Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [65]
Emily had a sudden feeling that she was going to need George. “What were you saying about social reform?” she inquired.
Maybe he sensed her unhappiness, or possibly he was only exercising good manners. “Brandy Balantyne was talking about social reform,” he answered agreeably. “These disgusting events in the Devil’s Acre seem to have affected him quite surprisingly. I think he really intends to do something about it!”
She spoke spontaneously. “George, what kind of men go to the Devil’s Acre, to houses like Max’s?”
“Really, Emily ... I hardly think ...” To her astonishment, he looked awkward, as though in spite of his more rational self, he still found the subject embarrassing in front of her.
She gave him a wide stare. “Do you go, George?”
“No, I do not!” He was genuinely shocked. “If I were going to do anything of that sort, I should at least go to the Haymarket, or the—Well, I certainly would not go to the Devil’s Acre.”
“And what would you think of me, if I did?” she asked.
“Don’t be absurd.” He did not even consider it seriously.
“There must be women there,” she pointed out, “or there would be no brothels.” She momentarily forgot to use the euphemism for such establishments.
“Of course there are women there, Emily,” he said with exaggerated patience. “But they are of a different sort. They are not—well—they are not women that one would—would do anything but ...”
“Fornicate with,” she finished incisively. Another euphemism was abandoned.
“Quite.” He was a little pink in the face, but she preferred to think it was due to a general discomfort for his own sex at large, rather than any personal guilt. She was perfectly aware that his conduct had not always been exemplary, but she was wise enough not to inquire into it. Such curiosity would bring nothing but unhappiness. To the best of her belief, he had been loyal since their marriage, and that was all she could reasonably ask.
She smiled at him with quite honest warmth. “But Bertram Astley did.”
The shadow returned to his eyes and he looked confused. “Odd,” he muttered. “I don’t think you should inquire into that, Emily. It’s really very sordid. I don’t mind your taking an interest in Charlotte’s investigations when they are moderately respectable—if you absolutely must.” He was aware of the limitations of the authority he could exercise without unpleasantness, and he hated unpleasantness. “But I think you should not seek to know about certain aberrations. It will only distress you.”
Suddenly she was overwhelmingly fond of him. His concern was quite genuine; he knew the world she was beginning to examine, knew the frailties and the twisted hungers. He did not want her to be touched by it, and hurt.
She put her hand on his arm and moved a little closer. She had no intention whatsoever of doing as he suggested. She was far tougher than he supposed, but it was very pleasant indeed that he imagined her so tender, so untouched. It was an idiotic notion, but just for a little while, perhaps till the end of the evening when the laughter and the lights died down, she would pretend to be the innocent creature he thought she was.
Perhaps in the hard light of truth of Astley’s and Max’s deaths, and because of his fears for Alan Ross whom he liked, he, too, needed to pretend for a while.
Alan Ross did not enjoy the ball; the lights and the music gave him no pleasure. All he could see was Christina’s laughing face staring up at one man after another as she danced closely and easily in their arms. He turned and saw Augusta staring in the same direction. She was quite still. Her hand was resting on the balustrade of the staircase, and it was gripping so hard the