Paragon Walk - Anne Perry [36]
“I am not experienced in them,” she replied. “I have no idea what they usually are.”
If Algernon had any understanding of the ambiguity in her words, he did not betray it.
“Mrs. Pitt, may I present Monsieur Paul Alaric,” he said easily. “I don’t believe you have met? Mrs. Pitt is Lady Ashworth’s sister,” he added by way of explanation.
Alaric bowed very slightly.
“I am well aware who Mrs. Pitt is.” His smile removed any discourtesy from his words. “Did you imagine such a person could visit the Walk and not be talked of? I’m sorry it is a tragic occasion that has afforded us the opportunity to meet you.”
It was ridiculous, but she found herself coloring under his calm gaze. For all his grace, he was unusually direct, as if his intelligence could penetrate the polite, rather empty mask of her face and see all the confused feelings behind. There was nothing unkind in his stare, only curiosity and faint amusement.
She pulled herself together sharply. She must be very tired from the heat and all this mourning to be so stupid.
“How do you do, Monsieur Alaric,” she said stiffly. Then, because that did not seem enough. “Yes, it is unfortunate that it frequently takes tragedy to rearrange our lives.”
His mouth curled in the slightest, most delicate smile.
“Are you going to rearrange my life, Mrs. Pitt?”
The heat scorched up her face. Please heaven, the veil would hide it.
“You—you misunderstand me, monsieur, I meant the tragedy. Our meeting can hardly be of importance.”
“How modest of you, Mrs. Pitt,” Selena drifted up, wafting black chiffon behind her, her face bright. “I judged from your marvelous gown that you had imagined otherwise. Do they always wear lavender for mourning where you come from? Of course, it is easier to wear than black!”
“Why, thank you,” Charlotte forced a smile and feared it might be more like bared teeth. She looked Selena up and down. “Yes, I imagine it is. I’m sure you would find it flattering, too.”
“I do not go around from funeral to funeral, Mrs. Pitt, only to those of people I know,” Selena snapped back with tart meaning. “I don’t imagine I shall be requiring it again before this style has gone quite out of fashion.”
“Sort of ‘one funeral per Season,’” Charlotte murmured. Why did she dislike this woman so much? Was it only an identification with Emily’s fears, or some instinct of her own?
Jessamyn moved toward them, pale but entirely composed. Alaric turned toward her, and a look of venom momentarily hardened Selena’s face before she mastered it and ironed it out. She spoke quickly, preempting Alaric.
“Dear Jessamyn, what a terrible ordeal for you. You must be devastated, and you have comported yourself so well. The whole affair has been so dignified.”
“Thank you,” Jessamyn took the glass Alaric handed her from a waiting footman’s tray and sipped at it delicately. “Poor Fanny is at rest. But I find it hard to accept it as I suppose one should. It seems so monstrously unjust. She was such a child, so innocent. She did not even know how to flirt! Why her, of all people?” Her eyelids lowered slightly over her wide, cool eyes, and she did not quite look at Selena, but some minute gesture of her shoulder, an arch in her body, seemed addressed to her. “There are other people so—so much more—likely!”
Charlotte stared at her. The hatred between the two women was so tangible she could not believe Paul Alaric was unaware of it. He stood elegantly, with a slight smile, and made some innocuous answer, but surely he must feel as uncomfortable as she did? Or did he enjoy it? Was he flattered, excited to be fought over? The thought hurt her; she wanted him to be above such a demeaning vanity, to be embarrassed by it, as she was.
Then another thought occurred to her as Jessamyn’s words sank in, “... other people so much more likely.” That was a dig at Selena, of course, but could it have been precisely Fanny’s innocence that had attracted the rapist? Perhaps he was tired and bored with sophisticated women who were only