Paragon Walk - Anne Perry [59]
“To the purpose that it is good for our souls to give away a little, so that we may enjoy what we have, and still sleep easily at night, because we can then tell ourselves we have tried, we have done our bit! Never, my dear, in the hope that anything will actually change!”
Charlotte felt the color sweep up her face. She had had no idea at all that Paul Alaric was so close and had heard her opinionated baiting of Afton and Miss Lucinda. She did not look at him.
“How very cynical, Monsieur Alaric.” She swallowed. “Do you believe we are all such hypocrites?”
“We?” his voice rose very slightly. “Do you go to Church and feel better for it, Mrs. Pitt?”
She was caught in complete indecision. Certainly, she did not. Sermons in church, on the rare occasions she went, made her squirm with anger and a desire to argue. But she could not say so to Afton Nash and hope to be even remotely understood. And it would only hurt Phoebe. Damn Alaric for making a hypocrite of her.
“Of course I do,” she lied, watching Phoebe’s face. The anxiety ironed out of it, and she was immediately rewarded. She had nothing in common with Phoebe, and yet she felt an ache of pity for her every time her plain, pale face came to mind. Perhaps it was only because she imagined all the hurt Afton could do with his hard, thrusting tongue.
She turned to face Alaric and was shaken all over again by the humor in his eyes and the precise understanding of what she had said and why. Did he know she was not one of the rich, that she was married to a policeman and had barely enough to make ends meet, that her beautiful dress was a gift from Emily? And that the whole argument about giving to the poor was academic for her?
There was nothing but a charming smile on his face.
“If you will excuse me,” Afton said stiffly. He almost pulled away Phoebe, who walked beside him as if her limbs were bruised and weak.
“A generous lie,” Alaric said gently.
Charlotte was not listening to him. Her mind was on Phoebe, and the painful, almost distant way in which she walked, holding herself in from Afton’s touch. Was it just years of hurt; the instinctive withdrawal, as the burnt hand moves away from fire? Or did she know something new, perhaps only by instinct as yet? Was some memory stirring within her of a change in Afton, a lie remembered now, maybe something between him and Fanny—no, that was too obscene to think of! And yet it was not impossible! Perhaps in the dark he had not even known who it was, simply a woman to hurt. And he loved inflicting pain, that she knew herself as surely as any animal knows its predator by sight and smell. Did Phoebe know it, too? Was that why she walked afraid on the landing of her own house and called for the footman in the night?
Alaric was still waiting, composed, but a pucker of question between his brows. She had forgotten what he had said and was obliged to ask.
“I beg your pardon?”
“A most generous lie,” he repeated.
“Lie?”
“To say that you feel better for going to church. I cannot believe it was the truth. You have not the enchantment of mystery, Mrs. Pitt. You are an open book. All your fascination lies in wondering what devastating truth you will deliver next. I doubt you could lie successfully, even to yourself!”
What did he mean by that? She preferred not to think. Honesty was her only skill, and her only safety against him.
“The success of the lie depends a great deal upon how much the hearer wishes to believe it,” she replied.
He smiled very slowly, very sweetly.
“And therein lies the entire foundation of Society,” he agreed. “How terrifyingly perceptive of you. You had better not tell anyone else. You will ruin the whole game, and then what will there be left for them to do?”
She swallowed hard and refused to meet his eyes. With great care, she took the conversation back to the previous point.
“I lie very well, sometimes!”
“Which returns me to the sermons in church, does it not? The comfortable lies we repeat