Betrayal at Lisson Grove - Anne Perry [90]
The dreadful, useless tragedy of it overwhelmed Charlotte. She wanted to say something that would redeem any part of the loss, but everything that came to her mind was banal.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m . . .’
He looked up at her. ‘So are you going back to London to tell someone?’
‘Yes . . . yes I am.’
‘Be careful,’ he warned. ‘Narraway won’t go down easily. He’ll kill you too, if he thinks he has to, to survive.’
‘I will be careful,’ she promised him. ‘I think I have a little more to learn yet, but I promise I’ll be . . . careful.’ She stood up, feeling awkward. There was nothing to say to complete their conversation. They moved from the desperate to the mundane as if it were completely natural, but what words were there that could be adequate for what either of them felt? ‘Thank you, Mr O’Neil,’ she said gravely.
He took her to the door and opened it for her, but he did not offer to find her any transport, as if for him she ceased to be real the moment she stepped out onto the pavement.
‘Where have you been?’ Narraway demanded as soon as she came into Mrs Hogan’s sitting room. He had been standing by the window, or perhaps pacing. He looked exhausted and tense, as if his imagination had plagued him with fear. His eyes were hollow and the lines in his face deeper than she had ever seen them before. ‘Are you all right? Who’s with you? Where is he?’
‘Nobody is with me,’ she answered. ‘But I am perfectly all right.’
‘Alone?’ His voice shook. ‘You were out on the street alone, in the dark? For God’s sake, Charlotte, what’s the matter with you? Anything could have happened. I wouldn’t even have known!’ He put out his hand and gripped her arm. She could feel the strength of him, as if he were quite unaware how tightly he held her.
‘Nothing happened to me, Victor. I wasn’t very far away. And it isn’t late. There are plenty of people about,’ she assured him.
‘You could have been lost . . .’
‘Then I would have asked for directions,’ she said. ‘Please, there is no need to be concerned. If I’d had to walk a little out of my way to get here it wouldn’t have hurt me.’
‘You could have—’ he began, then stopped, perhaps realising that his fear was disproportionate. He let go of her. ‘I’m sorry. I . . .’
She looked at him. It was a mistake. For an instant his emotion was too plain in his eyes. She did not want to know that he cared so much. Now it would be impossible for either of them to pretend he did not love her, and she could not pretend she did not know.
She turned away, feeling the colour burning on her skin. All words would be belittling the truth.
He stood still.
‘I went to see Cormac O’Neil,’ she said after a moment or two.
‘What?’
‘I was perfectly safe. I wanted to hear from him exactly what happened, or at least what he believes.’
‘And what did he say?’ he asked quickly, his voice cracking with tension.
She did not want to look at him, to intrude into old grief, which was still obviously so sharp, but evasion was cowardly. She met his eyes and repeated to him what Cormac had said, including the fact that Talulla was Kate’s daughter.
‘That’s probably how he sees it,’ Narraway answered when she had finished. ‘I dare say he couldn’t live with the truth. Kate was beautiful.’ He smiled briefly. In that moment she could imagine the man he had been twenty years earlier: younger, more virile, perhaps less wise.
‘Few men could resist her,’ he went on. ‘I didn’t try. I knew they were using her to trap me. She was brave, passionate . . .’ He smiled wryly. ‘Perhaps a little short on humour, but far more intelligent than they realised. It sometimes happens when women are beautiful. People don’t see any further than that, especially men. It’s uncomfortable. We see what we want to see.’
Charlotte frowned, suddenly thinking of Kate: a pawn to others, albeit one that they wanted, fought over, desired. ‘Why do you say intelligent?’ she asked.
‘We talked,’ he replied. ‘About the cause, what they planned