Betrayal at Lisson Grove - Anne Perry [48]
‘You said you didn’t know about my sister Sarah,’ she pointed out. ‘Or was that discretion rather than truth?’
There was a look of hurt in his face, instantly covered. ‘It was the truth. But perhaps I deserved the remark. I learned about you mostly from Vespasia. She did not mention Sarah, perhaps out of delicacy. And I had no need to know.’
‘You had some need to know the rest?’ she said with disbelief.
‘Of course. You are part of Pitt’s life. I had to know exactly how far I could trust you. Although given my present situation, you cannot be blamed for doubting my ability in that.’
‘That sounds like self-pity,’ she said tartly. ‘I have not criticised you, and that is not out of either good manners or sympathy – neither of which we can afford just at the moment, if they disguise the truth. We can’t live without trusting someone. It is an offence to betray, not to be betrayed.’
‘It is a good thing you did not marry into society,’ he retorted. ‘You would not have survived. Or, on the other hand, perhaps society would not have, and that might not have been so bad. A little shake-up now and then is good for the constitution.’
Now she was not sure if he were laughing at her, or defending himself. Or possibly it was both.
‘So you accepted my assistance because you believe I can do what you require?’ she concluded.
‘Not at all. I accepted it because you gave me no alternative. Also, since Stoker is the only other person I trust, and he did not offer, nor has he the ability, I had no alternative anyway.’
‘Touché,’ she said quietly.
They did not speak again for quite some time, and when they did it was about the difference between society in London and in Dublin. Narraway described quite a lot of the city itself and some of the surrounding countryside with such vividness she began to look forward to seeing it herself. He even spoke of the festivals, saints’ days, and other occasions that people celebrated.
When the train drew into Holyhead they went straight to the boat. After a brief meal, they returned to their cabins for the crossing. They would arrive in Dublin before morning, but were not required to disembark until well after daylight.
Dublin was utterly different from London, but at least to begin with Charlotte was too occupied with getting ashore at Dun Laoghaire, and seeing that she did not lose sight of the porter with her luggage, or of Narraway, to have time to stare about her. Then there was the ride into the city itself, which was just waking up to the new day, the rain-washed streets clean and filling with people about their business. She saw plenty of horse traffic – mostly trade at this hour; the carriages and broughams would come later. The few women were laundresses, maids going shopping, or factory workers wearing thick skirts and with heavy shawls wrapped around them, much as they would have been at home.
Narraway hailed a cab and they set out to look for accommodation. He seemed to know exactly where he was going and gave very precise directions to the driver, but he did not explain them to her. They rode in silence. He stared out of the window and she watched his face, the harsh early morning light showing even the smallest lines around his eyes and mouth. It made him seem older, far less sure of himself.
She wondered what he was remembering as he watched streets that must be familiar to him. How much of the passion or the grief of his life had been here? She was glad she did not know, and it seemed intrusive even to think about it. She hoped that she never had to learn.
She thought of Daniel and Jemima, and hoped Minnie Maude was settling in. They had seemed to like her, and surely anyone Gracie vouched for would be good. She could not resent Gracie’s happiness, but she missed her painfully at times like this.
That was absurd: there had never been another time like this. All the past cases and adventures had been in London, or very near it. Here she was in a foreign country, with Victor Narraway, riding