Belgrave Square - Anne Perry [67]
They continued speaking until the waiter brought the final course, then a trifle more hastily than would ordinarily have been the case, and still smiling, they repaired to their respective carriages and set out for Covent Garden and the opera.
“Of course all the world and his wife will be there,” Emily warned as they sat almost stationary, moving forward barely a step or two at a time in the press of traffic. “It is necessary to come this early if one hopes to arrive at a civilized time and not inconvenience everyone and make a spectacle of oneself by taking one’s seat after the music has begun. And of course that is hopelessly vulgar, because it is the cheapest way of making everyone look at you.” She settled a little more comfortably. “Never mind. It is an excellent opportunity to catch up on events. I have not seen you for simply ages, Thomas.” She smiled with vivid humor which she did not bother to suppress. “You hardly look like yourself. It is most difficult to tell how you are.”
“I am sitting very carefully so as not to rumple my shirt, crease my jacket or lose my cuffs up my arms,” he replied with a grin. “But I am greatly obliged—and looking forward to the evening.”
“And are you pursuing some interesting case?” she went on. “I gather not, because Charlotte has said nothing about it. I doubt even Lord Anstiss’s tales could hold her interest against a really good case—or mine either.”
“The murder of a usurer,” he replied with a wry expression. “And I don’t yet know whether it is going to be ‘good’ or not.”
“A usurer?” Her voice reflected her disappointment. The carriage moved another twenty yards forward and stopped again. Somewhere ahead of them a footman shouted angrily, but it made no difference; they stayed precisely where they were. “That does not sound very promising.”
“I know they provide a service of sorts.” Jack pulled a face. “But I loathe them—most of them bleed their clients dry. I’m sorry, but I have some sympathy with whoever killed him.”
“He was also a blackmailer,” Pitt added.
“A lot of sympathy,” Jack amended.
“I too,” Pitt confessed. “But he blackmailed some interesting people—or it appears from his books that he did.”
“Oh?” Emily sat up a little straighter, her attention sparked. “Such as whom?”
Pitt looked at her without apology. “That is presently confidential, and the matter is one of indiscretion in one case, and poor judgment of character in another, which led to a tragedy, but there is no crime involved in either. There are others I have yet to investigate.”
Emily was quick and subtle to read his face in the light from the neighboring carriage lamps.
“And you are hating it. Are they people you admire?”
He shrugged ruefully. He had forgotten how very astute she was, not quite as brave as Charlotte or as passionate, but a better judge of others, and a far better actress when it came to presenting exactly the right expression and gesture to govern a situation. Emily was supremely practical.
“People I know,” he replied. “It will feel like a kind of betrayal, and I do not want to know their weaknesses, even if they turn out to be innocent of murder.”
Emily flashed him a quick smile of understanding.
“Of course not.”
Pitt fidgeted with his collar yet again. “Since I have nothing to contribute, let us speak of your affairs. Tell me something of Lord Anstiss. I hear he is a great patron of the arts and a political and social benefactor. He is certainly very entertaining. Is there no Lady Anstiss?”
“She died many years ago,” Emily answered. Then she leaned forward confidentially. “I believe it was very tragic.”
At that moment their carriage moved several steps forward, stopped abruptly, rocking a little on its springs, then went another fifty yards before stopping again.
“Oh?” Pitt did not attempt to keep the interest out of his voice.
It was all the invitation Emily