Death in the Devil's Acre - Anne Perry [94]
He wanted to run away, to exist in some fantasy land where he could be with Charlotte, talk with her, see her face, touch her, learn to share a multitude of things.
No doubt Alan Ross would like to be in just such a place, with someone clean and generous. But he understood duty, and so far he had found the courage to fulfill it.
Balantyne sat quite still. His mind fumbled for something to say, anything that would let Ross know that he was not alone; that, far from pity, he felt the most intense admiration for him, and a regard that was perhaps as close to love as one man comes for another. But no words were right; they had all been used too lightly. None of them conveyed the reality of the pain.
The two men sat for a long time, the untouched sherry decanter between them, the logs settling in the hearth. Finally, Balantyne stood up. Christina would doubtless soon be arriving home, and he did not wish to see her.
His goodbyes were trivial, the same things he always said, and Ross gave the same replies. But once, as they shook hands, he had the feeling for a moment that perhaps the unsaid things had been understood after all—at least the good things. And there would be other times, other chances to show a gentleness, to allow Ross to perceive that he cared, not blindly, but because he suffered some of the same loneliness, the same ties to duty that would destroy him if he let them go.
“Good afternoon, sir,” Ross said with a faint smile. “Thank you for calling.”
“Good afternoon, Alan. Pleasure to see you.”
Neither of them mentioned the women. There was no message, no regards.
Balantyne turned and walked away into the sharp winter afternoon. He had not brought the carriage. He preferred the isolation and the exercise, the wind hard on his face, and it would take longer to get home.
10
CHARLOTTE DID NOT TELL Pitt that she had been to see General Balantyne again. In fact, she had not specifically told him of any of her visits, although she knew he was aware of them. Since he had been brought back from the hospital, white-faced, his clothes soaked with blood, she had realized he wanted to catch the Devil’s Acre murderer so desperately that he would take clumsy risks. She still went cold at the thought of how nearly the risks had cost him his life. It was something she normally refused to think about—the chance of his being injured, or even killed. To dwell on it was too frightening, and there was nothing she could do to alter it.
She knew he disapproved very strongly of her becoming involved in the case in any way, even so peripherally as visiting the Balantynes. And, to tell the truth, she felt some guilt because she had enjoyed the glamour of wearing Emily’s dresses, of swirling around in great spaces full of lights and music and brilliant colors. It was wonderful to show off—just a little!
She very honestly liked General Balantyne. That was the worst and most thoughtless thing she had done. She had never considered that he might really feel anything deeper for her than a return of her friendship. Naturally, she had wanted him to admire her, to think her beautiful and exciting; she simply had not believed that he would.
But this time she had seen in his face that soft, intensely personal gaze, unwavering and peculiarly naked. She knew it was no longer a social game to be stepped into or out of as the occasion suited.
Of course she could not tell Pitt; it was out of the question. When he came in that night tired and cold, his side so sore he moved stiffly, she brought his supper through to the parlor for him on a tray and waited in silence while he ate.
At last her curiosity and anxiety overcame good sense and, as usual, her tongue won. “Do you know anything yet to connect all the victims?” she asked, trying to sound casual.
He gave her a skeptical look and pushed the tray away. “Thank you, that was very good.”
She waited.
“No!” he