Seven Dials - Anne Perry [139]
“What situation?” Narraway interrupted.
“Illness,” she said. “Someone I had to nurse, a child or a parent? Or someone I had to protect, who might be hurt if I acted? Somebody implicated, maybe? A hostage to fortune of some kind.”
He nodded slowly, and turned to Pitt, his eyebrows raised.
“Only not knowing,” Pitt replied, and as he said it something tingled in his memory. “I knew of the fire, but the people I spoke to believed it was an accident, at least that is what they said. How did Ayesha learn that it wasn’t?”
Narraway’s face set hard. “That’s a very good question, Pitt, and one to which I would like the answer, but unfortunately I have no idea where to begin looking. There is a great deal about this I would like to know. For example, is Ayesha Zakhari the prime mover, or is she acting with or for someone else? Who else knows about the massacre, and why did they not expose it in Egypt? Why wait, and why in London?” His voice dropped a little and became tight and hard with emotion he barely kept in control. “And above all, is personal revenge all they want, or is this just the beginning?”
Neither Pitt nor Charlotte answered him. The question was too big, the answer too terrible.
Pitt put his arm around Charlotte’s shoulders, almost without thinking, and drew her closer to him, but there was nothing to say.
CHAPTER
TWELVE
VESPASIA WAS IN the withdrawing room, arranging white chrysanthemums and copper beech leaves floating in a flat Lalique dish, when she heard angry voices raised in the hall. She turned in surprise just as the door flew open and Ferdinand Garrick pushed past the maid and stood on the edge of the Aubusson carpet, his face suffused with anger and something close to despair.
“Good morning, Ferdinand,” she said coolly, indicating with a slight nod that the maid might leave. She would have put an edge of ice to it sufficient to stop the Prince of Wales in his tracks but for the reality of the emotion she recognized in him. It overrode all consideration of personal manners, even the deepening dislike she felt for him. “I gather that something is seriously wrong, and you believe that I may assist you.”
He was taken aback. He was quite aware of his almost unpardonable rudeness, and now that he thought of it, he had expected to meet with outraged dignity rather than any form of understanding. It robbed him momentarily of his assurance. He stood still, breathing hard. Even from across the space of the room she could see his chest rise and fall.
She broke off the last two flower stalks and floated the heads in the fan of leaves, then set the bowl on the low table. It was exquisite, as beautiful as when she did it with bloodred peonies in the summer.
“Tell me what it is that has happened,” she directed. “If you would care for tea I shall send for it, but perhaps it would only be an encumbrance now?”
He jerked his hand, dismissing the idea. “My son is in desperate danger from the same people who murdered young Lovat, and now your idiot policeman has kidnapped him and removed him from the only place where he was safe!” he accused, his eyes burning. His voice shook when he went on, and he was struggling to get his breath. “For God’s sake, tell them to leave it alone! They have no idea what they’re meddling with! The disaster will be . . .” The enormity of it defied his ability to describe, and he stared at her in helpless fury.
She could see that there was little purpose in attempting to reason with him; he felt too much panic rising towards a breaking point to listen to anything that seemed like argument.
“If it was indeed Pitt who removed your son, then we had better inform him of the danger,” she replied calmly. “At this hour in the morning I doubt if Pitt will be at home,