Treason at Lisson Grove - Anne Perry [51]
“Not the way you hate us, anyway,” she agreed gently. “But then we have no cause. Good night, Mr. McDaid.”
CHARLOTTE FACED NARRAWAY ACROSS the breakfast table in Mrs. Hogan’s quiet house the next morning, still in conflict as to what she would say to him.
“Very enjoyable,” she answered his inquiry as to the previous evening. And she realized with surprise how much that was true. It was a long time since she had been at a party of such ease and sophistication. Although this was Dublin, not London, Society did not differ much.
There were no other guests in the dining room this late in the morning. Most of the other tables had already been set with clean, lace-edged linen ready for the evening. She concentrated on the generous plate of food before her. It contained far more than she needed for good health. “They were most kind to me,” she added.
“Nonsense,” he replied quietly.
She looked up, startled by his abruptness.
He was smiling, but the sharp morning light showed very clearly the tiredness in his face. Her resolve to lie to him wavered. There were many ways in which he was unreadable, but not in the deep-etched lines in his face or the hollows around his eyes.
“All right,” she conceded. “They were hospitable and a certain glamour in it was fun. Is that more precise?”
He was amused. He gave nothing so obvious as a smile, but it was just as plain to her.
“Whom did you meet, apart from Fiachra, of course?”
“You’ve known him a long time?” she asked, remembering McDaid’s words with a slight chill.
“Why do you say that?” He took more toast and buttered it. He had eaten very little. She wondered if he had slept.
“Because he asked me nothing about you,” she answered. “But he seems very willing to help.”
“A good friend,” he replied, looking straight at her.
She smiled. “Nonsense,” she said with exactly the same inflection he had used.
“Touché,” he acknowledged. “You are right, but we have known each other a long time.”
“Isn’t Ireland full of people you have known a long time?”
He put a little marmalade on his toast.
She waited.
“Yes,” he agreed. “But I do not know the allegiances of most of them.”
“If Fiachra McDaid is a friend, what do you need me for?” she asked bluntly. Suddenly an urgent and ugly thought occurred to her: Perhaps he did not want her in London where Pitt could reach her. Just how complicated was this, and how ugly? Where was the embezzled money now? Was it really about money, and not old vengeances at all? Or was it both?
He did not answer.
“Because you are using me, or both of us, with selected lies?” she suggested.
He winced as if the blow had been physical as well as emotional. “I am not lying to you, Charlotte.” His voice was so quiet, she had to lean forward a little to catch his words. “I am … being highly selective about how much of the truth I tell you …”
“And the difference is?” she asked.
He sighed. “You are a good detective—in your own way almost as good as Pitt—but Special Branch work is very different from ordinary domestic murder.”
“Domestic murder isn’t always ordinary,” she contradicted him. “Human love and hate very seldom are. People kill for all sorts of reasons, but it is usually to gain or protect something they value passionately. Or it is in outrage at some violation they cannot bear. And I do not mean necessarily a physical one. The emotional or spiritual wounds can be far harder to recover from.”
“I apologize,” he responded. “I should have said that the alliances and loyalties stretch in far more complicated ways. Brothers can be on opposite sides, as can husband and wife. Rivals can help each other, even die for each other, if allied in the cause.”
“And the casualties are the innocent as well as the guilty,” she said, echoing McDaid’s words. “My role is easy enough. I would like to help you, but I am bound by everything in my nature to help my husband, and of course myself …”
“I had no idea you were so pragmatic,” he said with a slight smile.
“I am a woman, I have a finite amount of money, and I have children. A degree of pragmatism is necessary.