Farriers' Lane - Anne Perry [107]
“To whom?” Kathleen was totally lost.
“Mr. Disraeli, my dear,” O’Neil explained. “I think Miss Pitt is teasing us.”
“I never doubted they were clever.” Adah fixed Charlotte with a bright, brittle glance. “But that does not mean we wish to have them in our homes.” She gave a convulsive little shudder, very tiny, but of a revulsion so intense as to be akin to fear.
Kathleen looked at Charlotte with apology in her eyes.
“I am sorry, Miss Pitt. I am sure Grandmama did not mean that as distastefully as it may have seemed. All sorts of people are most welcome in our house, if they are friends—and I hope you will consider yourself a friend.”
“I should like to very much,” Charlotte said quickly, grasping the chance. “It is most generous of you to ask, especially in view of my remarks, which were in less than the best of judgment, I admit. I tend to speak from the heart, and not from the head. I so enjoyed the pianist I rushed to his defense where I am sure it was quite unnecessary.”
Kathleen smiled. “I do understand,” she said softly, so her grandmother would not hear. “He momentarily transformed me onto a higher plane, and made me think of all manner of noble things. That is not entirely the composer’s art, it is his also. He gave voice to the dreams.”
“How well you put it. I shall most certainly continue your acquaintance, if I may,” Charlotte said, with sincerity as well as the desire to know more of Kingsley Blaine, and what manner of man he had been. Had he truly intended to leave this seemingly warm and impulsive woman for Tamar Macaulay, and knowing the cost that would be to him? Or had he simply been weak, and in indulging his physical passions placed himself in a situation where he could not bring himself to leave either of them? How extraordinary that two such women should have loved him so deeply. He must have had a unique charm. It was growing increasingly important that she find a way to see him as objectively as possible, through the eyes of someone not so blinded by love. Perhaps if she visited the home of Kathleen O’Neil she might have a further opportunity to speak with Prosper Harrimore. His face was shrewd, guarded. Kingsley Blaine had been the father of his grandchild, but she imagined a man such as he was would not be easily hoodwinked by charm. His eyes on Devlin O’Neil suggested an ability to stand back, an affection not without judgment. He might be the key to a less emotional view, a perception that would see danger and weakness as well.
The pianist returned and the second half of the evening’s entertainment commenced, and for its duration Charlotte forgot all about Kingsley Blaine, his family, or the death of Samuel Stafford. The passionate, lyrical, universal voice of human experience took over and she allowed herself to be swept up by it and carried wherever it took her.
Afterwards the O’Neils and the Harrimores had become engaged in conversation with other acquaintances. Prosper was deep in discussion with a man who had the portentous air of a merchant banker, and Adah was listening with acute attention to a thin, elderly woman who was holding forth at some length and would brook no interruption. Once Charlotte caught Kathleen’s eye and smiled, receiving a flash of humor and understanding in return, but other than that solitary instance, Charlotte and Clio left without further encountering them.
Micah Drummond stood in his office staring out of the window down at the street where two men were haggling over something. It was latched against the blustery evening, and the rain beginning to splash now and then against the pane, so he could not hear their voices. It all seemed far away, divorced from any reality that mattered, and of less and less importance to him. He was forced to admit, the death of Samuel Stafford was rapidly becoming the same.
He should care. Stafford had been a good man, conscientious, honorable, diligent. And even if he had not, no decent person could condone murder. His brain told him he should be outraged, and in some