Callander Square - Anne Perry [69]
“That is no excuse—”
“Don’t interrupt,” he said sharply. “Above all things Euphemia wants a child. She is thirty-six. She has not forever. And if Robert persists in treating her with courtesy and excessive consideration, either because he is abashed by emotion, or because he believes, mistakenly, that it is what she wishes, then she will never have one. She fears that he is uninterested in physical affection, and would find her repellent if he knew she was, so she dares not tell him.
“We have always been friends. I like her; she’s a generous woman, with wit and kindness. I saw she was getting more and more distressed about something. She finally confided it to me. Ours was an arrangement of convenience, only until she conceived a child. Now you can believe that or not, as you choose. But it’s the truth. And whatever you think of me, for Euphemia’s sake—or for Robert Carlton’s—don’t spread it around.” For the first time he turned and looked back at her, his face perfectly serious. “Please?”
It was ridiculous, and yet she did believe him. Without considering, she acknowledged it.
“I believe you. But—do not speak or act without thought toward Miss Waggoner. It can hurt very much to fall in love where you know it cannot be returned.”
He looked at her closely, his hazel eyes clouded with a sudden sensitivity to her.
“Oh, not now,” she said quickly. “But in the past I have done. He was my sister’s husband. I grew out of it, I saw him differently. But it hurt at the time.”
He relaxed.
“Please don’t speak of Euphemia,” he asked again.
She thought of Pitt, the babies in the gardens.
“I promise I shall not speak except in her interest,” she said solemnly.
He was not satisfied, sensing evasion in her words.
“What do you mean?”
There was nothing for it but to be honest.
“I was thinking of the police. They know that Euphemia is with child, and that it is yours. They may hold her under some suspicion for the children in the gardens also, you know.”
His face went so blank with horror it was impossible to imagine that he had thought of such an eventuality before.
“To tell them the truth,” Charlotte said softly, “might be greatly to Euphemia’s advantage, do you not think?”
“They wouldn’t believe it,” his mouth was stiff, still shocked.
“They might.”
“How—how did they know of—of the child—about me—any of it?”
“They are quite clever, you know, and they would be looking for such things.”
“I suppose so. Mother said she thought that fellow Pitt was clever, and she’s usually right. And there are not many people whose intelligence she regards well.”
Charlotte did not wish to tell him of her own relationship to Pitt, and she wondered if the warmth of pride that bubbled inside her now was as obvious to him as it felt to her.
“That is all I meant,” she said carefully. “Now I think it might be advisable for us to finish this discussion before the general returns, do you not?”
“Oh—yes, yes it would. You won’t—?”
“No, of course I won’t! I was concerned only for Jemima.”
His mouth curved upward in a slight smile.
“You know, I like Jemima. She’s a little like you, in some ways. And in other ways, you are a little like Mother—”
Charlotte froze at the thought, although doubtless he intended it as a compliment.
His smile broadened into a grin.
“Don’t look so shocked. Mother has more courage than anyone else I know; she’d knock the stuffing out of all the old generals at Father’s clubs! And she was quite a beauty too. Only trouble was she could never flirt; didn’t know how; had no art of deception.”
Charlotte blushed. She had rather charged in, and certainly she had displayed no finesse. Perhaps she was more like Lady Augusta than she would have cared to admit. She looked up at Brandy to say something to excuse herself, make herself appear softer, when the general came in. His face widened in surprise when he saw Brandy.
“Best fire in the house,” Brandy said quickly. “You always bragged it was.”
“That does not mean I intended you to stand by it all afternoon, distracting