Silence in Hanover Close - Anne Perry [13]
“But how can we find ourselves in a position to observe these people?” he said seriously. “You haven’t told me who they are—but regardless of that, Emily, you cannot introduce yourself into Society again for some time.” His face tightened, and for an unpleasant moment she feared she saw pity in his eyes. She might have accepted pity from someone else, but coming from Jack it grated surprisingly, like an abrasion of the skin.
“I know I can’t!” she said, and instantly regretted the tartness in her voice, and yet was unable to stop it. “But Charlotte can, and then we can discuss it together. At least, she can if you will be prepared to help her.”
He smiled a little ruefully. “I am very good at scraping an acquaintance. Who are they?”
She looked up at his face, trying to read his expression. His eyelashes still shadowed his cheek the way she remembered. How many other women had thought precisely the same thing? Really, this was the utmost foolishness. Charlotte was right; she needed some occupation for her mind, before it became completely addled!
“The man who was murdered was Robert York,” she said briskly. “The widow is Mrs. Veronica York, of Hanover Close.” She stopped. He was smiling broadly.
“Not difficult at all,” he said confidently. “I used to know her. In fact . . .” He hesitated, apparently uncertain how indiscreet to be.
Emily felt a stab of jealousy that was quite uncharacteristic. She knew it was extremely silly; she was thoroughly aware of his reputation. And anyway, she was a woman who had never cherished delusions. She knew perfectly well that men held themselves accountable to quite a different set of standards from those they expected of women. It was only necessary never to be so flagrant that others could not affect ignorance; what they suspected was irrelevant. All realistic people knew as much. Judicious blindness was the only way to preserve peace of mind. But it was a standard Emily was becoming increasingly impatient with, even though she knew her feelings were foolish, and highly impractical.
“Did you part in a manner which would allow you to take up the acquaintance again?” she said crisply.
His face fell. “Certainly!”
She looked down, not wanting him to guess at any emotion in her, certainly nothing as unattractive as the truth.
“Then will you? With Charlotte? As you say, it would be impossible for me.”
“Of course,” he said slowly, and she knew he was looking at her. “But will Pitt approve? And I can hardly introduce her as a policeman’s wife. We’ll have to think of something better.”
“Thomas won’t have to know. She can come here first, borrow one of my dresses, and go as . . .” She searched her imagination. “As a cousin of yours up from the country. A close cousin, so it will not be in the least improper for you to accompany her without a chaperone.”
“Will she agree to that?” There was already interest in his voice, and not the incredulity he might have felt towards someone else. Perhaps he was remembering Cardington Crescent.
“Oh yes,” Emily said with intense determination. “Certainly she will.”
Two days later, handsomely dressed in one of Emily’s winter gowns adapted from last season—she had bought nothing but black this winter—Charlotte found herself in a smart carriage bowling along Park Lane towards Hanover Close, with Jack Radley beside her. He had called at the York house immediately upon parting from Emily. He left his card and asked if he might introduce to them his cousin, Miss Elisabeth Barnaby, who was newly come up from the country after nursing her aunt through a long and distressing illness, from which she was at last mercifully recovered. Now Miss Barnaby was in need of a little diversion, and for this reason Jack had presumed on an old acquaintance, in the hope he might introduce her.
The reply had been brief, but perfectly civil, quite enough upon which to call.
Charlotte pulled the rug tighter round her knees. The carriage was bitterly