Silence in Hanover Close - Anne Perry [139]
“I should have to say you’d taken leave of your wits,” he agreed with a very twisted grin. “But better that than dead—and whoever it is has already killed three times.”
Her laughter suddenly stopped, becoming tight in her throat. Bitter tears sprang to her eyes.
“It will be four, with Thomas,” she said.
She made her assignations by letter, using as few words as possible, and leaving them unsigned. She had no idea what Cerise’s handwriting looked like, nor what her real name was. She used expensive notepaper, wrote only the time and place, and instead of sealing the letters in an envelope, she tied each one with a broad piece of ribbon in a vivid, almost painful magenta. It was the best she could do.
Emily had written to her banker and provided money so Charlotte could purchase the dress and the wig, and Jack had taken them to Hanover Close, posing as a coalman this time and carrying coke inside to the kitchen for them. How he arranged it Charlotte never knew, and she was too preoccupied with her own preparations to ask.
That evening she dressed in a very simple smoke gray and white gown of Emily’s, judiciously let out by Emily’s maid. It was not nearly as flattering on Charlotte with her darker complexion and mahogany hair as it had been on Emily’s apple-blossom fairness, but it had the one merit Charlotte was looking for now: it was very easy to get in and out of. She dressed her hair with the minimum of fuss, so it could be squashed flat under a wig without removing a hundred pins first. The result did not make her look her most attractive, but it could not be helped. Jack was tactful enough to refrain from commenting, although his face registered slight surprise, quickly replaced by a smile and a wink.
They arrived at Hanover Close a few minutes late, as was the acceptable thing to do, and were handed down from the carriage onto the icy pavement. Charlotte took Jack’s arm up the steps and into the lighted hall. As the door was closed behind them she felt a moment’s panic, then forced herself to think of Pitt, and said rather too effusively, “Good evening, Mrs. York, how kind of you to invite us.”
“Good evening, Miss Barnaby,” Loretta replied with far less enthusiasm. “I hope you are well? Our city winter is not disagreeing with you?”
Only just in time Charlotte remembered that she was going to be taken ill after dinner. She chose her words carefully. “I do find it—a trifle different. There is a very little pleasure walking in the streets here, and the snow seems to get dirty so quickly.”
Loretta’s eyebrows rose in faint surprise. “Indeed? I have never considered walking.”
“It is very good for the health.” Charlotte managed to sound agreeable without actually smiling.
In the withdrawing room Veronica was standing by the hearth in a very fine gown of black and white, looking considerably more composed than the last time they had met. She welcomed Charlotte with what seemed like genuine pleasure, especially when she saw her very indifferent gray gown.
The usual greetings followed and Charlotte was relieved to see that everyone the plan required was present: Harriet looking pale; Aunt Adeline in an unfortunate dress of vivid brown, which made her eyes the more startling; Loretta in salmon pink, her bodice stitched with pearls at once individual and utterly feminine. But far more important, the men were there: Julian Danver, smiling with candid directness; Garrard Danver, elegant, more elusive than his son, quick of wit, and she thought perhaps more original. Piers York was there as well, welcoming her with the sincerity that is a mixture of long practice and genuine awareness of privilege and its responsibilities. Good manners were as natural to him as rising early, or eating all the food on his plate. He had been taught them in the nursery and now they were ineradicable.
With Jack’s help, Charlotte devoted her mind to