Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [64]
It was ridiculous! Here she was, dressed in pale green silk, dancing to violins under all these lights, in and out of the arms of a man she spoke to as a friend, and her mind was following him down filthy alleys to a confrontation with a footman turned whoremonger, to commit a murder of hatred and obscene revenge for the degradation of his wife.
How could two such disparate worlds exist so closely side-by-side—or even within each other? How far away was the Devil’s Acre—three miles, five miles? How far away was it in thought?
How many of these men here, with their spotless white shirts and precise manners, went on the nights it suited them, to drink and fumble and copulate in the beds of some laughing whore in a house like Max’s?
The dance came to an end. She spoke some formal words to Alan Ross, and wondered if he had had even the faintest idea what she was thinking. Or if his own mind had been as far from her as hers was from this twinkling ballroom.
Lady Augusta was talking to a young man with blond whiskers. Charlotte had been dancing with Brandy Balantyne, but now the general stepped forward and offered her his arm, not to dance but to accompany him away somewhere in the direction of the enormous conservatory. His broad shoulders were very straight, but his head was bent toward her, full of attention, and he was talking. Damn Charlotte! Sometimes she was so intensely stupid Emily could have slapped her! Could she not see the man was falling in love? He was fifty, lonely, intelligent, emotionally inarticulate—and idiotically, desperately vulnerable.
But Emily could hardly stride after Charlotte now and pry her loose and kick some sense into her. And, worst of all, when she realized what she had done she would be filled with pain—because she really had not the faintest idea! She simply liked the man enormously, and was unsophisticated enough to show it in the way that was natural to her—the giving of friendship.
George was at Emily’s side, saying something to her.
“I beg your pardon?” she said absently.
“Balantyne,” he repeated. “Really quite odd, for a man of his breeding.”
Emily might have her own private opinions about Charlotte, and at the moment they were a good deal less than charitable. But she was not about to accept criticism of her from anyone else, even George.
“I cannot imagine what you are talking about,” she said stiffly. “But if you choose to apologize, I shall accept.”
He was nonplussed. “I thought you were interested in social reform?” he said with a little shake of his head. “It was you who brought up the whole subject in the first place—and Charlotte, of course.”
Now she was confused. She stared back at him impatiently; he did not seem to be making any sense.
“What is the matter with you—do you feel faint?” he said at last. Then a flash of suspicion crossed his face. “Emily! What are you doing?”
It was very seldom that George questioned her affairs, but she had always contrived to provide herself with satisfactory answers beforehand. And if they were less than the truth, she was usually positive beyond any doubt that he would never discover it. This was too short notice to invent a successful lie. Evasion was all that was left.
“I’m sorry,” she said demurely. “I was watching Charlotte and General Balantyne. I fear she is not aware of quite what she is doing. I thought you were speaking of that. Now, of course, I realize you were not.”
“I thought that was what you intended,” he said sincerely. “You gave her the dress. You might have foreseen she would look well in it.”
It was too close to the truth for comfort, and Emily felt guilt sweep over her again. She had planned it, even if it had now gone beyond her control.
“I did not intend her to flirt like a fool!” she snapped at him.
“I think she does it rather well.” He sounded surprised himself. He had known Charlotte since the days before she married Pitt. She had been her mother’s despair then, because she simply would not conduct herself with the required