Bluegate Fields - Anne Perry [90]
Callantha hesitated, perhaps weighing the chances of getting away with a lie. In the end she decided on the truth. After all, the case had been written up in the newspapers, and although ladies of excellent upbringing would not read such things, it was impossible to avoid hearing gossip—supposing anyone were even to try!
“No—no, he was killed.” She still avoided the word “murder.” “I’m afraid it was all very dreadful.”
“Oh, dear!” Emily was a better actress than Charlotte; she always had been. And she had not lived with the story from the beginning; she could affect ignorance. “How terribly distressing for you! I do hope we have not called at an inappropriate time?” It was really an unnecessary question. One could not cease all social life every time a relative died, unless it were in the immediate family, or else the number of one’s relatives and the frequency of death would cause one to be forever in mourning.
“No, no.” Callantha shook her head. “It is most pleasant to see you.”
“Perhaps,” Aunt Vespasia said, “it would be possible for you to come to a small soiree at my house in Gadstone Park, if you are accepting invitations. I should be delighted to see you, and your husband also, if he wishes and is free of business functions? I have not met him, but I’m sure he is charming. I will send the footman with an invitation.”
Charlotte’s heart sank. It was Titus and Fanny she wanted to talk to, not Mortimer Swynford!
“I am sure he would enjoy that as much as I,” Callantha said. “I had intended to invite Angelica to an afternoon entertainment, a new pianist who has been much praised. I have planned it for Saturday. I hope she will have recovered by then. But in any case, I should be delighted if you would all come. We shall be ladies, in the main, but if Lord Ashworth or your husband would care to come?” She turned from one to the other of them.
“Of course!” Emily glowed with anticipation. The object was achieved. The men would not come; that was understood. She darted a look across at Charlotte. “Perhaps we shall meet Fanny? I admit I am quite intrigued—I shall look forward to it.”
“And I also,” Charlotte agreed. “Very much.”
Aunt Vespasia rose. They had been long enough for the strict duty call they professed it to be, and certainly long enough for a first visit. Most important, their purpose was achieved. With great dignity she took leave for all of them, and, after the appropriate civilities had been exchanged, swept them out to the carriage.
“Excellent,” she said as they seated themselves, arranging their skirts so as to be crushed as little as possible before the next call. “Charlotte, did you say this wretched child was only thirteen when he began his disgusting trade?”
“Albie Frobisher? Yes, so he said. He looked only a little more now—he’s very thin and underdeveloped—no beard at all.”
“And how do you know, may I ask?” Aunt Vespasia fixed her with a cool eye.
“I was in the courtroom,” Charlotte replied without thinking. “I saw him.”
“Were you indeed?” Aunt Vespasia’s brows shot up and her face looked very long. “Your conduct becomes more extraordinary by the moment. Tell me more. In fact, tell me everything! Or, no—not yet. We are going to visit Mr. Somerset Carlisle. I daresay you remember him?”
Charlotte remembered him vividly, and the whole unspeakable affair around Resurrection Row. He had been the keenest of all of them in fighting to get the child-poverty bill passed through Parliament. He knew as much as Pitt did of the slums—indeed he had frightened and appalled poor Dominic by taking him to the Devil’s Acre, under the shadow of Westminster.
But would he be interested in the facts of one extremely unlikable tutor, who was very possibly guilty of a despicable crime anyway?
“Do you think Mr. Carlisle will be bothered over Mr. Jerome?” she asked doubtfully. “The law is not at fault. It is hardly a Parliamentary matter.”
“It is a matter for reform,” Aunt Vespasia