Belgrave Square - Anne Perry [182]
But when he tried it on Frederick it was a different thing—the letter was in Frederick’s hand, and when Weems realized that, however he did, perhaps he had some letter or agreement to meet, then of course Frederick had to kill him. Weems knew the truth, not only about us, but presumably he guessed we had killed Laura as well.
Whether or not Frederick would have betrayed me when he was arrested, I don’t know—and perhaps it hardly matters now. I have loved him all these years, and he professed to love me—that he could have blackmailed me for the African loans and corrupted the best thing I did is beyond my ability to bear, or to forgive.
He has ruined me, and all I believed in, both love and honor. I shall see that he dies with such a scandal London will never forget it.
There is nothing more to be said, this is the end of it all.
Sholto Byam
Pitt passed it across to Drummond.
Drummond read it slowly then looked up, his face ashen.
“God, what a mess.”
Beyond the doorway Waterson, gray-faced, was standing like a man stricken. Someone had taken the housemaid away. The footman was still on the floor.
“You’d better go and tell Lady Byam,” Pitt said quietly. “It will come better from you than anyone else. I’ll clear up here.”
Drummond hesitated only a moment, guilt, realization and pity fighting in him.
“There’s nothing else to do,” Pitt assured him. “It is all finished here—we must care for the living now.”
Drummond took his hand and squeezed it fiercely for a moment, wringing it so hard he bruised the flesh, then swung around on his heel and went out.
Pitt turned back to the bed, and very gently pulled up the bedspread to cover the faces of the dead.
Now in bookstores …
the new Charlotte and Thomas Pitt mystery,
FARRIER’S LANE
by Anne Perry.
Published by Fawcett.
Read on to Chapter One of FARRIER’S LANE….
1
“ISN’T HE SUPERB?” Caroline Ellison whispered to her daughter Charlotte. “He conveys so much feeling with the simplest word or a gesture!”
They were side by side in the red plush box in the theater in the semidarkness. It was late autumn and since there was no heating the air was cold. By the end of the first act the press of the crowd had warmed the stalls, but up here in the first tier of boxes it was different. The movement of applause and the stamping of feet then had helped, but now the drama was tense again, and the buzz of excitement shivery.
The stage was brilliant, the actors vivid figures against the romantic, plyboard scenery. One in particular commanded Caroline’s attention: a man of just over average height, slender, with a sensitive, aquiline face full of humor and imagination, yet haunted with all the possibilities of tragedy. He was Joshua Fielding, principal actor of the company, and Charlotte was now quite certain he was the reason her mother had chosen this particular performance.
Apparently Caroline was waiting for a reply. Her face was quick and intelligent, but touched with an odd kind of vulnerability, as though Charlotte’s answer might matter to her. She had been widowed a little while now. After the first grief had come a kind of euphoria, a sense of freedom as she realized how much she might do without restraint, since she was her own mistress. She read whatever she pleased, political, contentious, even scandalous. She joined societies and discussed all manner of subjects previously forbidden, and listened to lectures from reformers, travelers and scientists, many accompanied by photographs or slides.
But perhaps now a little of the pleasure of it was wearing thin and now and again a shadow of loneliness crossed her thoughts.
“Yes indeed, Mama,” Charlotte agreed sincerely. “He has a voice I could listen to for hours.”
Caroline smiled and returned her attention