Rutland Place - Anne Perry [10]
“Thomas.” Charlotte looked up from her work and held the needle in the air.
He turned his head and hitched himself a little higher before his feet slipped over the fender. The light flickered and jumped warmly in its glowing brass.
“Yes?”
“I had a letter from Mama today,” she remarked casually. “She is distressed about the recent loss of a piece of jewelry.”
His eyes narrowed. He knew Charlotte a great deal better than she suspected.
“When you say ‘loss,’ I take it you do not mean that she misplaced it?” he inquired.
Charlotte hesitated. “I’m really not quite sure. She may have.” She picked up her work again to give herself time to arrange her words. She had not expected him to perceive quite so quickly. Actually, she had thought he was very nearly asleep.
After a moment or two she looked across at him and found his eyes bright and waiting, watching her through his lashes. She took a long breath and abandoned the idea of subtlety.
“It was a locket and there was a picture of somebody inside it,” she went on. “She would not say who, but I gathered it was someone whose presence she would prefer not to explain.” She smiled a little self-consciously. “Perhaps it was an old love, someone she knew before Papa?”
He straightened up and took his legs off the fender; his feet were getting hot and he would scorch his slippers if he was not careful.
“And she thinks someone has taken it?” he asked the obvious.
“Yes,” Charlotte said. “I think she does.”
“Any idea who?”
She shook her head. “If she has, she won’t say so. And of course if she were to report the loss, it would cause far more unpleasantness than even having it returned would be worth.”
Pitt needed no further explanation. He was perfectly familiar with Society’s feelings about having police in the house, with the attendant vulgarity. One reported a break-in, of course, and that was regrettable enough, but at least a break-in was an outside affair, a misfortune that could happen to anyone with goods worth the taking. Domestic crime was different; it was something that might involve the questioning, and resultant embarrassment, of one’s friends, and therefore resorting to the police was unthinkable.
“Does she expect you to play discreet detective?” he asked with a broad smile.
“I’m not a bad detective,” she said defensively. “In Paragon Walk I knew the truth before you did!” As soon as she had spoken, memory came back and brought with it ugliness and pain, and self-congratulation became ridiculous, almost indecent.
“That was murder,” he pointed out soberly. “And you nearly got yourself killed for your cleverness. You can hardly go around asking your mother’s friends, ‘Do you happen to have stolen Mama’s locket, and if so, would you please give it back unopened, because it contains some indiscretion, or a picture that might be interpreted as such.’ ”
“You’re not being very helpful!” Charlotte said crossly. “If I could have done it as easily as that, I wouldn’t have needed to ask you about it!”
He sat up straight and leaned forward to take her hand. “My darling, if it really does contain something private, then the less said about it the better. Leave it alone!”
She frowned. “It’s more than that, Thomas. She feels someone is watching her, and waiting!”
He screwed up his face. “You mean someone has already opened it and is waiting for an opportunity to apply a little blackmail?”
“Yes, I suppose I do.” Her fingers grasped around his. “It’s horrid, and I think she’s really quite frightened.”
“If I come in, it will only make it worse,” he said softly. “And I can’t officially anyway, unless she calls me.”
“I know.” Her fingers tightened.
“Charlotte, be careful. I know you mean well, but, my dear, you have a transparent face and a tongue about as subtle as an avalanche.”
“Oh, that’s unfair!” she protested, although