The Cater Street Hangman - Anne Perry [16]
At quarter to four they were all sitting in the withdrawing room, the sun shining in across the floor, the first roses blooming outside. Lord Ashworth and Mr. and Miss Decker were expected at any moment. Sarah sat rather primly on the piano stool, playing something nondescript; Emily was sufficiently practiced herself to know she was playing it badly. Emily was singing inside with anticipation. Caroline sat in the best hardbacked chair, as if already preparing to pour the tea which was not yet served. Charlotte alone seemed unaffected. But then, of course, Charlotte never had had the sense to know what was important.
Emily herself was very composed. She had already done everything she could to prepare; all that remained now was to play each phrase, each glance, as it came.
They arrived precisely on time, and were shown in with a flurry of introductions. They all sat down and began the usual ritual of small talk. Only George Ashworth looked totally comfortable.
A giggling and rather flushed Dora brought in their tea: all Mrs. Dunphy’s most elegant sandwiches, little butterfly cakes, and others that defied category. Everything was served with even more than usual ceremony.
“Emily told us about the race meeting,” Caroline said conversationally, proffering the sandwiches to Ashworth. “It sounds quite fascinating. I have been on only two occasions myself, and they were both some time ago, and in Yorkshire. London races are most fashionable, I hear. Do tell us more about them? Do you go often?”
Emily hoped he would be discreet, partly because she had told her mother very little about the races, and even that little had been definitely slanted, a strong accent on fashion, and nothing whatsoever about the gambling touts, the pickpockets, those who had taken more refreshment than was good for them, and those who she now realized were of the same basic occupation as the lady of the elegant riding habit in Rotten Row. Please heaven, George would have the sense to pick and choose his recollections also.
George smiled.
“I’m afraid there are not so very many race meetings that it would be possible to go more than two or three times a month, Mrs. Ellison. And not all of them are worth bothering with—not the sort of thing I enjoy, and certainly not for ladies.”
“Do ladies not attend all of them?” Sarah asked curiously. “You mean they are for men only?”
“Not at all, Mrs. Corde. I used the term ‘ladies’ to distinguish from the various other females who do attend, for their own reasons.”
Sarah opened her mouth, interest lighting her face, then remembered her propriety and closed it again. Emily caught Charlotte’s eye with amusement. They all knew Sarah’s love of the socially correct. Charlotte said it for her.
“You mean women of no virtue?” she said frankly. “The demimonde, I think they call it?”
George’s smile broadened.
“They do indeed, among other things,” he agreed. “There are the race-goers, and those who follow the race-goers, and those who follow the followers. Horse traders, gamblers, and I’m afraid thieves.”
Caroline frowned.
“Oh dear. It does not sound as pleasant a place as I had imagined.”
“Race meetings vary as much as people, Mrs. Ellison,” George said easily, reaching for another sandwich. “I was explaining why I do not attend certain of them.”
Caroline relaxed.
“Of course. I was concerned about Emily; unnecessarily, it seems. I hope you understand?”
“It would hardly become you to do less. But I assure you, I would not dream of taking Emily anywhere I would not be happy to see my own sister.”
“I didn’t know you had a sister?” Caroline was suddenly interested again; and so, from the looks on their faces, were the Deckers.
“Lady Carson,” George said easily.
“We should be most delighted to meet her. You must bring her to visit us,” Mr. Decker said quickly.
“I’m afraid she lives in Cumberland.” George dismissed his sister with equal ease. “She very seldom comes to London.”
“Carson?” Decker would not let