Long Spoon Lane - Anne Perry [99]
She looked hastily at the books in the glass-fronted case. They were old single volumes, not sets, and some of the bindings were worn. She guessed they had been bought individually, to read, rather than en masse to furnish the room, as some people did. The titles were varied, mostly studies in history, especially Middle Eastern and North African, including the rise of ancient civilizations. There were histories of Egypt, Phoenicia, Persia, and what was once Babylon.
In the next case, she was surprised to see poetry and several novels, including translations from Russian and Italian, also German poetry and philosophy. Voisey’s own books, or his father’s?
How much did she know about Charles Voisey? What emptiness lay behind his hunger for power?
Not that it mattered to her. Nothing excused his threatening Pitt. She might even be sorry for him; it was not inconceivable. But she still would do anything within her ability to protect those she loved.
The door opened and Voisey came in. He looked pale and exhausted. He was shaved and neatly dressed, but there was something gone from his usual composure.
“Good morning, Mrs. Pitt,” he said, closing the door behind him. There was a shadow of anxiety in his face now as he searched her eyes, her expression. She realized with an odd sense of irony that he was afraid something had happened to Pitt—he still needed him.
“Good morning, Sir Charles,” she replied. “I hope you managed to sleep, after your ordeal?”
Something inside him eased a little. He had no idea why she had come, but it was obviously not with news of further tragedy. “Yes, thank you. How is Mr. Pitt?”
It was an absurd conversation of niceties. They were temporary allies in a cause, and underneath it bitter enemies. Pitt could destroy Voisey, be happy to see him in prison for the rest of his life, or even at the end of a rope. Voisey would not have hesitated to kill Pitt, with his own hands, if he could do it and escape the price. He had been behind what had seemed to be an attempt not only on Charlotte’s life, but her children’s as well, and Gracie’s.
“Tired, but quite well,” she answered his inquiry. “But I imagine he will not forget being trapped in that boat, with the water coming in. And I expect you will not either.”
“No.” In spite of his attempt at calm, he shivered very slightly. A flash of annoyance passed over his face, because he knew she must have seen it. “What may I do for you, Mrs. Pitt?”
She was not ready to be quite so direct, not for a moment or two. “How is your sister, Sir Charles? I remember her as being charming, and most individual.”
There was a warmth in his face, a softening, in spite of his tiredness, and his concern as to why Charlotte was here. “She is well, thank you. Why do you ask, Mrs. Pitt? You did not come here, at this hour, to ask after my welfare, or hers.”
She smiled. She had rattled him, just a little.
“Obliquely, perhaps,” she answered. “My inquiry was not without purpose.”
“Indeed.” He was skeptical.
“I am very glad she is well,” she continued. “And happy, I hope?”
His irritation was mounting.
Her smile vanished. “My purpose, Sir Charles, is to make it most clear to you that her welfare depends upon that of my husband. It is a trifle indelicate to put it so bluntly, but I can see that you are growing impatient with indirectness.” She saw the surprise in his face, a momentary lack of understanding. “I hope you have not forgotten the Reverend Rae? He was a very fine man indeed, much loved.” She held his eyes with a steady, unflinching stare. There was no pretense between them now. “His death was a tragedy,” she continued. “I can imagine that the verdict of accidental death might be true, in so far as Mrs. Cavendish