Betrayal at Lisson Grove - Anne Perry [71]
‘The English answer to everything,’ Dolina ventured. ‘Is that not so, Mrs Pitt?’
‘You would be surprised what can be done with it, if it is hot enough,’ Charlotte looked straight at her.
‘Scalding, I shouldn’t wonder,’ Dolina muttered.
Charlotte relayed the exchange to Narraway later that night, after dinner. They were alone in Mrs Hogan’s sitting room with the doors open on to the garden, which was quite small, and overhung with trees. It was a mild evening, and a moon almost full cast dramatic shadows. In unspoken agreement they stood up and walked outside into the balmy air.
‘I didn’t learn anything more,’ she admitted finally. ‘Except that we are still disliked. But how could we imagine anything else? At the theatre Mr McDaid told me something of O’Neil. It is time you stopped skirting around it and told me what happened. I don’t want to know, but I have to.’
Narraway was silent for a long time. She was acutely aware of him standing perhaps a yard away from her, half in the shadow of one of the trees. He was slender, not much taller than she, but she had an impression of physical strength, as if he were muscle and bone, all softness worn away over the years. She did not want to look at his face, partly to allow him that privacy, but just as much because she did not want to see what was there. It would be easier for both of them, and allow a certain pretence to be rebuilt after the moments in the couturier and, after, in the street.
‘I can’t tell you all of it, Charlotte,’ he said at last. ‘There was quite a large uprising planned. We had to prevent it.’
‘How did you do that?’ She was blunt.
Again he did not answer. She wondered how much of the secrecy was to protect her, and how much was simply that he was ashamed of his role in it, necessary or not.
Why was she standing out here shivering? What was she afraid of? Victor Narraway? It had not occurred to her before that he might hurt her. She was afraid that she would hurt him. Perhaps that was ridiculous. If he had loved Kate O’Neil, and still been able to sacrifice her in his loyalty to his country, then he could certainly sacrifice Charlotte. She could be one of the casualties of war that Fiachra McDaid had referred to – just part of the price. She was Pitt’s wife, and Narraway had shown a loyalty to Pitt, in his own way. She was also quite certain now that he was in love with her. But how naïve of her to imagine that it would change anything he had to do in the greater cause.
She thought of Kate O’Neil, wondering what she had looked like, how old she had been, if she had loved Narraway. Had she betrayed her country, and her husband to him? How desperately in love she must have been. Charlotte should have despised her for that, and yet all she felt was pity, and a belief that she could have been in the same place, but for a grace of circumstance. If she hadn’t loved Pitt, she could easily have believed herself in love with Narraway.
That was a stupid equivocation! She would have been in love, cared totally, and completely. What other way was there to care?
‘You used Kate O’Neil, didn’t you?’ she said aloud.
‘Yes.’ His voice was so soft she barely heard it. The faint rustling of the night wind in the leaves was almost as loud. She had no doubt at all that he was ashamed, but it had not stopped him. Thank goodness, at least, he had not lied.
But was this old case really the reason for the present manufactured charge of embezzlement against him?
What were they missing?
What was Pitt doing in France?
Should she and Narraway be here in Ireland? Or had Narraway, the brilliant, devious schemer, been outplayed by someone who knew his vulnerability too well, and the real issue was somewhere else altogether?
She turned quietly and walked back the few steps into Mrs Hogan’s sitting room. There wasn’t anything more to say, not here, in the soft night wind and the scents of the garden.
Chapter Six
Pitt was troubled. He stood in the sun in St Malo, leaning against the buttress