Belgrave Square - Anne Perry [72]
“You have too little discrimination, Fitz,” she said proprietorially, linking her arm in his and moving a little closer to him. “You will have to learn to distinguish between the people one should know socially and those one should simply be civil to because one does not wish to be seen being less than civil.”
“It sounds like a bore to me,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “I don’t think I care to have my acquaintances dictated by such criteria.”
Odelia’s answer to that was lost as they moved away, and Charlotte was left wishing Fitz were not Jack’s rival for the nomination, because she found him most agreeable. On the other hand, Odelia Morden did not appeal to her nearly so much. She hoped that Emily would be more than a match for her, but she was not at all sure; Miss Morden had a touch of steel under that complacent, pretty face.
During the second act Charlotte again found her attention wandering, and with Vespasia’s glasses she was able to see very clearly at least those who sat forward in the boxes where the light caught their faces.
She was examining, as discreetly as she could, the people sitting in the tier above hers, and on the far side, when she saw the curtains at the back of one of the boxes open and the distinctive figure of Micah Drummond come in. She remembered him with personal gratitude for the understanding he had displayed towards her at the dreadful culmination of the murders on Westminster Bridge, when it would have been natural for him to have been furious with her. Instead he had been so gentle she felt her own faults without the instinctive defense which an angrier, less sensitive man would certainly have produced in her. But she had hurt so deeply, and felt so overwhelmingly frightened and guilty.
Now she moved the little wheel on the glasses to focus them more clearly, and looked at the tense, self-conscious expression on his face as he spoke to the occupants of the box. All she could see of them was the back of the woman’s head, her beautiful black hair wound in the currently fashionable Greek style, and laced with pearls. Her shoulders were very white and she sat upright. Micah Drummond bowed to her and raised her hand to his lips. He did it so gently it seemed to Charlotte to be more than just the usual formality but rather a gesture that was meant for itself. It gave her a little shiver of empathy with the woman, whoever she was, as if she too had sat in that dark box and felt his lips brush her skin.
The man in the box moved forward a step and his face was no longer in complete shadow, but in a half-barred light so at least his profile was visible. Charlotte knew him: the straight, jutting nose, a little short, was familiar, and the clean angle of his head, hair perfectly straight and smooth. But she could not think who he was.
Drummond turned to the man, his brows furrowing with anxiety, and began to speak. It was listened to earnestly, the man leaning a little towards him.
Charlotte moved on and saw Odelia Morden and Fitz sitting close together, his face toward the stage, hers towards him.
She looked back again at the drama as the music rose to a long sustained climax and there was a rush of applause.
When she turned back at the box where Micah Drummond had been he was no longer there, and the man appeared to be staring towards Charlotte, which made her acutely embarrassed. He seemed so close, as if he would see her as clearly as she saw him. He had no glasses, but hers magnified him alarmingly and she felt caught in a gross act of intrusion. There was a curious expression on his face, beyond her ability to interpret. Only his mouth was in the full light. He looked melancholy, vulnerable, and yet there was a driving intensity in the feeling, nothing passive about it except the openness to hurt, almost an anticipation of pain.
The woman in the box turned towards the stage and leaned over the balcony rail. Now that she was in profile in the light Charlotte could see it was Eleanor Byam, and knew in that same moment that of