Silence in Hanover Close - Anne Perry [142]
Then she understood. Of course: everyone had said Cerise was thin, nearly flat-chested, and Charlotte was rather well endowed. Even with a tight dress and unflattering camisole she still could not pass for the elegant leanness Cerise was said to have.
“Who are you?” he said very quietly.
“Who did you think I was, when you came?” She had thought of that question long before.
His smile was ghastly. “I had no idea. I never imagined you were whom you pretend to be.”
“Then why did you come?” It was a challenge.
“To see why you wanted me, of course! If you’ve blackmail in mind, you’re a fool! You’re risking your life for a few pounds.”
“I don’t want money!” she said sharply. “I want—” She stopped. He was close to her now, so close she could have lifted her hand and touched his cheek. But she was still in so deep a shadow that he had not recognized her. There was someone else in the doorway, someone motionless with horror, and yet with such a passion of jealousy in her face she might truly have seen hell in the quietly dripping leaves and the two figures standing almost touching each other, and that harsh, incandescent, outrageous dress.
Loretta York. Garrard turned very slowly and saw her. He did not look embarrassed, as Charlotte had expected, nor ashamed. The wretchedness in his face was fear—and worse than that, a kind of revulsion.
Water slid off the leaves and landed on the lily petals with a faint plink. All three of them stood motionless.
At last Loretta gave a little shudder and turned on her heel and went out.
Garrard looked at Charlotte, or rather at the gloom where she stood. His voice was hoarse, he had to make two attempts at speaking.
“Wha—what do you want?”
“Nothing. Leave. Go back to the party,” she hissed.
He hesitated, peering at her, unsure whether to believe her or not, and she retreated, almost backing into the palm.
“Go back to the party!” she whispered fiercely. “Go back!”
His relief was flickering, but he did not wait: all he wanted was to escape. A moment later she stood alone in the conservatory. She tiptoed to the door and looked out. There was no one in the hall, not even Emily. Should she risk running upstairs now, or wait until Emily gave her the signal? Perhaps this emptiness was the signal? If Albert came back it would be too late.
She was at the foot of the stairs without having made a conscious decision. It was too late to go back. She picked up the magenta taffeta of her skirt and ran up as fast as she could. Please heaven there would be no one on the landing, nor anyone on the stairs leading to the servants quarters.
She got to the top, breathless, her heart pounding. The narrow passage was deserted, nothing but doors on either side. Which one was Emily’s? Hellfire! She had completely forgotten! Panic rose inside her. If anyone came she would have to dive for the nearest room and hope it was empty.
There were footsteps on the stairs now! She scuttled to the door, turned the handle, and pushed it. She was only just inside when the footsteps reached the top. She waited. If they came in here there was nothing at all she could do. Frantically she looked around for something to hit them with. She could not be hauled downstairs like a common housebreaker!
“Charlotte! Charlotte, where are you?”
Relief nearly made her sick. She felt heat and icy cold rush over her, prickling on her skin. She pulled the door open with shaking hands.
“I’m here!”
Ten minutes later she was downstairs in the withdrawing room again, her hair a trifle disheveled; that was easily explained by saying that she had been lying down, and yes thank you, she was quite recovered now. She remained fairly quiet, not wanting to risk the amazing luck she had had so far. Her hands still trembled a little and her mind was crowded with anything but stupid conversation.
The party broke up early, as though by common consent. By quarter to eleven Charlotte was sitting beside Jack in the carriage, telling him about