Paragon Walk - Anne Perry [57]
He would dearly like to have discovered something to the discredit of Afton Nash, as he found the man incredibly unpleasant. However, although none of the maids seemed to feel kindly toward him, there was not even the barest suggestion he had been in the least familiar with any.
As for Fulbert himself, there were whispers, suggestions, but since his disappearance even the mention of his name produced such hysteria that Pitt had no idea what to believe. The whole Walk seethed in overheated imagination. The mind-dulling monotony of daily chores that stretched from childhood to the grave was made bearable only by the penny romances and the giggling stories swapped in tiny attic bedrooms when the long day was done. Now murderers and lust-crazed seducers lurked in every shadow, and fear, half-desire, and reality were hopelessly entangled.
He did not expect Charlotte to learn anything of value at Emily’s party. He was convinced that the answer to the murders lay below stairs, far out of Charlotte’s or Emily’s reach, and all he said to her on the matter was in the nature of an exhortation to enjoy herself and a very firm command totally to mind her own business and make no inquiries or comments that might lead to anything but the most trivial of polite conversation.
She said, “Yes, Thomas,” very demurely, which, had he been less consumed in his own thoughts, would have struck him immediately as suspicious.
The soiree was a very formal affair, and Charlotte was totally swept off her feet with delight at the gown Emily had had made for her as a present. It was of yellow silk, and it fitted her perfectly and was quite ravishingly beautiful. She felt like sunshine itself as she swept in through the doorway, head high, face glowing. She was surprised when no more than half a dozen people turned to look at her; she quite expected the whole room to fall silent and stare. However, she was conscious that Paul Alaric was one of those few who did look. She saw his elegant black head turn from Selena to where she stood on the step. She knew the color burned up her cheeks, and she lifted her chin a little higher.
Emily came over to welcome her straightaway, and she was pulled into the crowd, which must have numbered fifty or more, and drawn into conversation. There was no opportunity for any private exchange. Emily gave her a long, straight look, which said very plainly that she was to behave herself and think before she spoke, and the moment after she was called away to welcome another guest.
“Emily has asked a young poet to come and read us some of his work,” Phoebe said with brittle cheerfulness. “I have heard it is most provoking. Let us hope we can understand it. It will give us food for much discussion.”
“I hope it is not vulgar,” Miss Lucinda said quickly. “Or erotic. Have you seen those quite dreadful drawings of Mr. Beardsley’s?”
Charlotte would like to have commented on Mr. Beardsley, but since she had never seen any of his drawings, or indeed heard of him, she could not.
“I cannot imagine Emily choosing someone without doing all that one can to assure that he is neither,” she replied, with an immediate edge to her voice. “Of course,” she went on, “one is not able to control what one’s guests say or do once they come, only to judge to the best of one’s ability whom to invite.”
“Of course.” Lucinda colored faintly. “I did not mean to imply anything but mischance.”
Charlotte remained cool.
“I believe he is political rather than romantic.”
“That should be interesting,” Miss Laetitia said hopefully. “I wonder if he has written anything about the poor or social reform?”
“I believe so.” Charlotte was pleased to have caught. Miss Laetitia’s interest. She rather liked her, especially since Vespasia had told her about the long past scandal. “They are the best things about which to try to stir people’s consciences,” she added.
“I’m sure we have nothing to be ashamed of!” It was a stout elderly lady who spoke, her body marvelously corsetted into a peacock-blue dress and her face