that was the word. She looked at him again, his tall lean figure and rather quiet face. It was not wildly imaginative, but without a shred of ill temper or undue vanity. He was looking at Eleanor Byam with such gentleness, and a diffidence as if it mattered to him intensely what she thought, how she felt. How very kind that he should be so concerned for her, so sensitive to her fears …
Oh my goodness. How totally idiotic of her.
“What is it?” Vespasia had noticed and was staring at her with interest.
“Nothing,” Charlotte lied instinctively.
Vespasia snorted very slightly, like a well-bred horse.
“Poppycock. You have observed that your Mr. Drummond is more than a little in love with Lady Byam. Which will make life very difficult for him—whether Lord Byam is guilty or not.”
“Oh dear.” Charlotte sighed. “I wonder if Thomas