Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [62]
But she was aware that boredom occasionally drove out all intelligence, even the sense of self-preservation. She had seen overwrought women imagine themselves in love and rush headlong, like lemmings, to their own destruction. Usually they were young, a first passion. But perhaps it was only the outside that changed with age: habits learned, a little camouflage for vulnerability. The desperation inside might be the same at any time. So by chance among Christina Ross’s acquaintances tonight might there not be at least one of Max’s women?
She wished Charlotte to come also for her added ability to observe. Charlotte was very naïve on certain points, but on others she was surprisingly acute. Added to which, Christina disliked her, seemed in some way to be almost jealous. And in the heat of strong emotion people were inclined to betray themselves. Charlotte could be extremely handsome when she was enjoying herself, giving someone all her attention—as she did, for some quite unaccountable reason, to General Balantyne. If anything might cause Christina to lose her self-mastery, her judgment, it would be Charlotte flirting with the general—and even perhaps with Alan Ross.
Accordingly, Emily, George, and Charlotte arrived at Lord and Lady Easterby’s ball for their eldest daughter. They were just late enough still to be civil and yet also to cause a pleasing stir of appreciation among the guests already thronging the hall.
Emily was dressed in her favorite delicate water green, which flattered her fair skin; the gentle curls of her hair caught the light like an aureole. She looked like the spirit of an elusive early English summer, when the blossom is still clean and the air dappled with cool and shifting light.
She had taken great care over Charlotte. She had considered deeply what would attract the general most, and would therefore irritate Christina. Thus Charlotte swept into the ballroom in a swirl of vibrant and luminous gentian blue that was delicate on her throat and made her hair gleam with the shadowed luster of old copper. She was like a tropical night when the gold of the sun has gone but the warmth of the earth still lingers. If she had even the faintest idea what Emily’s intentions were, she showed no sign of it whatever. Which was as well, because Emily doubted Charlotte’s conscience would have allowed her to go along with such a plan—however much she liked the idea—had she perceived it. And she was useless at flirting if she tried! But it was a long time since Charlotte had had the chance to dress exquisitely, to be extravagant, to dance all night. She was not even aware of her own hunger for the excitement of it.
They were received with a flutter of attention. George’s title and the fact that Charlotte was a new face, and therefore mysterious, would have been sufficient, whatever their appearance. That the sisters looked ravishing was cause for a deluge of speculation and rumor enough to keep conversations alive for a month.
So much the better; it would add to the heat of the evening—Christina would not take well to being outshone. Emily wondered for a prickling moment if perhaps she had miscalculated and the results would be less informative and more purely unpleasant than she had intended; then she dismissed the idea. It was too late to alter things now anyhow.
She sailed forward with a radiant smile to greet Lady Augusta Balantyne, who was standing stiff and very regal, composing her face into an answering social charm.
“Good evening, Lady Ashworth,” Augusta said coolly. “Lord Ashworth. How pleasant to see you again. Good evening, Miss Ellison.”
Emily was suddenly aware of being ashamed. She looked at Augusta, her shoulders tight, the fine tendons in her neck standing out under her ruby necklace, the weight of stones cold and