Rutland Place - Anne Perry [39]
Charlotte had begun to wonder the same thing, especially in view of Tormod’s decision to take her away from Rutland Place into the country, where Pitt could not easily question her.
“Indeed,” she said noncommittally. “Confidences are always a most difficult matter when there is strong reason to believe it might be morally right to divulge what you know. The burden is even heavier if the person who entrusted you is dead, and therefore cannot release you. One cannot envy anyone so placed. If that indeed is the case. We must not leap to conclusions and risk spreading gossip.” She flashed Amaryllis a freezing smile. “That would be quite irresponsible. It may simply be that Eloise is more compassionate than we are. I am very sorry, but I did not know Mrs. Spencer-Brown very well.” She left the implication in the air.
Amaryllis did not miss it. “Quite. And some of us display our emotions while others prefer to keep a certain reserve—a dignity as befits the death of a friend. After all, one does not wish to become the center of attention. It is poor Mina who is dead, not one of us!”
Charlotte smiled more widely, feeling as if she were baring her teeth.
“How sensitive of you, Mrs. Denbigh. I am sure you will be a great comfort to everyone. I am charmed to have met you.” They had come to Amaryllis’ gateway.
“How kind,” Amaryllis answered. “I’m sure I enjoyed it also.” She turned and, lifting her skirts, climbed the steps.
“Charlotte!” Caroline said sharply under her breath. “Really! Sometimes I am quite embarrassed for you. I thought now that you were married you might have improved a little!”
“I have improved,” Charlotte replied as she walked. “I lie much better. I used to fumble before, and now I can smile as well as anyone, and lie through my teeth. I can’t bear that woman!”
“So I gathered!” Caroline said dryly.
“Neither can you.”
“No, but I manage to keep it under considerably better control!”
Charlotte gave her a look that was unreadable, and stepped off the pavement to cross the road.
Then, suddenly, she noticed the lean, elegant figure of a man coming out of a gateway on the far side of the street. Even before he turned she knew him, knew the straight back, the grace of his head, the way his coat sat upon his shoulders. It was Paul Alaric, the Frenchman from Paragon Walk about whom everyone thought so much and actually knew so little.
He walked over to them easily, a half smile on his face, and raised his hat. His eyes met Charlotte’s with a widening of surprise, and then a flash that might have been pleasure or amusement—or even only the courtesy of remembering a most agreeable acquaintance with whom one had shared profound emotions of danger and pity. But naturally he spoke to Caroline first, since she was the elder woman.
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Ellison.” His voice was exactly as Charlotte had remembered: soft, the pronunciation exquisitely correct, more beautiful than that of most men for whom English was their mother tongue.
Caroline stood in the middle of the road, her skirt still held in her hand. She swallowed before she spoke, and her voice was rather high.
“Good afternoon, Monsieur Alaric. A very pleasant day. I don’t think you have met my daughter Mrs. Pitt.”
For an instant he hesitated, his eyes meeting Charlotte’s very directly while a host of memories flashed through her mind—memories of fear and conflicting passions. Then he bowed very slightly, the decision made.
“How do you do, Mrs. Pitt.”
“I am quite well, thank you, Monsieur,” she replied levelly. “Although I was distressed at the tragedy that has so recently happened.”
“Mrs. Spencer-Brown.” His face wiped clean of polite trivia and his voice dropped. “Yes. I’m afraid I can think of no answer which is not tragic. I have been struggling within myself to find any reason for such an ugly and useless thing to have happened, and I cannot.”
Compulsion drove Charlotte to pursue it, even though good taste might have demanded that she say something sympathetic and