Belgrave Square

8

WHEN PITT HAD LEFT the next morning, Charlotte went straight to her escritoire in the parlor and took out her pen, ink and paper. She wrote:

Dear Emily,

I hope you are feeling thoroughly well, and have no need of me at your forthcoming dinner party for that reason, nevertheless it is most important that I come. Thomas told me some extraordinarily serious things about his current case last evening, and I am determined to do all I can to help. I cannot remember having seen him so upset before in quite this way. He has nowhere else to turn, for the most wretched of reasons.

And I know you will already have arranged how your table is to be, but I would like you to change it so as to place me next to both Lord Byam and Mr. Addison Carswell. Believe me I have excellent reasons for asking this, and I do know how inconvenient it will be-but both are being blackmailed and are suspects for murder. You know I do not exaggerate in such matters nor say it lightly.

Naturally I shall tell you all you wish when I see you, however I think perhaps you had better burn this letter when you have read it. In the meantime I remain your loving sister,

Charlotte

She folded it, put it in an envelope, wrote Emily’s address on it, then she found a postage stamp which she licked and stuck on.

“Gracie,” she called out.

She heard Gracie’s feet scuttling down the passage and her head appeared around the door.

“Yes ma’am?”

“Will you take this letter and put it in the box for me, please? It is extremely urgent. I must go to Mrs. Radley’s dinner party tomorrow evening, and it is terribly important that if possible I sit next to particular people, because they may have committed murder-one of them, I mean, not both.”

Any other housemaid might have shrieked and fainted at this point, but Gracie was well used to such ideas and fully intended to help where she could. Her eyes widened in her thin little face and she stood more smartly to attention.

“Oh ma’am.”

Charlotte knew she was longing to help as well, but she could think of nothing for her to do, beyond posting the letter. Judges and politicians were completely outside Gracie’s knowledge, in fact she had probably never even seen such a person, let alone spoken to one.

“It was a moneylender who was killed,” she added, just so her instructions were not so bare.

“Good,” Gracie said instantly, then blushed. “Beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am. But they in’t nice people. Once they gets their ’ands on yer they don’t never let go. Don’t matter ’ow much as yer borrers, or ’ow little, yer never gets done payin’ ’em back.” She frowned, screwing up her face. “But ma’am, people what goes ter Mrs. Radley’s dinner parties don’t borrer from the likes o’ moneylenders, do they?”

“One would not think so,” Charlotte agreed. “But he was also a blackmailer, so one never knows. But you must keep all this to yourself, Gracie. It would be most dangerous to allow anyone else to think you know something. No careless words to the butcher’s boy, or the fishmonger.”

Gracie’s chin came up and her eyes blazed.

“I don’t speak to the errand boys or their likes, ’ceptin’ to tell ’em their business,” she said with heat. “I listens, ’cos that’s me job, I might learn summink, but I don’t never tell ’em nuffin’.”

Charlotte smiled in spite of herself. “I apologize,” she said humbly. “I really didn’t imagine you did, I was simply warning from habit.”

Gracie forgave her instantly, but with a little sniff as she took the letter, and a moment later Charlotte heard the front door open and close.

She also told Pitt that evening when he came home tired and hot and hungry. She made very light of it, simply saying that she would attend the dinner because both Byam and Carswell would be there, and she had received Emily’s reply, delivered by hand, to say that arrangements had been remade and she would indeed sit at the table between the two people she had requested. She did not tell Pitt the dire threats that were also made, should Charlotte fail to tell Emily every single thing she knew about the case, proved or suspected. That really went without saying anyway.

“Be careful,” Pitt said quickly, his eyes sharpening and his attention reawakened in spite of the oppressive heat and his real tiredness. “You are dealing with very powerful people. Don’t imagine because they are unfailingly polite that they are as gentle in deed as they are in word.”

“Of course not,” she said quickly. “I shall merely listen and watch.”

“Rubbish! You never kept silent in your life when your interest was engaged,” he said with a twisted smile. “And neither will Emily.”

“I-” she began, then caught his eye and her denial withered away. He knew perfectly well Emily would demand and Charlotte would relate everything she knew, in between the hairpins and the petticoats and the instructions to footmen, parlormaids and anyone else who was involved. “I shall not forget how serious it is,” was the very best she could do and retain a shred of honesty. She passed him a glass of lemonade from the pantry (which was still cool, even in this weather) and a small piece of cake, small so as not to spoil his appetite for dinner. “Did you speak to Mr. Drummond?”

“Yes.” He took the lemonade and the cake.

She looked at his face and saw the lines of weariness in it, the shadows under his eyes and the tightness around his mouth.

She slid her hand over his shoulder and touched his hair. It was thick and too long, and badly needed cutting. She kissed him very gently, and did not ask what Drummond had said.

He set the cake down, put both his arms around her and pulled her closer to him. They were still standing together, her head on his shoulder, when Jemima came in and put her arms around him too, not knowing why, simply wanting to be included.

The following evening was utterly different. Charlotte was collected in Emily’s carriage so that she would have plenty of time to prepare herself with the help of Emily’s maid, and immeasurably more important, to tell Emily everything there was to tell about the case.

“So you don’t know if Lord Byam might have done it!” Emily exclaimed, putting the last touches to her hair while her maid was temporarily out of the room.

“No,” Charlotte conceded. “We have only his word. The ridiculous thing is, why was the letter not there, and the paper incriminating him, and who has them now?”

“Or did they ever exist?” Emily added. “And if they did not, why did he call in Mr. Drummond and draw attention to himself? Is it all actually something to do with this wretched secret society, and perhaps nothing to do with moneylending or blackmail at all?”

“Thomas didn’t even mention that. But why?” Charlotte sat in front of the mirror, pushing Emily along a little. They both looked their loveliest. Emily was in aquamarine satin stitched with tiny pearls, extremely expensive; but it was her party, and she wished to impress. After all, that was the entire purpose of it at the moment, enjoyment of personal acquaintance was incidental. Charlotte was in borrowed plumes again, this time hot apricot, and it looked far better on her than it had on Emily two summers ago. It had been extensively remade, both to bring the style more up to date and to add an inch or two for Charlotte’s more handsome figure.

“Who knows?” Emily dismissed it, staring at her face in the glass and apparently finding it beyond further help, because either it was as she wished it, or she could think of nothing more to do. “Men are sometimes incredibly silly. They play such self-important games. There is nothing makes them feel so superior as having a secret, so if they don’t have one they will invent it. Then everyone else wants to know it, simply because they don’t already.”

“You don’t murder people over it,” Charlotte pointed out.

“You might, if you didn’t know it wasn’t worth anything.” Emily stood up and smoothed out her skirts. Her gown fitted very flatteringly and her condition was entirely disguised. “It sounds as if there might be a great deal of money involved, and far more important to some people, a lot of power.”

“It is the police corruption I really care about,” Charlotte said more gravely. “It distresses Thomas so much. I wish we could prove somehow that there is another answer, or at least that it was not one of the police who murdered Weems.”

They went no further because they were interrupted by Emily’s ladies’ maid returning, and as soon as she had gone, Jack came in looking very dashing. He welcomed Charlotte, kissing her on the cheek in a brotherly fashion, then quickly his face clouded with concern.

“Emily, are you feeling worse again?”

“No, not at all,” Emily assured him with ringing candor.

He still looked doubtful, his eyes puckered with anxiety. He glanced at Charlotte.

“She is here to detect,” Emily said quickly.

Jack was not convinced. “No one in society has been murdered,” he pointed out.

Emily walked over to him, her eyes very soft, a little smile on her lips. She stood in front of him and touched his cravat proprietorially with her finger.

“It is a blackmailer who is dead, and two of his victims are to dine with us tonight,” she said sweetly.

Charlotte smiled to herself and looked back in the mirror, pretending to do something further to her hair, although there was nothing to do.

“Charlotte is going to observe, that is all.” Emily raised her eyes and met Jack’s with devastating sweetness.

“It is never ’all,’ ” Jack said dubiously, but he knew not to enter a battle he had no chance of winning.

Emily kissed him very lightly. “Thank you,” she whispered, and after only a second’s hesitation, turned and led the way out onto the landing and downstairs ready to receive her guests.

Among the first to arrive was Fanny Hilliard, looking extremely pretty if a trifle behind the fashion. After greeting her with genuine pleasure, Charlotte made the opportunity to look unobtrusively at her gown. She herself had altered a bodice here and there to adapt someone else’s clothes, usually Emily’s or Great-Aunt Vespasia’s, in order to make a new dress for herself out of an old one of somebody else’s. She saw the telltale needle holes and the fabric slightly across the weave where a waist had been made a great deal smaller than had originally been intended. Even a clever dressmaker could not completely disguise the fact that the bustle had been almost entirely recut, and a piece of toning fabric added to hide the alteration. No man would have known, but any woman who had done the same thing could see it.

She felt an instant empathy with her, and silently wished her well.

Her brother, James, who had escorted her, now gave her his arm into the withdrawing room, and Charlotte turned to welcome that very curious young man, Peter Valerius. He still looked untidy because of his beautiful hair, and a rather artistic disregard for conventional neckwear. His cravat was not only a little oversized, but instead of tying it loosely like the aesthetic set, he had apparently dressed in some haste, and it was tight, and crooked. Charlotte decided it was not an attempt to be Bohemian, simply a lack of interest in something he considered totally trivial.

“Good evening, Mr. Valerius,” she said with a smile, because he reminded her a trifle of Pitt. “How agreeable to see you again.”

“Good evening, Mrs. Pitt.” He looked at her with interest. His eyes flew to Emily, noticed her very obviously improved health, and then came back to Charlotte again. He smiled, but made no comment, and Charlotte had a very strong idea he read her presence here as a matter of interest and not duty this time.

Ten minutes later Great-Aunt Vespasia came in. She was resplendent in ivory lace and a double row of pearls that was so beautiful one felt that even should all the lights fail at once, and leave the room in darkness, they would still shine with a luster of their own. Her face registered a benign surprise when she had greeted Emily and Jack, and moved on to Charlotte.

“Good evening, Great-Aunt Vespasia,” Charlotte said enthusiastically.

“Good evening, my dear,” Vespasia replied with slightly raised eyebrows. “Do not tell me Emily is unwell; she is in abundantly good health, as any fool can see.” She regarded Charlotte closely. “And you have a warmth in your cheeks which I know of old. You are here meddling.” She could not drop her dignity so far as to ask in what, or to request inclusion, but Charlotte knew what was in her mind, and bit her lips to hide her smile.

“I am waiting…” Vespasia warned.

Charlotte altered her expression immediately, making it as close to demure and innocent as she could.

“We have two possible murderers at the table,” she said in a whisper.

“A conspiracy?” Vespasia did not change expression, only the brilliance of her eyes betrayed her.

“No-I mean either of two people might be guilty,” Charlotte continued.

“Indeed?” Vespasia’s eyebrows rose. “Is this still Thomas’s miserable usurer in-where was it? Some unpleasant place.”

“Clerkenwell. Yes. He was a blackmailer as well, remember.”

“Of course I remember! I am not yet in my dotage. I assume Sholto Byam is one. Who, pray, is the other?”

“Mr. Addison Carswell.”

“Good gracious. Why, may one ask?”

“He has a mistress.”

Vespasia looked surprised. “That is hardly a matter for blackmail, my dear. Half the well-to-do men in London have mistresses, or have had-or will do. And that is a conservative estimate. If Mrs. Carswell is a well-bred woman with any sense of her own and her family’s survival, she will take good care that she never finds out, and will continue her life as usual.” Her face darkened for a moment. “You don’t mean that he is spending a ridiculous amount of money on this person, whoever she is?”

“I don’t know. It is possible, but Thomas didn’t say so.”

“Oh dear-then it may be worse. Is she married to someone who will take the matter ill, and be vindictive? That could be serious.” She sighed. “How very foolish. No one is so high in society that a scandal cannot ruin him, if it is ugly enough. Look at Doll Zouche and that miserable business with Wilfred Scawen Blunt. Amusing in its fashion, but all quite unnecessary. Are there letters, do you know?”

“No I don’t know. I don’t think it has got that far yet, but I didn’t ask Thomas. Perhaps he wasn’t familiar with the Zouche case.”

“He must be, my dear. Everyone is,” Vespasia said with total assurance.

Charlotte blinked. “I’m not.”

“Are you not? Well, Doll Zouche, daughter of Lord Fraser of Saltoun, and wife of the current Lord Zouche. They held a tournament-”

“Did you say a tournament?” Charlotte interrupted in amazement. “When did this happen, for heaven’s sake?”

“In 1875,” Vespasia said coolly. “Do you wish to hear it or not?”

“Oh yes! I just didn’t know they had tournaments in 1875!”

Vespasia’s face was almost straight. “They have tournaments whenever the ’romantic ideal’ grips hold of them, and they have more money than they need, and more time than things to do with it.”

“Go on,” Charlotte prompted. “Doll Zouche?”

“She came as the Queen of Abyssinia-they proposed making a trip to that country the following summer. The culmination of the tournament was a sham fight in which Doll and others dressed as Christian ladies were attacked by Moorish marauders, Blunt being one of them. They were rescued by two knights on horseback-Lords Zouche and Mayo. What began in fun ended in earnest. Unfortunately she was having an affaire with both young Fraser and Lord Mayo, who wished to elope with her-which he ultimately did-and of course, Blunt.”

Charlotte was speechless.

“On the day of the tournament,” Vespasia concluded, “she quarreled with her husband, and galloped away on her favorite horse. Blunt was nearly cited in the ensuing divorce.”

Charlotte’s eyebrows shot up. “Only nearly?”

“That is what I said. But you may be sure Mr. Carswell will know of it!”

“Oh dear.” Unconsciously Charlotte copied Vespasia’s exact tone. “Thomas seemed to feel Mr. Carswell was very much in love, not merely a matter of-appetite.”

“Who is she? Does he know?”

“Yes, but he did not tell me. He followed Mr. Carswell one day-over the river somewhere.”

They were prevented from continuing the conversation any further by the arrival of Lord and Lady Byam and the necessity of greeting them. Charlotte found the color distinctly warm in her cheeks as wild speculations raced through her mind while she spoke politely to Lord Byam, and looked at his remarkable eyes. She felt acutely guilty. She was swapping politenesses with him, saying how nice it was to see him, and all the time her mind was wondering if he had stood with a gun in his hand and shot William Weems’s head to pieces.

What was he thinking behind that sensitive, imaginative face and the formal words? Something equally wild and terrible? For that matter, what were any of them thinking? Could Eleanor Byam possibly feel as calm and sedate as she looked? She was dressed in black, which made her hair the more startling and her shoulders and throat whiter. She wore a necklace of onyx and diamonds, both unusual and very lovely. She was greeting Micah Drummond, and there was a faint flush of color creeping up her cheeks. She met his eyes with a directness not required or expected of such a ritual occasion.

Of course-she would know who he was, and that her husband had asked his help. Beneath the formal acknowledgments and inquiries for health, she would ache to know what he had learned. And presumably she knew both he and her husband were members of the Inner Circle, so his loyalty was assured. No-that was not true: women were excluded. She would not know, so perhaps she had no idea why Drummond should help, and consequently no reason to believe he was anything more than a police officer with breeding, a social equal, or something close. Perhaps “equal” was overstating it; at least not hopelessly inferior, like Pitt, and almost all the rest of the police force.

And what was Drummond thinking, behind the courteous expression and the pale, rather drawn face? Probably remembering Pitt’s confrontation over the secret brotherhood, the police corruption he must do something about because Pitt knew, and perhaps wondering about his own role in it. Charlotte trusted her judgment where he was concerned. She did not believe he was corrupt, not when he faced the reality of it. He might well be blind, a little naive; there was a quality of innocence in him which she had often observed in some of the nicest men. They were inclined to trust people no woman worth a fig would have trusted half as far as she could have thrown them. Funny how men thought it was women who were the innocents. In Charlotte’s experience, most women, underneath the daydreams and the trappings that gave a little glamour, were eminently practical. The human race would hardly have survived otherwise. Knights on white chargers had their place, in dreams which were completely necessary to sweeten some of the pills that must be swallowed, but one could divide off part of the mind for such a purpose. In the end one knew quite well which was which, and most women did not confuse the two.

Yes, naive, that was the word. She looked at him again, his tall lean figure and rather quiet face. It was not wildly imaginative, but without a shred of ill temper or undue vanity. He was looking at Eleanor Byam with such gentleness, and a diffidence as if it mattered to him intensely what she thought, how she felt. How very kind that he should be so concerned for her, so sensitive to her fears…

Oh my goodness. How totally idiotic of her.

“What is it?” Vespasia had noticed and was staring at her with interest.

“Nothing,” Charlotte lied instinctively.

Vespasia snorted very slightly, like a well-bred horse.

“Poppycock. You have observed that your Mr. Drummond is more than a little in love with Lady Byam. Which will make life very difficult for him-whether Lord Byam is guilty or not.”

“Oh dear.” Charlotte sighed. “I wonder if Thomas has any idea?”

“I doubt it,” Vespasia said with a tiny shake of her head. “I like him quite as much as any man I know-but he is as unobservant as most men over such things.” She seemed unaware of her astounding admission that she, Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould, held Thomas Pitt, policeman and gamekeeper’s son, in an affection unsurpassed by any man, even of her own station and breeding.

Charlotte held her breath, and felt a tide of hot emotion surge up her face, and an overwhelming pride burst open inside her like a flower.

She swallowed hard, and tried to sound nonchalant.

“I imagine not,” she said huskily. “I had better point it out to him. It may matter.” And with that parting shot she made her way into the main withdrawing room to speak to more of the guests who had arrived in the intervening time.

A few moments later she found herself talking polite nonsense with Fanny Hilliard. It was nonsense because neither of them cared particularly about the sort of subjects it was good manners to discuss: the weather (which was of no interest whatever), fashion (which neither of them could afford to follow), current gossip (which neither of them was acquainted with, not being in the rank of society which was privy to such confidences, nor being in the places to observe it at first hand), or theater, (which they visited very seldom, for the same financial reasons).

Indeed the whole conversation was simply a device through which they could express a certain liking for each other. One could not simply stand and stare without exchanging some words, however pointless.

Charlotte was not in the least put out to see Fanny’s eyes wander from hers several times, and a soft warmth come into them, and a trace of color up her cheeks as if her pulse were beating faster. She was quite aware that Fitz Fitzherbert was somewhere behind her and a little to her left.

Therefore she was not surprised when a few minutes later he joined them, talking of equally mindless and silly subjects. His fair face reflected an inner laughter and a complete acceptance that their words were of no importance whatsoever, their thoughts of the greatest importance possible.

“How good of Mrs. Radley to invite me again,” he said to both of them, including Charlotte equally, although she knew perfectly well she served only as a chaperon to make the exchange possible. “She is playing this extremely fairly, don’t you think?”

Fanny smiled and looked up at him, not through her lashes-she was too candid for that, and too sincere in her feelings. Her eyes were wide and bright, and there was a vivid color in her cheeks.

“Indeed,” she agreed, although Charlotte was not sure if Fanny had any idea what Fitz meant; no one had said anything about selection for Parliament, or Fitz’s and Jack’s rivalry.

“Have you spoken with Lord Anstiss?” Fitz went on. “He is one of the most interesting men I have met. I have no difficulty whatever in listening to him with rapt attention. It is so gratifying when the people to whom one has to be polite and flattering are so distinguished as to earn it naturally.” He was looking at Fanny, his eyes never leaving her face.

She could not have been unaware of it as she gazed at the glass in Charlotte’s hand, although probably she was not seeing it at all.

“I have spoken to him only briefly,” she admitted. “I believe he is an expert in much of art, is that so?”

“Extremely,” Fitz replied. “I wish I could remember all he said, so I could repeat it to you. His opinions were most enlightening-on almost everything.”

“Oh please don’t!” Fanny said quickly, looking up at him. “I should far rather hear your own.” Then she realized she had been forward, and as on this occasion it mattered extremely to her what he should think, she colored furiously and looked away.

“You are very generous,” he said quietly. “I am afraid my knowledge is pretty poor by comparison.”

“I should not know how to reply to someone who knew everything,” she said with a tiny smile. “I should feel very overwhelmed.”

“Would you?”

“Although of course I should try not to show it,” she added with a touch of spirit.

He laughed.

“So I shall not know whether I have impressed you or not?”

“I most profoundly hope not.”

And so they continued, on the very outermost surface speaking of nothing that mattered, on the second surface, just a trifle below, flirting mildly as people do at parties when they find each other agreeable. And underneath they cared more and more deeply as all the unspoken things were understood between glances, through inflections of the voice and expressions of the face changing from laughter to self-awareness, wry knowledge of their own frailty, tenderness for the other, excitement because it was new and piquant, and fear because the hurt could cut so deeply.

When they were joined by Odelia Morden, her face pale, her glass clutched in clammy hands, Charlotte felt a stab of pity which took her by surprise. She had not liked Odelia, thinking her both cold and complacent. Now she watched her face and saw in it the sudden awareness of defeat, not necessarily of fact-Fitz was betrothed to her and to break the engagement would be an act of folly in the face of his ambitions-but she recognized in him now a laughter and a magic she had never seen for herself, and the pain of it cut very sharp. For the moment she was too stunned to fight.

Once her eyes met Fanny’s and the color drained from Fanny’s face as she understood. They looked at each other and the rest of the busy, chattering crowd faded from their awareness. Even Fitz himself seemed shadowy, his reality pushed to the edge of vision. They both understood precisely what the issue was. For the first time in his life Fitz was held by the same sort of enchantment that he had exercised over so many others, the charm that wakens all sorts of dreams, the feeling of warmth and the possibility of never being alone, of being understood in all that was best in oneself. It was too sweet ever to let go of entirely, no matter what the reality became.

Odelia saw something she had not realized before, and at the moment she understood it, she also knew it was beyond her reach.

Fanny realized she was in love with another woman’s betrothed as she could probably not love anyone else. And he was socially above her, and his ambition made their union impossible. If he were to jilt Odelia he would not be forgiven.

And Fitz knew it also, but he did not accept it. Only the guilt hurt as he perceived at least in part what he was doing to Odelia, although he had not sought to feel as he did, nor was there anything he could do to govern it.

They were still all four standing motionless. Charlotte began talking to cover the confusion and the pain, not because she imagined for an instant that anyone was listening to her or cared in the slightest what she said. Then Regina Carswell stepped back and almost bumped into them, turning to apologize.

Over her shoulder Fanny’s startled gaze met that of Addison Carswell.

“I’m so sorry,” Regina said hastily, regaining her balance. “Oh-Miss Hilliard, is it not? How pleasant to see you again.”

Fanny gulped, all the color and excitement blanching out of her face.

“G-good evening, Mrs. Carswell.” She swallowed and coughed as the air caught in her throat. “Good evening, Mr. Carswell.”

“Good-good evening, Miss-er-Hilliard,” Carswell said awkwardly. “I-I’m delighted to make your acquaintance-again.”

Regina looked puzzled. Their discomposure was hardly accounted for by the triviality of the occasion. She sought for some reason for it, without understanding in the slightest.

“I do apologize, Miss Hilliard, if I trod upon your gown. It was most clumsy of me. I seem to have lost my balance.”

“Not at all,” Fanny said quickly. “You did not tread on me, I assure you. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Perhaps you are a little warm?” Charlotte suggested, looking at the tiny waist and wondering how much of it was owed to stays and a good maid with one foot on the bedpost. “The garden is quite charming, and we shall not be going in to dine for some minutes yet.”

“Oh how kind of you.” Fanny grasped at the escape, her eyes brimming with gratitude. “Yes I am sure that is the answer. I shall take a little air.”

“Shall I come with you?” Fitz offered, then realized he had overstepped propriety. He was still with Odelia, at least in fact, if not at heart. He blushed at his own most uncharacteristic awkwardness.

“Oh no-thank you.” Fanny at least remembered herself so far as to decline, no matter how much she might have wished it; although Charlotte, looking at the quite sudden unhappiness in her eyes, thought perhaps she did not wish it after all.

Odelia opened her mouth to offer, then thought better of it.

Regina Cars well, who had daughters of her own and was quite used to such sudden feelings of faintness with all their causes, took charge of the situation.

“I shall come with you,” she said firmly. “I could do with a moment’s air myself. And if you feel faint, it is better that you should not be alone, just in case you trip.”

“Oh please,” Fanny said in something approaching distress. “I shall be perfectly all right, please believe me. It was only a moment-I should not dream of troubling you-”

“It is no trouble, my dear,” Regina said with a smile which gave an unusual radiance to her otherwise ordinary face. “I have already contributed anything I can to the conversation, and I shall be no loss to it. Come-we shall have a few minutes in the air before going to the dining room.” And taking Fanny’s arm she excused them and gently but irresistibly escorted her towards the French doors at the far end of the room.

Carswell cleared his throat uncomfortably and stared at no one.

Charlotte was suddenly furious with him for having taken a young mistress and betraying a woman of such innate kindness as Regina. What was a little laughter and a pretty face, compared with the years shared, the understanding and the loyalty of his wife? Perhaps she was a little domestic at times, not always as glamorous and sometimes boring. For goodness sake, no doubt so was he.

“How very kind of Mrs. Carswell,” she said with an edge to her voice, gazing at him very directly. “Surely the most precious of all virtues, don’t you think?”

Odelia looked at her in amazement. The remark was totally uncalled for and she was confused by the vehemence of it, in fact by the making of it at all.

“Why-er-indeed,” Carswell said uncomfortably. “Yes-to be sure.”

Charlotte realized she had spoken unaccountably, but she had left herself nowhere to retreat.

“Was not Miss Hilliard at the Royal Academy exhibition?” she said apropos of nothing, simply to fill the silence.

“Indeed?” Odelia seized the straw to join in. “We also were there-” Suddenly she realized how the “we” was no longer true in the way it had been then, and her voice died away, thick with unhappiness, her face flushed.

“There were some very fine pictures, don’t you think?” Charlotte was not insensitive to her pain; indeed she felt a pity for it which surprised her with its depth. She merely wanted to cover it for her so it was not added to by being public. “There was one of a bowl of lilies I found especially attractive.”

“I don’t recall it.” Fitz dragged his attention back with an effort.

That was hardly surprising since Charlotte had invented it for something to say. However she now proceeded to describe the mythical picture in detail, and it carried over the time until everyone began to recover themselves and conversation resumed as normal. A few minutes later dinner was announced and they parted to find the person with whom they had been assigned to enter the dining room. It would be unpardonable to go in with the wrong person. It would throw everything out of order and be a social gaffe of the worst sort. There was the strictest etiquette in such things, and Charlotte went in on the arm of Peter Valerius.

At the table Emily had granted Charlotte’s request, and she was seated between Addison Carswell, on her left, and Lord Byam to her right.

The first course was soup; the second fish, a choice of deviled whitebait or smelts. She picked delicately at it. Ladies were not expected to be able to eat everything served them, and indeed with the stays which were obligatory to attain the required figure, a waist of so many inches according to one’s age, much eating would have been impossible.

Conversation was only slight to begin with, and upon the usual trivialities of style, theater, the weather and other inconsequential matters. Charlotte looked under her lashes first at Carswell, who was still pale. She observed that his hand with the fork raised to his lips shook very slightly. Then she turned her attention to Lord Byam, who was quite composed, at least on the outside. Whatever deep fears were troubling him, he had mastered his demeanor so that a relative stranger like herself could see nothing in his manner to betray it.

The entrées were served: curried eggs, sweetbreads or quenelles of rabbit. The remove course was simply iced asparagus.

With the game course the mood was changed quite suddenly and completely when Aunt Vespasia with casual innocence looked up from her plate and asked of the table in general:

“Does anyone know how poor Horatio Osmar is faring? It seems extraordinary to me, but I believe he is to sue the police for perjury, or something of the sort. Can that really be true?”

Charlotte slid the asparagus across her plate and nearly upset her wine.

Beside her Carswell was absolutely motionless, his fork in the air.

Fitz seemed unaware of any strain. Either that, or he was far more subtle than his manner suggested, or his charming, artless smile.

“Good gracious. I didn’t know you could do such a thing. Wouldn’t that open the door for anyone charged with an offense to suggest the police were lying?” His fair eyebrows rose. “The courts would never settle any charge at all, they would be so busy with claims and counterclaims as to who was telling the truth and who was not.” He looked at Carswell. “You are a magistrate, sir; don’t you agree?”

“I am afraid-” Carswell swallowed hard. “It-it is a subject upon which it would be improper for me to express an opinion.”

At the far end of the table Drummond apparently did not hear them.

“But your opinion would be most interesting, and surely the most informed,” Fitz protested. He looked around. “After all, who else among us knows about the law in such matters? But you are an expert.”

Fanny Hilliard’s face was very pink. She looked across at Carswell and there was anguish in her eyes, a sort of fierce, protective pain.

“I think what Mr. Carswell means is that it would be profoundly unethical for him to comment,” she said quickly but very distinctly. She avoided Fitz’s eyes.

Fitz heard the sharpness in her voice and he did not understand it. A shadow crossed his face but he continued with a light, easy voice, looking at Carswell.

“Oh is it? Are you involved with the case?”

Carswell at last put his fork down. He was very pale.

“Yes-yes I am. It was I who first heard the case.”

“Good gracious,” Vespasia said mildly, her eyebrows arched very high. “Will you be called to give an opinion as to whether the police were lying or not?”

“I have no way of knowing, Lady Cumming-Gould.” He was beginning to regain his composure at last. “It would be quite pointless to ask me.”

“I don’t see how anyone can know, except the police themselves, and Osmar,” Peter Valerius said with a twisted smile on his lips. “And they all have very considerable vested interests in the matter. What I don’t understand is why he chose to contest it at all. Why didn’t he just admit that he was behaving like a fool, and get it over with quietly, pay a small fine, which he would well afford, and be a bit more discreet in future?”

“It is a matter of reputation,” Carswell said sharply. “The man has been charged publicly with indecency. It is not something most men would care to have said about them, surely you can understand that, sir? He is defending his reputation, which any Englishman has a right to do.”

“I beg to disagree, sir.” Valerius said it politely, but his face held none of the mildness of his words; his eyes were bright and the muscles of his jaw hard. “Immeasurably more people will hear of it now that he has chosen to contest it than ever would have had he merely paid the fine, and I don’t believe that his taking up battle over it will change anyone’s mind at all.” He leaned forward a little. “Those who thought the police corrupt will have their beliefs confirmed, and those who thought the judiciary corrupt or inefficient in the face of privilege will retain that opinion.”

His smile was full of sharp-edged humor. “The whole issue will be not whether Horatio Osmar was being vulgar on a park bench with a woman no one had ever heard of, or cares about except in principle, but whether our police and our judiciary are honest and efficient or not. And that, I think, is a question it were better not to raise.”

“Sir!” Carswell exploded, his face bright pink. “You go too far!”

Peter Valerius’s face barely changed expression. Only his eyebrows rose a little, and his voice remained perfectly level.

“Because it will cause a number of fears which are quite unfounded,” he continued, “but for which we have no effective proof that will calm those doubts once they have been disturbed.” A shadow of a smile crossed his face again and his eyes met Carswell’s.

Carswell could not justifiably sustain his anger. He had leaped to a hasty and mistaken conclusion, but the offense was still hot and hard inside him. Charlotte wondered briefly and with a mixture of pity and resentment whether it was some guilt of his own that made him defend where there had been no attack.

She glanced at Peter Valerius again, found his clever eyes watching her, and knew he had seen the reflection of a new thought across her mind.

She turned to Carswell.

“Do you think Mr. Osmar will succeed in his suit against the police?” she asked with interest.

Carswell composed himself with an effort and turned to her with all the politeness he could manage.

“I have no idea, Mrs. Pitt. It is something at which I could make no guess of value.”

“He has powerful friends.” Vespasia regained the conversation with a stiff face reflecting her disapproval. “They may exert influence on his behalf.”

Byam turned to her with slight surprise. “Surely that is natural, Lady Cumming-Gould? Would not anyone in such a position seek all the assistance available?”

“I do not know.” The ghost of a smile crossed her silvergray eyes. “I have never known anyone else in such a position. It seems both indiscreet to ask one’s friends to defend one in such a matter, and unjust to attempt to malign the integrity of those who enforce the law, and have more than enough difficulty as it is.”

“A novel view,” Byam said thoughtfully, not exactly in criticism, but certainly not in agreement.

Valerius looked at her with new and sharpened regard. It was obvious in his face that quite suddenly she had assumed a different role; one to be taken seriously, even admired.

Carswell was still uncertain. He glanced at Byam, then at Vespasia, and ended by saying nothing.

“I hope, for the sake of the rest of us, that your view prevails,” Charlotte said clearly, looking at Vespasia. “If the police are blackened in public esteem any further, it will destroy confidence in them to a degree where their efficiency, perhaps even their existence, will be jeopardized.”

“I am sure your fears are unfounded, Mrs. Pitt,” Carswell said stiffly. “I beg you, do not disturb yourself.”

And from there the conversation became more general. The sweet course was served, and then the ices.

Finally after the fruit-pineapples, cherries, apricots and melons-the ladies excused themselves and retired to the withdrawing room to sit and discuss polite trivialities and exchange purely frivolous gossip. The men remained around the table to pass the port and smoke, and speak of the subjects that were too contentious or intellectual to be aired while the ladies were present.

When the gentlemen rejoined them again Charlotte found herself listening to Peter Valerius. They had begun to speak of usury, with Carswell still in their company. Charlotte had hoped it might produce some emotional response which she could judge, but Carswell had left them and the conversation had somehow turned to international finance.

“It is still usury,” Valerius said with an intensity that held her attention in spite of her lack of interest in the subject. “A powerful industry invests in a small, backward country, a part of the empire, for example in Africa.” He leaned towards her, his face sharp with the strength of his emotion. “The people begin to prosper, as there is work for many of them. They are able to sell their goods and in exchange buy imported luxuries, for which they soon develop not only a taste, but a dependence. Perhaps it even includes the raw materials or the machinery necessary for their new industry.”

She could see no connection to the wretchedness of personal usury, and he must have observed it in her face. He resumed with greater urgency, his voice demanding her attention.

“The parent company expands the business, promising even better trade. The small country accepts. Suddenly life is better than they have ever known it. They have luxuries undreamed of before.”

“Is that not good?” She sought to understand, but the cause of his anger eluded her.

“And the country is utterly dependent on the industry, and those who govern it,” he continued, now oblivious of the rest of the room. Even Odelia’s skirt brushing his elbow and thigh as she passed behind his back made no impression on him at all. She apologized and he did not hear her. He leaned closer to Charlotte. “Suddenly the price is altered. They pay less for the goods the country produces, they charge more for the materials they supply. The rate of interest on the money borrowed is increased. The small country is in difficulties. Profits disappear. They need more money to service their needs and keep the industry surviving. The loans are increasingly expensive. Perhaps they cease altogether, and then they have to turn to venture capital.”

He must have seen from Charlotte’s expression that she had no idea what that was.

“Instead of simply lending money at a rate of twenty percent, or so,” he explained, his voice hard-edged, his face pale, “the rate of interest is higher, much higher, and the lender also demands one-third ownership in the business itself-forever.”

“But that’s monstrous,” she protested. “It’s… usury!”

A bitter smile lit his face.

“Of course it is!” he agreed. “Not man to man, but industry to nation. A few score profit, and tens of thousands suffer.”

She nearly asked why people allowed such a thing to happen, but the answer was already in what he had told her. She sat for several minutes digesting in her mind what he had said, and he sat in front of her, watching her face, knowing he had no need to add anything further.

While Charlotte was absorbed with Peter Valerius, Micah Drummond was standing apart, next to the enormous curtains that hung swathed across the windows at the entrance to the balcony and the steps down to the garden. He found the chatter almost impossible to concentrate on and the small snatches of gossip and opinion were insufferable when so much clamored in his mind: doubts so ugly they stifled everything else that entered his thoughts; doubts about himself, his actions and judgments of the past, his motives of the present; his own honesty; and dark, crowding fear for the future.

The room was full of lights. The chandeliers glittered pendant from the ceiling, their crystal facets winking in the barest movement of air. Lights burned from all the gas brackets on the walls. Diamonds sparkled around throats, on arms and in hair, even on slender wrists, waved to emphasize a remark. Reflected light glanced from polished tables and on silver and in glass.

The soft buzz of voices was interrupted by laughter, the chink of goblets. It all looked so gay and unshadowed. But he longed to go outside to the solitude and the concealing darkness of the summer garden, where his face would not be read, no one else saw or remembered who spoke to whom, and where at least for a while he could be alone.

He stood undecided, and perhaps it would be more honest to say unable to make the decision to escape, in case he was observed. It was an entirely new experience for him to feel so racked by guilt, so uncertain of his own judgments. Of course he had made mistakes, but he had understood them, and they had not corroded his underlying belief in himself.

But this was entirely different. Why had he joined the secret brotherhood of the Inner Circle? He could remember Pitt’s face as exactly as if he had only just left him, standing in his office looking tired, deep lines of strain around his mouth, and his eyes unhappy. Drummond had realized immediately that Pitt’s distress was more than merely professional, but he had still been totally unprepared for what had followed. Pitt had not merely told him of corruption on the force, officers who were members of the Inner Circle and had been pressed by that secret brotherhood to use their professional power in the interests of members, but he had quietly but relentlessly asked him of his own concern with the brotherhood, and if he had been aware what hostage he was to their commands, and the penalties for disobedience. He had been civil, even gentle, but the train of doubt he had started in Drummond’s mind was beyond evasion, as he had known it must be.

He could answer Pitt with innocence. No, he had never made any decision of even the slightest degree to comply with the brotherhood’s wishes. But would that always be so? Was it so now? He had answered Byam’s summons because Byam was a brother. He had interfered with the course of investigation in Clerkenwell, and put Pitt onto the case of William Weems’s death, to suit the brotherhood. What else might he have done, unrealizing from whence the request originated? He racked his brain, and could not remember or decide.

And what might he yet do, if he discovered evidence that Byam was guilty, if not of Weems’s murder, then of complicity in it, or of sheltering whoever had done it, or merely of concealing evidence? What would the brotherhood do if he did not comply? He remembered with a bitter chill the secret initiation, which he had simply thought colorful and a trifle absurd at the time. But looking back now, it had contained some very dark threats to those who betrayed a brother or revealed any of the group’s secrets. He had thought them in a rather adolescent way romantic until now, insomuch as he had thought of them at all: the sorts of things boys got up to in the long holidays out of school when there was little to occupy the imagination but summer days and stories of adventure.

Now it seemed from Pitt as if the Inner Circle exercised a very real discipline on its errant members, and punishment was swift and extremely unpleasant. Would it be visited on him? Of course. Why not, if he failed in his duty to his oaths?

Even more unpleasant to him would be if he were asked to administer punishment upon another. Would he do it?

No!

Regina Cars well passed close to him, hesitated in her step as if to speak, then saw his face more closely and continued on her way. A sensitive woman.

But why would he not carry out such a punishment? He knew the answer before he was prepared to admit it.

Because a man must be free to follow his own conscience. No society of any sort, whatever its aims, however noble, must be allowed to dictate what a man believes to be right or wrong.

But that is not what the oath had said. And now that he saw it in plainer light, that was where he had made the mistake upon which all the others depended. He had sworn allegiance to people, not to an ideal, to something unknown which might change from what he believed to what he did not-and he had allowed himself no avenue of redress. That was what Pitt had pointed out to him.

He could see Byam and Lord Anstiss talking together, Anstiss standing square, a glass in his hand, his stocky body at ease, but not elegant. Beside him Byam stood a little sideways, his weight asymmetrically balanced, with a curious kind of grace, but there was a tension in him that showed in the angle of his head, his tight fingers around his goblet.

He was not close enough to hear their words, but he followed the emotion of the conversation from their expressions. Anstiss was speaking, his face full of animation, eyes wide and candid. He put his arm on Byam’s affectionately.

Byam laughed, and for a moment the anxiety slipped from him and the weariness ironed out of his features. Drummond could see in him the young man he must have been twenty years ago before the tragedy of Laura Anstiss’s infatuation and death. He and Anstiss were simply two friends who cared for each other, enjoyed each other’s company with an open trust and fellowship like the best of brothers. They shared interests, hopes, laughter-until Anstiss’s fragile, unstable wife had stepped between them, and her death had left pain and guilt.

Anstiss held his glass up to the light and said something.

Byam replied, and they both laughed.

Anstiss turned, his expression altered, hardening, and he said something to Byam.

The moment froze. They both stood motionless, the chandeliers blazing, the lights winking on the glasses. Then all the pain and the weariness returned to Byam’s face. He set his glass down on the sideboard near him, made some reply to Anstiss, and walked away.

The dull color touched Anstiss’s cheeks and he opened his mouth to reply, then changed his mind, but the fierce, suppressed emotion remained in his face.

Byam was walking over towards where Drummond was standing. He could see him clearly now. He did not look like a man who had just quarreled, rather like one who has resumed a familiar burden after a short respite, and not for the first time. He did not look bruised so much as unbearably tired.

Drummond watched him with a wild and painful mixture of emotions. He could never know what the exchange with Anstiss had been, but he could guess. He was sorry for Byam. He was a man in a frightening situation, through no fault of his own, a misjudgment of a woman’s character which anyone might make, especially a youth. He had done what he saw as the honorable thing, and it had ended in a tragedy he could not possibly have foreseen. And he had suffered a guilt for it ever since.

Now he faced the very real possibility of being charged and even tried for murder because of it. If Pitt did not find the murderer, Byam could even be hanged. Would he call on the brotherhood to help him? Surely he would-and long before it reached trial. How would Drummond respond then? What could Byam ask? So far it had been entirely honorable, but then the danger was still very slight, only problematical. When it became real and within a matter of days, or even hours, and the shadow of Newgate and the dock touched him, might he not ask what was far less honorable?

Would others of the brotherhood exercise their power on his behalf? That was the question Drummond had been avoiding asking himself ever since Pitt spoke to him. Just how far would the Inner Circle go to protect its own? They had spoken of high moral values, and in the same breath of loyalty to each other above all. No one had thought to ask which principle governed when one could not observe them both, certainly Drummond had not. Now the dark and highly painful thought came to him that it might be the personal loyalty.

And what would he do then?

There was only one possible answer. He would betray the Inner Circle.

He drew in a deep breath. He felt better for having framed the question, and the answer, to himself.

A footman, less sensitive than Regina Carswell, interrupted his thoughts to offer him a glass. He refused with a tight smile. At the far side of the room Eleanor Byam was talking to Anstiss now. She looked stiff and very formal. He wondered about her relationship with Anstiss. Did she like or dislike him? Was she even jealous of the past so charged with emotion and in which she had no part? Did she resent Anstiss because it was his wife who had caused so much pain, and because his mere existence was a constant reminder to her husband of his guilt? Knowing so little made Drummond feel at a disadvantage.

And that was his last, and perhaps his own deepest, guilt: his feeling for Eleanor. It was far more powerful than he wished to admit, and acutely personal. Part of him wanted to protect Byam, for her sake; another uglier part would gladly have seen him removed, disgraced in her eyes, leaving her free to love elsewhere, in time.

Love. That was the word he had avoided saying even to himself.

He turned away from the room and walked past the great swathed curtain and out onto the balcony. He needed not only to be alone, but to be unseen by others. His face might too easily reveal him, and he could not force himself into communication now.

He did not know how long he stood staring into the soft radiance of the night, glimmering from the reflected lamps like a row of suspended moons along the street, tree branches gleaming where the rays caught them, leaves dancing and turning in the breeze.

At last he was interrupted by a voice, tentative and apologetic, but carrying an urgency that even embarrassment and the knowledge of intrusion would not curb.

“Mr. Drummond-”

He knew it instantly. It was Eleanor Byam. It was as if his thoughts had conjured her there, and he felt guilty for her presence, as if somehow she knew what was in his mind, and worse, his heart. He turned slowly to face her, trying to compose himself and his racing pulse.

“Yes-Lady Byam?”

“I’m-I’m sorry for disturbing you, when you seem to wish to be alone…” she began. It appeared she was finding it every bit as difficult as he.

“I merely wished for a little air,” he lied, trying to ease her embarrassment.

“You are very generous.” Her voice was lower and there was a touch of warmth in it now which caught his emotions like touching a fine cut on the skin. “Please do not be polite with me,” she went on urgently. “It is a time when I must be honest with you, regardless of how painful it might be.”

He was about to interrupt, but she did not allow him time.

“Something further has happened which disturbs me more than I know how to describe…” He longed to say something, even more to do something to comfort her. His instinct was to touch her, and it would have been unforgivable.

She plunged on through his desperate silence.

“Sir John Seaforth, a long-standing friend and colleague of Sholto’s, came to visit yesterday evening. I merely saw him arrive and he looked angry but well in command of himself, and hopeful, as if he believed Sholto could make right whatever it was that so upset him.” She seemed uncertain how to express herself. Drummond was acutely aware of her so close to him he could smell the faint perfume of geraniums and hear the whisper of taffeta as she breathed in and out.

“You saw him arrive?” he asked pointlessly.

She took it as a request for some explanation.

“Yes-Sholto was upstairs at the time, and I have known Sir John for many years myself. He was shown to the withdrawing room while the footman was sent to inform Sholto of his arrival. He spoke only a few words to me. He was quite clearly not in a mood to exchange small talk, and I was sensible of that. As soon as the footman returned to say Sholto would receive him in the library, he went to that room.”

“Did Lord Byam tell you why he called?”

“No-he would not discuss it. I know it was very heated, because I crossed the hall some twenty minutes later to go upstairs, and I heard their voices from the library. I could catch only the occasional word, and the tone was so unpleasant I was embarrassed that one of them might open the door and see me. I did not wish either of them to know I had overheard what was obviously a most violent quarrel. I caught the words deceit and betrayal used by Sir John…” Her voice shook a little and she swallowed several times before she continued. “I did not hear Sholto reply, but from the raised voices immediately afterwards, Sir John was not in any way appeased.”

“You said he was a colleague.” Drummond sought for something to say that might allay her fears, and found nothing. Now only the truth would be any use, and the more he heard, the less did that promise any comfort. “In the Treasury?”

“No-no, he is a member of Parliament, deeply concerned with trade and financial matters.”

“Did you hear any more of the discussions?”

“No. As I was coming down the stairs again Sir John was leaving. I did not wish to meet with him when he was so deeply angry and it must be of the greatest embarrassment to him, since he had undoubtedly quarreled bitterly with Sholto. I waited in the shadows at the top of the stairs, and I saw Sholto bid him good-bye. They were both very stiff and barely civil to one another. I think perhaps had the footman not been there, they might not even have pretended so far.”

“Did you ask Lord Byam the cause of his quarrel?”

“Yes-not immediately. He was too furious at the time, and…” Her voice sank to little more than a whisper. “And I was afraid of what his answer would be.”

Drummond forgot himself at last. He took her hand in his and felt her fingers tighten in a quick grasp as if he were a lifeline and she feared drowning in her distress.

“What was his answer?” he said, closing his hand over hers also.

“He said it was a political difference about finance,” she said miserably.

“And do you not believe that?”

“No-I-Mr. Drummond-I fear something terrible has happened, that whatever Sholto is so afraid of has actually come to pass. I feel as if I have betrayed him myself, even to think of it, but it lies so deeply in me I can deny it to myself no longer. I fear Sir John knows of Laura Anstiss’s death, and Sholto’s part in it, innocent as it was-and he knows of Weems’s blackmail.”

She swallowed and struggled for a moment to regain her composure before going on. “I believe him mistaken, and quite terribly wrong, but I think he believes Sholto killed Weems. That is all I can imagine that would make him so fearfully enraged with Sholto, and Sholto unable to defend himself. You see he still does feel guilty over Laura’s death, even though he had no possible idea she was so-so wild, and self-destructive.”

She looked at Drummond earnestly. “He did not imagine anyone, least of all she, would fall so in love with him she would sooner die than live without him. It is surely not-not quite sane-is it? When one hardly knows someone, and has shared no… intimacy of even the slightest sort with her?”

“I think it is sane,” he said slowly. “But perhaps it is a little…” He searched for a word that would not be too cruel, too dismissive of an emotion he was trying to understand only too sharply in himself. “A little weak,” he said. “Life often gives one the feeling that it is beyond enduring at the time. But with courage, one does-one has to. Perhaps that is something Laura Anstiss had never learned.”

“Poor Laura,” she whispered. “How well you put it. It is as if you have known…” She drew in her breath quickly and looked away. “I’m sorry, that is intrusive. Thank you for being so-” She withdrew her hand. “So patient, Mr. Drummond. I feel better to have told you.”

“I will do all I can, I promise you,” he said quietly. “We have several others we suspect, whose motives are stronger than Lord Byam’s-and who can give no account of where they were at the time.”

“Have you?” There was a lift in her voice for the first time.

“Yes-yes. There is cause to have much hope.”

“Thank you.” And with a rustle of taffeta, she moved away back towards the room and the lights and the laughter.

At the end of the evening when the last guests had departed, Charlotte, Emily and Jack were seated in the withdrawing room. The gas was turned low and the last glasses and small dishes were packed up for the servants to take away and deal with before they too were able to go to bed.

Emily turned to Jack. She was interested in Charlotte’s affairs, but his took precedence.

“Was the evening successful?” she asked eagerly. “You seemed to be a long time in the library with Lord Anstiss. Did he ask you a great deal?”

Jack smiled, wiping as if by magic the tiredness from his face.

“Yes,” he said with deep satisfaction. “And he told me a great deal which I did not know. He is an extraordinarily…” He looked for the right word. “… magnetic man. His knowledge is vast, but far more than that, he speaks with so much vitality and wit. And I think his influence is greater than I first supposed.”

“But he liked you?” Emily pressed with a fine grasp of what was important. “What did he say? Jack, don’t keep us in suspense!”

His smile broadened. “He invited me to join a most select society which does a great deal of good work, often secretly. They provide funds for many charities, strive to fight inequity and injustice, even some of the more dangerous and ugly facets of crime.”

“It sounds excellent!” Emily was enthusiastic. “Are you going to join?”

“No!” Charlotte said with vehemence so sharp both Jack and Emily turned to her with incredulity. “No,” she said more moderately. “You must know a great deal more about it before you join anything.”

“Charlotte! It is a society wholly dedicated to doing good,” Emily said reasonably. “What could possibly be wrong with that?” She turned around to Jack again. “Isn’t it?”

“Yes of course it is,” Jack agreed. “And from what Lord Anstiss says, it would be the most powerful single step I could take to ensure the support of those who really matter in the political and social world.”

Charlotte wanted to muster an argument, but all she could think of was Pitt’s fears for Micah Drummond, his misery over the corruption he had uncovered, and the deeper corruption he so far only suspected.

“And what do they want from you in return?” she demanded. “What loyalty? What sacrifice of your independence, perhaps in time of your conscience?”

“Nothing.” Jack was surprised and mildly amused. “It is a society for doing good, Charlotte!”

“But secret?” she persisted.

“Not secret,” he corrected. “Discreet. Surely that is how charity should be, done quietly, modestly and without seeking recognition?”

“Yes.” She was reluctant to admit it not because what he said was untrue, but because she feared so much more. “But Jack, there may be other things. Thomas is dealing with a society at the moment…”

Emily looked at her with skepticism. “He is investigating the murder of a usurer, you told me.”

“Yes, but he has uncovered a society as well…” She was out of her depth and floundering. She was not prepared to tell them of the police corruption. It was too indefinite in form as yet, and too painful. In some basic way she felt it reflected on Pitt, on his profession, and she did not wish them to know if it could be avoided.

“London is full of societies,” Jack said more quietly, aware that her concern for him was real. “This one is very honorable, I promise you.”

“What is it called?”

“I don’t know-Anstiss did not tell me.”

“Be careful.”

“I will be. I give you my word.” He stood up. “Now it is past time Emily went to bed, and you too I am sure. Would you prefer to go home in the carriage now, or stay here until morning and go then? You are very welcome, you know, always.”

“Thank you, but I will go now. I would prefer to be there when Thomas leaves in the morning.”

Jack smiled and took Emily’s hand in his. “Then good night, my dear.”

Pitt listened as he had breakfast to all that Charlotte related to him of the evening before, which was only impressions of conversation, emotions and fears, and the conviction that Micah Drummond had learned to love Eleanor Byam, with all the pain and conflict that that meant. She did not mention Anstiss’s invitation to Jack to join the society. She would not burden him with that yet.

Pitt did not say anything, but he knew she understood his silence. He kissed her, long and gently, and went out into the hot, dusty street to find an omnibus and travel slowly to Scotland Yard and resume his investigations of Latimer’s cases. From there he spent a miserable day going from one old underworld source to another, through filthy alleys, up steps of rotting wood into rookeries where rats scuttled at the sound of his feet, squeaking, their claws rattling on the boards and their little eyes red in the shadows. Refuse lay heaped in slowly sagging piles and the gutters stank in the heat. He swatted ineffectually at some of the flies, and gave all his coppers to children who begged.

Finally in a small, crowded public alehouse called the Grinning Rat he sat opposite a little man with a twisted arm, broken when as a child he had been a sweep’s boy and fallen inside one of the vast chimneys. It had healed badly, and been broken a second time when he slipped off a church roof, stealing the lead, and now it was deformed past help. He made his living by selling information.

“Joey.” Pitt brought his wandering attention back from a large man with a protuberant belly hanging over grimy trousers and a tankard of ale in each hand.

Joey looked back at Pitt reluctantly.

“Yes, Mr. Pitt. I dunno wot yer wanna hear.” His voice sank into a plaintive whine as he expected to be criticized.

“ ’E in’t wot yer’d call reelly bad-just a bit kind o’ selective abaht ’Oo ’E does, like. Y’ unnerstand?”

“No,” Pitt said unhappily. “Explain to me, and there’ll behalf a guinea.”

“ ’Alf a guinea.” Joey’s face brightened.

“The truth,” Pitt warned. “Not what you think I want to hear. You don’t know what I want, or don’t want. If I discover you’re telling me lies I’ll come back and do you for everything in the book-I swear it.”

Joey let out a wail of outrage.

“Be quiet!” Pitt warned sharply. “Do you want everyone in the place looking at you?”

“Yer an ’ard man,” Joey complained.

“I am,” Pitt agreed. “Now tell me.”

And slowly Joey told Pitt what he most feared to hear. There was no explanation for Latimer’s omission to press some of his cases, for not calling certain witnesses. Joey did not know of his having taken money for his decisions, but he had assumed it, because to him there was no other answer. Why else did men do things, unless of course it was from fear? But to Joey, policemen of Latimer’s rank had nothing to fear. They were the powerful, the unassailable, the safe.

“Thank you,” Pitt said with a bitter misery inside. He handed over the half guinea he had promised and left the Grinning Rat. Tomorrow he would go back to Clerkenwell and Sergeant Innes.

Of course there were still the ordinary debtors from Weems’s first list, and perhaps Innes would turn up evidence against one of them. He half hoped for it, although he did not expect it; but perhaps a more conscious, sharper half would hate it even more should some desperate man struggling to survive prove to have shot Weems.

“Nothing,” Innes said gloomily, his thin face tired and without any lift of hope anymore.

“Nothing on Weems’s private life?” Pitt pressed pointlessly. “He must have had friends of some sort, surely? No women-not one?”

“Found nothin’,” Innes said flatly. His eyes looked anxious, even guilty.

“What is it?” Pitt demanded. They were sitting in the small room, little more than a cubbyhole, where Innes kept his notes and papers on the Weems case. Innes was perched on the narrow windowsill, leaving the solitary chair for Pitt, as the senior officer, and his guest.

Innes looked even more uncomfortable.

“I know as ’ow Mr. Latimer gets ’is money, sir. It weren’t borrered from Weems-”

Pitt would have been pleased, had not the look on Innes’s face made it impossible. Whatever the answer was, it was no better than usury.

“Well?” he said more sharply than he had intended.

Innes took no offense, he understood.

“Gambling, sir. ’E gambles, very successfully, it seems.”

“How do you know?”

“Discovered it by accident, sir. Was lookin’ inter one of our local debtors, ’Oo gambles. Come across proof as Mr. Latimer does-in a big way. An’ ’e wins, no doubt about it. ’E knows ’is bare-knuckle fighters.” His face was pinched with unhappiness. Apart from the brutality, bare-knuckle fighting was illegal and they both knew it; so would Latimer.

“I see,” Pitt said slowly. He did not bother to ask if Innes was sure beyond any doubt. He would not have mentioned it until he was.

Innes was looking at him earnestly. Neither of them needed to explain the possibilities ahead. Latimer would be ruined if his gambling, and condoning an illegal sport, were known. Was that what Weems had blackmailed him over? That would account for his name on the second list.

It was a powerful motive for murder.

“What are we going to do, Mr. Pitt?” Innes said quietly. “You want me ter go ter Mr. Drummond, like?”

It was a generous offer, made at some cost, and Pitt felt a tiny spark of warmth because of it.

“No,” he said with a bleak smile. “Thank you. I’ll go.”

“Yes sir.”