Cardington Crescent - Anne Perry [91]
For a long, terrible second he was as transfixed as she was. Then he spoke, his voice a parody of its usual self.
“Mrs. Pitt! Is there anything whatsoever you can say to explain yourself?”
Had he any idea what was written in Sybilla’s book? She clung to it so hard her fingers were white. She tried to speak, but her throat was dry, and she was so frightened she could not move. She could not even crawl backwards, because of the trunk. If he decided to attack her, to get back the damning book—and that was surely what he had been looking for—then the only escape she had was to stay here, where he could not reach her. It was too low for his thick body to get in.
That was preposterous. She could hardly remain under the bed until someone else came to coax her out.
“Mrs. Pitt!” Eustace’s face was hard now, his eyes dangerous. Yes, he had seen the little white leather book in her hand, and guessed what it was, if he did not already know. She stared back at him like a rabbit.
“Mrs. Pitt, how long do you propose to remain under the bed? I invited you to my house in order to be of comfort to your sister in her bereavement, but you force me to think you are as mentally infirm as she is!” He held out his hand, strong and square; even now she noticed how clean it was, how perfectly manicured the nails. “And give me the book,” he added with only the slightest stammer. “I will pretend I do not know you took it. It will be for the best, but I believe you should return to your own house at once. You are obviously unsuited to remain in a household such as ours.”
She did not move. If she gave him the book he would destroy it, and there would be nothing left except her word, which no one would have believed against his even before this.
“Come!” he said angrily. “You are being foolish! Get out of there!”
She reached up slowly to her neck and undid the top three buttons of her dress.
He stared at her in horrified fascination, and in spite of himself his eyes went to her bosom, always one of her handsomest assets.
“Mrs. Pitt!” he said hoarsely.
Very carefully she pushed the little white book down the front of her dress and fastened it up again. It felt uncomfortable, and no doubt looked ridiculous, but he would have to tear her bodice to take it from her, and that would be very hard indeed for him to explain.
Still looking at him, his eyes now hot and furious—perhaps he was as frightened as she was—she scrambled very awkwardly out from under the bed and stood up, rumpled and stiff, her legs shaking.
“That book does not belong to you, Mrs. Pitt,” he said grimly. “Give it to me!”
“It doesn’t belong to you either,” she answered with as much courage as she could. He was very strong, thick-chested, broad-hipped, and he stood between her and the door. “I shall give it to the police.”
“No, you won’t.” He reached out and took her arm. His fingers closed right around her, immovably.
Her breath almost choked her. “Are you going to tear my dress off to get it, Mr. March?” She tried to make her voice light, and failed. “That will be extremely awkward for you to explain, and I shall scream—and you won’t pass this off as a nightmare!”
“And how will you account for being here in Sybilla’s room?” he asked. But he was afraid, and she smelled it in the air, felt it in the bruising pressure of his fingers.
“How will you?”
His mouth flickered in the sickest of smiles. “I shall say I heard a sound in here and came in, and I found you going through Sybilla’s jewel case—the reason for that will be painfully obvious.”
“Then I shall say the same!” she countered. “Only it was not the jewel case, it was the vanity case under the bed. And I shall say you found the diary, and then everyone will read what is in it!”
His hand weakened. She saw the fear deepen in his face and sweat break out through the skin of his upper lip and above his eyebrows.
“Let me go, Mr. March, or I shall call out. There must be maids around, and Aunt Vespasia is in her room across the landing.”
Slowly, an inch at