Treason at Lisson Grove - Anne Perry [126]
“I’m sorry,” she said quickly.
Hell, he swore to himself. He had not been quick enough.
“I know it’s serious,” she went on, apparently meaning something quite different.
A wave of relief swept over him, and, perversely, of disappointment. Did some part of him want her to know? If so, it must be suppressed. It would create a difficulty between them that could never be forgotten.
“Yes,” he agreed.
“Will you go to Lisson Grove?” Now she sounded anxious.
“No. I’d rather they didn’t even know I was back in England, and certainly not where.” He saw the relief in her face. “There’s only one person I dare trust totally, and that is Vespasia Cumming-Gould. I shall get off the train one or two stops before London and find a telephone. If I’m lucky I’ll be able to get hold of her straightaway. It’ll be long after dark by then. If not, I’ll find rooms and wait there until I can.”
His voice dropped to a more urgent note. “You should go home. You won’t be in any danger. Or else you could go to Vespasia’s house, if you prefer. Perhaps you should wait and see what she says.” He realized as he spoke that he had no idea what had happened to Pitt, even if he was safe. To send Charlotte back to a house with no one there but a strange maid was possibly a cruel thing to do. She had said before that her sister Emily was away somewhere, similarly her mother. God! What a mess. But if anything had happened to Pitt, no one would be able to comfort her. He could not bear to think of that.
Please heaven whoever was behind this did not think Pitt a sufficient danger to have done anything drastic to him. “We’ll get off a couple of stops before London,” he repeated. “And call Vespasia.”
“Good idea,” she agreed, turning back to watch the gulls circling over the white wake of the ship. The two of them stood side by side in silence, oddly comforted by the endless, rhythmic moving of the water and the pale wings of the birds echoing the curved line of it.
NARRAWAY WAS CONNECTED WITH Vespasia immediately. Only when he heard the sound of her voice, which was thin and a little crackly over the line, did he realize how overwhelmingly glad he was to speak with her.
“Victor! Where on earth are you?” she demanded. Then an instant later: “No. Do not tell me. Are you safe? Is Charlotte safe?”
“Yes, we are both safe,” he answered her. She was the only woman since his childhood who had ever made him feel as if he were accountable to her. “We are not far away, but I thought it better to speak to you before coming the rest of the journey.”
“Don’t,” she said simply. “It would be far better if you were to find some suitable place, which we shall not name, and we shall meet there. A very great deal has happened since you left, but there is far more that is about to happen. I do not know what that is, except that it is of profound importance, and it may be tragically violent. But I daresay you have deduced that for yourself. I rather fear that your whole trip to Ireland was designed to take you away from London. Everything else was incidental.”
“Who’s in charge now?” he asked, the chill seeping into him, even though he was standing in a very comfortable hotel hallway, looking from left to right every few moments to make sure he was still alone and not overheard. “Charles Austwick?”
“No,” she answered, and there was a heaviness in her voice, even over the wires. “That was only temporary. Thomas is back from France. That trip was entirely abortive. He has replaced Austwick, and is now in your office, and hating it.”
Narraway was so stunned for a moment he could think of no words adequate to his emotions—certainly none that he could repeat in front of Vespasia, or Charlotte, were she close enough to hear.
“Victor!” Vespasia said sharply.
“Yes … I’m here. What … what is going on?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “But I have a great