Rutland Place (27 page)

Edward smiled indulgently. He had always found Emily the easiest of his daughters, without being aware that it was largely because she was also the most skilled at judging his moods and masking her own feelings accordingly. Sarah had been too impatient and, being the eldest and the prettiest, a little selfish, and Charlotte was far too blunt and would talk about totally unsuitable things, which embarrassed him.

“George is a fortunate man, my dear,” he said, helping himself to more vegetables. “I hope he appreciates it.”

“I hope so too.” Emily’s face suddenly became serious. “It is one of the saddest things that can happen to a woman, Papa, for her husband to lose his regard for her, his desire for her company, his general observance of her well-being. You have no idea how many women I have seen begin to look elsewhere for admiration because their husbands have grown to ignore them.”

“To look elsewhere?” He was a little startled. “Really, Emily, I hope you do not mean what that sounds like? I would not care to think of you associating with such women. Others might think the same of you!”

“I should dislike that very much.” She was perfectly grave. “I have never given George the least cause for displeasure with my conduct, especially on that subject.” She opened her eyes very wide and blue. “And yet, on the other hand, I cannot find it in my heart entirely to blame a woman whose husband has begun to treat her with indifference, if some other man, with pleasant manners and agreeable nature, should find her attractive and tell her so—and she should, in her loneliness, be equally drawn to him—”

“Emily!” Now he was shocked. “Are you condoning adultery? Because that is unfortunately close to what it sounds like!”

“Oh, certainly not!” she said with feeling. “Such a thing will always be wrong. But there are some situations when I cannot find it in me to say that I do not understand.” She smiled at him. “Take Monsieur Alaric, the Frenchman, for instance. Such a handsome man, so beautifully mannered, and such an air about him. Do you not agree, Charlotte? I wondered once or twice if perhaps poor Mina was in love with him and not Tormod Lagarde at all. Monsieur Alaric has so much more maturity, don’t you think? Even a touch of mystery about him, which is most compelling. I have often wondered if he is really French. We have only assumed it. Now if Alston Spencer-Brown had been devoting too much of his attention to his business affairs, and had begun to grow so accustomed to Mina that he seldom paid her a compliment anymore, or bothered with any little romantic gestures, such as flowers, or a visit to the theater”—she drew breath—“then Monsieur Alaric would only have to flatter her a little, exhibit the merest admiration, and she would be enchanted with him. He would be the answer to all her unhappiness and her feeling of no longer mattering.”

“That is no excuse—” he began, but his face was noticeably paler and he had forgotten the chicken. “And you should not speculate about people in such a disgraceful way, Emily! The poor woman is dead and quite unable to defend herself!”

Emily was unperturbed. “I am not suggesting it as an excuse, Papa. One does not need excuses—only reasons.” She finished the last of her meal and set down her knife and fork. “Now that poor Mina is dead, I have observed that Monsieur Alaric has found Mama most pleasant and has sought her company to walk with and to talk with.” She smiled brightly. “Which shows him to be a man of improving taste! Indeed, Charlotte has said he seems most sympathetic. I do believe Charlotte was quite drawn to him herself.”

Charlotte looked across the table at Emily with less than affection. There seemed to be a shade of malicious pleasure in her tone.

“Charming,” she agreed, avoiding her father’s eye. “But I presume that Mama is not in Mrs. Spencer-Brown’s unfortunate situation?”

Edward stared from one to the other of them. Twice he opened his mouth to demand that they speak more clearly what they meant. And twice he decided he did not wish to know.

The maid came and cleared away the dishes and then brought in the pudding.

“It has been some time since we went to the theater,” Edward remarked at last, very casually, as if it were a totally new thought. “There must be something new of Gilbert and Sullivan out now. Perhaps we should go and see it.”

“An excellent idea,” Emily answered, equally lightly. “I can recommend a good jeweler if you have a fancy to give Mama some small keepsake? He has a most romantic turn of mind and is not overly expensive. I know he has quite lovely cameos, because I wished George to buy me one. I always think they are so personal.”

“Don’t organize me, Emily!”

“I’m sorry, Papa.” She smiled at him charmingly. “It was only a suggestion. I am sure you will do much better yourself.”

“Thank you.” He looked at her with dry humor, but his hands were still tight on his napkin and he sat very upright in his chair.

Emily took a little more pudding.

“This is delicious, Papa,” she said sweetly. “It was so nice of you to invite us.”

Edward forbore commenting that she had invited herself.

At half past two Edward returned to the city.

“What are you going to do about Mina?” Emily asked as soon as she and Charlotte were alone. “We still have no idea who killed her, or even why.”

“Well, the obvious reason is that she snooped once too often,” Charlotte answered.

“I had imagined that for myself!” Emily was a little waspish now that the tension of the interview with Edward was over. “But upon whom?”

“It could have been the Charringtons—if not over Ottilie, then maybe over Ambrosine taking things.” Charlotte was thinking aloud. “But personally I think Theodora von Schenck is more likely. I can remember Mina making remarks about her income and where it came from. I think maybe she already knew, and she was having fun stirring up our suspicions. Perhaps in time she would even have told us.” Her face darkened as the ugliness of the reality opened up in front of her. “That’s pathetic, isn’t it—seeking to impress people and make yourself interesting by spreading pieces of gossip about people, hinting that you know terrible secrets.”

“It’s damnably dangerous!” Emily’s mouth pulled into a hard, unforgiving line. “Think of the harm she could do to other people, never mind what happened to her! I suppose she hardly deserved to be killed for it, but it’s a wicked thing to do nevertheless.”

“And pathetic,” Charlotte insisted. “She must have had nothing of her own inside herself to be forever staring outwards, needing to know about other people’s lives.”

“That hardly excuses her!” Emily was angry. “Everybody’s unhappy some time or other—we don’t all go around prying and repeating!”

Charlotte did not bother to argue. “She was worse than that,” she said. “She invented, sowing seeds of all sorts of vicious things. I suppose there is an ugly side to most people’s imaginations, if you want to reach for it.” She changed her expression entirely. “You were excellent with Papa, but we still have to discourage Monsieur Alaric a little. I have heard he knows Theodora quite well. I shall go and call on him this afternoon and see if he has any idea where her money comes from.”

Emily’s eyebrows rose. “Indeed? And how do you propose to introduce yourself to such a call, let alone elicit that kind of information from him?”

“I shall throw myself on his mercy.” Charlotte made a rapid and rather violent decision.

“You’ll do what?” Emily was startled.

“With regard to Mama—you fool!” Charlotte snapped, her face suddenly hot. “I shall contrive to let him know that Papa is aware of the—friendship—and that he does not look kindly on it.”

“You never ‘contrived’ anything in your life!”

“I didn’t say I was going to be subtle! Then when I have done that, I shall talk about Mina and how upset everyone is. Why? What are you going to do?”

“If that is what you are going to do, then I shall go and call upon Theodora at the same time, before Monsieur Alaric has an opportunity to warn her, if by chance they are in it together. If there is anything to be in? It will be a little difficult because I don’t know her, but if you can go to a music hall with Inigo Charrington, I daresay I shall manage an unintroduced call upon Madame von Schenck!”

“You need not have brought up the music hall again!” Charlotte said sourly. “That was unnecessary.”

“Well, don’t worry, I shan’t tell Thomas you went alone to call on Monsieur Alaric,” Emily returned. “In fact, I think you would be wise not to let him know you have any continued interest in the affair at all.”

“If you imagine he will suppose I have forgotten it, you hardly know Thomas.” Charlotte made a rueful face. “He wouldn’t believe it for a moment!”

“Then use a little sense—and at least make sure you stay sober!” Emily responded. “You can take my carriage to Monsieur Alaric’s house, and I shall walk. That way it will be marginally more respectable.”

“Thank you!”

Charlotte had misgivings as soon as the carriage turned out of Rutland Place, and were it not that she would appear such a fool, she would have called the driver and told him to return her at once.

But she was committed. It was an extraordinary thing to do, and possibly Alaric would misinterpret her motives; her face flushed hot at the thought of it. Caroline was certainly not the only woman to have become so dazzled by him as to have lost all sense of proportion!

By the time the carriage pulled to a stop in Paragon Walk and the footman handed her out, she sincerely hoped that Paul Alaric was not at home and she would be spared the whole affair and could retire with integrity. But fortune was against her—he was not only at home, but received her with pleasure.

“How charming to see you, Charlotte.” He stood a little away from her, smiling, and if he was surprised he concealed it entirely. But of course he would; not to do so would be discourteous.

“That is very generous of you, Monsieur Alaric,” she replied, then instantly felt stiff. She was barely through the door, and already her interview was not going the way she had intended. Perhaps in France, or wherever he came from—they had all assumed he was French, but no one recalled his saying so—it was less familiar there to use a person’s Christian name.

He was still smiling, and she collected her scattered wits with an effort.

“Please forgive my calling upon you without either invitation or having left my card beforehand.” That was ridiculous and he knew it as well as she did, but it afforded her a way to begin.

“I am sure the circumstances are quite unusual,” he said gently. “May I offer you some refreshment—a dish of tea?”

It would give her something to occupy her hands graciously, and would mean that her stay would be at least half an hour.

“Thank you,” she said. “That would be most pleasant.” She sat down on the most comfortable-looking chair, and he rang the bell, gave the maid instructions, and then sat opposite her on a simple dark velvet sofa.

The room was unusually spare of ornament; there were great numbers of leatherbound, gold-tooled books in a mahogany case, a soft gray seascape above the mantel, and a Turkish prayer rug so brilliant it was like a cathedral window. The whole was alien . . . and beautiful.

He was sitting easily, still smiling, one leg crossed over the other, but there was a seriousness about his eyes. He knew she would not have come over any trivial or social matter, and he was waiting for her to begin.

Her mouth was dry; all small talk eluded her.

“Emily and I have been dining with Papa,” she said rather abruptly.

He did not interrupt, still watching her steadily, frankly.

She took a breath and plunged on. “We were obliged to discuss a rather painful subject—quite apart from Mina’s death, or poor Tormod’s injury.”

A shadow of concern crossed his face. “I’m sorry.”

She had very little knowledge how much of the relationship was purely on Caroline’s part. She must be careful, as she had so far seen him display nothing beyond extreme courtesy. Either he was far more discreet than Caroline or—more probably—he was unaware of the depth of her feeling. After all, he did not know Caroline as Charlotte did.

She cleared her throat. Now that she must either commit herself or allow the subject to drop and talk of something else, she found it unexpectedly difficult. She was very conscious of him sitting only a few feet away from her.

Once, she had considered him as the leader of a black magic ritual—that seemed preposterous now. But was she crediting him with less vanity and more compassion than he possessed? Might he not enjoy the fascination he held for them, seemingly without effort?

She swallowed and began again, sounding far more pompous than she wished. “It seems that Papa has been too much engaged in his business lately and has not paid the attention to his domestic life that he should. Poor Mama has felt a little neglected, I think. Of course she has not complained. One cannot ask for small signs of affection from one’s husband, because even if he responds they are then of no value—you feel you have prompted them yourself, and he does not truly mean them.”

“So you and your sister have prompted him?” he suggested, understanding beginning to show in his eyes.

“Quite,” she agreed quickly. “We would be deeply distressed to see our family hurt by a misapprehension. In fact, we do not intend to allow it to happen. These things grow out of hand very quickly—new affections form, other parties are drawn in, and before you can undo it, there is . . .”

He was looking directly at her, and she found herself unable to go on. It was quite obvious now that he knew what she meant.

“A domestic tragedy,” he finished for her. She noticed with surprise that there was a faint color under his skin, a consciousness of himself—a raw and unpleasing light. Suddenly, with a rush of warmth for him, she realized he had been unaware of his power, underrating its depth completely.

Either he had not understood other women in the past or he had considered their own natures the cause and himself merely the unfortunate catalyst.

“I think tragedy is the appropriate word,” she continued. “Perhaps we should look a little more closely at what passions can do. For example, take Mrs. Denbigh. You have seen her? Her despair over Mr. Lagarde would hardly be covered by so gentle and commonplace a term as unhappiness, do you think?”