Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [28]
“On the contrary, Papa, it is servants—and social climbers—who do not give offense, because they know they cannot afford to.”
There was a ruffle of embarrassment round the table. It was Alan Ross who spoke, laying his fork down beside his plate. He had good hands—strong, without excess of flesh.
“Servants do not give offense because they dare not, my dear,” he said quietly to his wife. “A lady would not wish to. That is the difference. It is people who are obliged to no one, but have not the mastery of themselves, nor sufficient sensitivity to understand the feelings of others, who offend.”
“You have everything worked out so neatly, don’t you, Alan!” She said it as though it were a challenge, even an insult, implying he had curtailed thought with some preconceived answer.
Balantyne felt a cold wave of unhappiness, and pushed his plate away from him. Alan Ross was dignified; he had a sense of decency. He did not deserve this ill-behavior from his wife. Mere beauty was not nearly enough. One hungered for gentleness in a woman, no matter how splendid her wit or her face, or even her body. Christina had better learn that before it was too late and she forfeited Alan’s affection beyond retrieval. He must have Augusta speak to her about it. Someone should warn her—
Brandy jarred him back to an even uglier subject. “It was Max Burton, who used to be our footman, who was killed in the Devil’s Acre, wasn’t it?” He looked at them in turn.
His remark had the presumably desired effect of stopping the previous conversation utterly. Augusta’s hands hung paralyzed over her plate. Christina dropped her knife. Alan Ross sat motionless.
A petal fell from one of the flowers onto the tablecloth, whiter, purer than the starched linen.
Christina swallowed. “Really, Brandy, how on earth would we know? And, for that matter, why should we care? Max left here years ago, and it’s all completely disgusting!”
“The Devil’s Acre and its occupants are not of the least concern to us,” Augusta agreed huskily. “And I refuse to have them or their obscenities discussed at my table.”
“I disagree, Mama.” Brandy was not impressed. “As long as everybody refuses to talk about them—”
“I imagine half the city is talking of little else,” Augusta cut him off. “There are plenty of people whose nature wallows in such things. I do not intend to be among them—and neither will you while you are in my house, Brandon!”
“I’m not thinking of the details.” Brandy leaned forward, his face earnest. “I’m talking about the general social conditions in our slums. Apparently, Max was a pimp. He procured women for prostitution—”
“Brandon!”
He ignored the interruption. “Do you know how many prostitutes there are in London, Mama?”
Balantyne looked across at Augusta’s face and thought he would not forget her expression as long as he lived.
Her eyebrows rose and her eyes widened. “Am I to assume, Brandon, that you do?” she inquired in a voice that could have chipped stone.
The color came up Brandy’s cheeks slightly, but his face set in the same defiance that echoed as far back as nursery days over such trivialities as rice pudding and talcing naps. He swallowed. “Eighty-five thousand.” To have added “approximately” would have diminished the impact. “And some of them are no more than ten or eleven years old!”
“Nonsense!” she snapped.
For the first time, Alan Ross joined in. “I am sorry, Mama-in-law, but that is true. Several people of some reputation and quality have been espousing the cause of these people lately, and there has been much investigation.”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Christina laughed, but it was a high sound, without happiness. “Mama is perfectly correct. How could a person of any quality whatsoever take up such a cause? That’s preposterous. It really is not worth discussing. We are descending to absurdity, and it is most unpleasant.”
Balantyne wondered at Christina’s agreeing so readily with her mother; it was not like her. He was surprised to hear his own voice. “Eighty-five