Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [49]
“Quite.” Lady Ashworth agreed with a little nod, continuing May’s thought. “One imagines one knows people, and then something like this occurs! But what can one do? If one is introduced by respectable acquaintances, that is all anyone requires. My husband and I were astonished.” She took a deep breath. “Of course I do not know Sir Beau at all—”
But May was not to be so easily trapped.
“He appears to be extremely pleasant,” she replied without emotion. She forced Beau’s face from her mind— the laughter, the soft voice, memories of dancing, lights, music, whirling feet, his arms about her. “Sir Bertram always behaved himself impeccably in my company,” she finished levelly.
“Of course!” Mrs. Woolmer said, a shade too quickly.
“I’m sure.” Lady Ashworth brushed her fingers delicately over her skirt. “But if you will forgive me saying so, my dear, men have been known to behave very rashly indeed when they fall in love. And even brothers have learned to hate one another over a beautiful woman.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Woolmer’s hand flew to her mouth and stifled an exclamation in language far less than genteel.
May felt distinctly uncomfortable. Of course she was aware that many men had desired her. Surely that was what the Season was for? But so far she had considered the emotions superficial, all a part of the exquisite charade where the winners retired with agreeable husbands and with futures assured both socially and financially. The losers retreated to consider next year’s tactics. May had always known her strengths and her weaknesses, and how best to deploy them. She had every intention of being a winner, and envy was to be expected—but not hatred, and certainly not the kind of passion that breeds murder.
“I think you flatter me, Lady Ashworth,” she said carefully. “I have given no one cause for such feelings.” Perhaps it would be better to change the subject, turn Lady Ashworth’s curious eyes onto something even more shocking. “I do not have the amorous skill of many of the ladies with”—she gave a tiny smile—“shall we say ‘experience’? I am loath to repeat rumor, but it is so persistent that in all common sense I cannot believe it is entirely false. There are some ladies of perfectly good family who behave like women of pleasure. No doubt they have the art to inflame the sort of dreadful emotions you are speaking of.”
It burst like a bombshell, as was intended.
“Nonsense!” Mrs. Woolmer choked on her indrawn breath. “You cannot possibly know of such a thing! Women of pleasure indeed! I will thank you to hold your tongue.”
Lady Ashworth’s head came up, her eyes wide. But surprisingly it was Mrs. Pitt who came to May’s rescue. “It is most distressing,” she agreed, dropping her voice to a confidential tone. “But I also have heard of such things. And I have to admit that my source was irreproachable. It makes me wonder how ever to judge where to pursue acquaintances, and where one dare not! I am sure you must have had the same doubts as I. I feel guilty even for suspecting people who are probably as innocent as the day, and yet I would be appalled to find myself, through good nature and an excess of gullibility, in a situation from which I could not retreat with my reputation unblemished—not to think of things far worse!”
Lady Ashworth seemed to be in the grip of some overpowering emotion. She coughed furiously and covered her face with her handkerchief. Her shoulders shook. Her skin was pink to the very roots of her hair. Fortunately, at that moment the maid returned with tea and other refreshments, and they were able to revive Lady Ashworth. Her face was flushed but she was apparently otherwise in control of herself.
But Mrs. Pitt was quite right. One simply could not afford to associate with women who were even suspected of such behavior. May racked her thoughts to know which of her acquaintances might be involved. Several names came to mind, and she determined to avoid them on every possible occasion. Perhaps