The Cater Street Hangman - Anne Perry [13]
Charlotte, of course, was entirely another matter. Emily could not see Charlotte being nearly so easily settled. She was both far too unaccommodating in her nature—no man liked an argumentative woman—and far too impractical in her own desires. She wished for the most awkward and, in the long run, unrewarding attributes in a man. Emily had tried to speak to her regarding her ambitions, to point out that financial means and social standing, coupled with acceptable appearance and behaviour that was at any rate well-mannered, were all one could reasonably expect—indeed, were a very great deal more than most girls ever achieved. But Charlotte refused to be persuaded, or seriously to acknowledge that she even understood.
But today none of that mattered. Emily was at the race meeting with Lord George Ashworth and Miss Decker and some young man she barely noticed. He was of infinitely less promise than Ashworth, and therefore not to be considered at the moment.
The first race was already over, and George had won very nicely on it. He claimed to know the owner of the animal, which made the whole venture even more exciting. Emily paraded along the close grass, parasol in hand, luxuriating in an air of great superiority. She was on the arm of a member of the aristocracy, and an uncommonly handsome one. She looked both fashionable and lovely, and she knew it. And she had inside information on the winner of the previous race. What more could anyone ask? She was of the elite.
The second race was a smaller affair, but the third was the big event of the meeting. The crowd began to buzz in excitement, like a swarm of bees disturbed. The swirls of movement grew more violent as people elbowed their way towards bookmakers, calling odds, trying to induce higher and higher wagers. Men in elegant and rakish clothes laughed loudly, as fistfuls of money changed hands.
Once, while Ashworth was talking about horses’ legs, good heart, jockeys’ skill, and other things she did not understand, Emily observed an incident she could merely stare at, transfixed. A portly gentleman, somewhat red in the face, was chuckling to himself over his good fortune, clutching a note in his hand. He took one or two steps forward, moving towards a sallow man in dark clothes, lugubrious as an undertaker.
“Lose, old fellow?” the stout man asked cheerfully. “Never mind, better luck with this one! Can’t lose ’em all. Keep at it, I say,” and he gave a broad chuckle.
The thin man looked at him with polite dismay.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but were you addressing me?” His voice was quite soft. Had Emily been less close she would not have caught the words.
“You look as if misfortune has visited you,” the stout man went on heartily. “Happens to the best of us. Keep trying, I say.”
“Indeed, sir. I assure you I have had no misfortune.”
“Ah,” the stout man grinned and winked. “Not wanting to admit it, eh?”
“I assure you, sir—”
The stout man laughed and clapped the other on the arm. At that moment a stranger missed his footing and staggered sideways, cannoning into the stout man. He in turn fell forward almost into the arms of the sallow man in the mourning clothes. The man put out both hands to steady the sudden weight, or to fend it off. There were profuse apologies all round, and an attempt at straightening clothes. The ill-footed stranger muttered something, then apparently saw an acquaintance in the distance, and still talking, took himself off. A smart young woman materialized next to the dark man and begged him to come immediately and witness some good fortune of hers, while