Belgrave Square

10

IT WAS AT a garden party, lawns, flower beds and dappled shade, parlormaids and footmen carrying trays of chilled champagne, women with parasols, that Charlotte observed the next event connected with Jack’s pursuit of selection as candidate for Parliament. She had gone hoping to see something more of Lord Byam, but as it transpired neither he nor Lady Byam was present, although they had been expected. It was a glorious afternoon, if a trifle warm, and everyone was greatly involved in discussing the Eton and Harrow cricket match which was held annually between the two outstanding private schools for boys of excellent family.

The other great topic of conversation was the forthcoming regatta to be held at Henley, as usual. There was intense speculation as to who would win the cricket match, as many of the gentlemen had attended either one school or the other, and emotions were running high.

“My dear fellow,” one elegantly dressed man said, leaning a little on his cane and staring at his companion, his top hat an inch or two askew. “The fact that Eton won last year is nothing whatsoever to go by. Hackfield was the best bat they ever had, and he has left and gone up to Cambridge. The whole side will disintegrate without him, don’t you know.”

They were standing beside a bed of delphiniums.

“Balderdash.” His friend smiled indulgently, and stepped to one side to allow a lady in a large hat to pass by. The feather in its brim was touching his shoulder, but she was oblivious of it, being totally occupied gazing through her eyelashes at someone a few yards in the opposite direction. “Absolute tommyrot,” the man continued. “Hackfield was merely the most showy. Nimmons was the real strength.”

“Nimmons.” The man in the top hat was patronizingly amused. “Scored a mere twenty runs, as I recall.”

“Your recollection is colored by your desires, not to mention your loyalty.” His friend was gently pleased with himself. “Twenty runs, and bowled out five of your side-for a total of thirty-three. And he’s still very much there this year. Doesn’t go up till ’ninety-one.”

“Because he’s a fool.” But his face clouded as memory returned. Absentmindedly he put his empty goblet on the tray of an attendant footman and took a fresh one.

“Not with a ball in his hand, old chap-not with a ball,” his companion retorted.

Charlotte could imagine the summer afternoon, the crowd sitting on benches or walking on the grass, the players all in white, the crack of leather on willow as the bat struck the ball, the cheering, the sun in the eye and in the face, the long lazy day, excited voices of boys calling out, cucumber sandwiches for tea. It was pleasant to think about, but she had no real wish to go. Her thoughts were filled with darker, more urgent matters. And it was part of a world she had never really belonged to, and in which Pitt, and that mattered more, had no place. It did cross her mind to wonder for an instant if he had played cricket as a boy. She could imagine it, not at a great school founded centuries ago and steeped in tradition, but on the village green, perhaps with a duck pond, and old men sitting outside the inn, and a dog or two lying in the sun.

She saw Regina Carswell with two of her daughters. The third, whom Charlotte had seen previously so obviously attracted to the young man at the musical soiree, was again speaking with him. This time she was walking by his side and involved in a murmured conversation of smiles and glances, and very considerable tenderness. It was such that in the present society and circumstances it was tantamount to a statement of intent. It would have to be a very remarkable incident now to alter the inevitable course.

Charlotte smiled, happy for her.

Beside her, Emily was equally indulgent. She had been lonely far too recently not to have a very real sympathy for the state.

“Is Jack going to join the secret society?” Charlotte asked abruptly.

Emily looked at her with a frown as a young woman passed by them holding a dish of strawberries and giggling at her companion, a short man in a military uniform who moved with a definite swagger.

“Why on earth did Miss Carswell make you think of that?” she asked.

“Because she is so obviously happy, and so are you,” Charlotte continued. “And I wish more than almost anything that you should remain so.”

Emily smiled at her warmly. “I love you for it, but if you think my happiness depends upon Jack being selected to stand for Parliament, you are mistaken.” A shadow crossed her face. “I would have expected you to know me better. I admit I used to be ambitious socially, and I still get pleasure and amusement from it, but it is no more than that, I promise you. It is not my happiness.” She tweaked her skirt off the grass to stop it being trodden on by a shortsighted gentleman with a cane. “I want Jack to succeed at something, of course. I love him, and how could he be happy if he whiled away his time in pursuits of no purpose? But if he does not get this nomination, there will be others.”

“Good,” Charlotte responded with emotion. “Because I feel very strongly indeed that he should not join any society whose membership is secret, and that requires oaths of loyalty that rob him of any of his freedom of conscience. Thomas has some knowledge of at least one of the societies in London, and it is very dangerous indeed, and very powerful.” She became even more grave, determined that Emily should believe her. “Emily, do everything within your power to dissuade him, even if it causes a quarrel. It would be a small price to pay to keep him from such a group.”

Emily stood still, turning to face Charlotte.

“You know something of importance that you are not telling me. I imagine it is to do with the murder of the usurer. I think you had better tell me now.”

Charlotte looked at Emily’s steady blue eyes. If she were to persuade her, nothing less than the truth would serve.

“Only indirectly,” she replied, moving to one side as another footman passed by with a tray of glasses of chilled champagne. She lowered her voice still further; it would not do to be overheard. “In investigating some others who are being blackmailed, or might be-of course they deny it-he discovered that they all belong to one of the secret societies, and that the society demands of its members a loyalty ahead of their honor or conscience, even if that should be contrary to the law.”

“How can it be? What do you mean?” Emily was worried, but still failed to understand.

“Police,” Charlotte whispered fiercely. “Some of the members are police, and they have been corrupted, turned their backs on certain crimes…”

“But that is their own choice,” Emily argued, unconsciously shifting her position a little and putting her hand to the small of her back. “What would the society do if they refused? Blackmail them? In those circumstances one would be very glad to be thrown out. And they run the risk of being reported for attempts at corruption.”

“You have been standing long enough.” Charlotte noticed the gesture and understood it with sympathy. She could well remember the backache of pregnancy. “Come, sit down. There is a seat over there.” And without giving Emily time to reply, or to demur, she took her arm and walked over towards the wooden garden bench.

“I am afraid it is nothing so pleasant,” she answered, smiling with artificial sweetness at a fat lady whose name she should remember. “They do not forgive betrayal, and that is apparently how they see it.” They sat down and arranged their skirts. “And you seem to have forgotten that the membership is secret,” she went on. “So you do not know if perhaps your own superior is a member also. Or your banker, your physician, your lawyer, the next police officer you should meet. Certain members, and Thomas does not know who, exercise discipline, which can be extremely nasty. Incriminating evidence may be placed where the police will find it, and scandal and prosecution may result.”

Emily’s face darkened. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Thomas is very distressed by it.”

“But it may not be the same society,” Emily reasoned. “There are totally philanthropic organizations also, and from what Jack said, this one is extremely dedicated to good works. Their secrecy is a matter of not wishing to boast, and because certain kinds of justice can be effected only if their enemies are unaware of who fights their cause. Lord Anstiss is a member, because it was he who invited Jack to join.”

“Of course yours may not be the same society as Thomas is concerned with,” Charlotte agreed. “Is ‘may not’ good enough for you?”

“No…”

Before she could add anything further she was interrupted with great good humor by a lady with a magnolia-trimmed hat and a booming voice. She greeted Emily effusively as if they had been the closest of friends, was introduced to Charlotte with a beaming smile, then proceeded to monopolize the conversation with memories of a function she and Emily had recently attended.

Charlotte excused herself, catching Emily’s eye and nodding politely to the lady with the magnolias. Then she rose and walked along the path towards the gazebo and a magnificent bed of azaleas.

Her next encounter took her totally by surprise. She had seen Great-Aunt Vespasia in the distance and, anticipating the pleasure of speaking to her, had set out across the grass, lifting her skirts with one hand to avoid soiling them. She was within two or three yards of her when she saw that she would interrupt a meeting that was about to take place. Vespasia was very upright, her shoulders slender and stiff under exquisite pale pink silk and Chantilly lace, a magnificent triple rope of pearls hanging to her waist. She was wearing a hat almost as big as a cart wheel, lifted rakishly at one side, her silver hair coiled to perfection, luminous pearls dropping from her ears, her chin high.

The woman approaching her was also of a good height, but very lush of figure, with creamy white skin and auburn hair. Her features were lovely in a very classic manner and she was gorgeously dressed to flatter the striking attributes with which nature had endowed her. And from the expression on her face she was not unaware of the stir she caused. There was a supreme confidence in her and not quite an arrogance, but most definitely an enjoyment of her power.

The middle-aged man beside Vespasia, clean shaven with a ruddy face and broad brow, affected introductions between the two women well within Charlotte’s hearing.

“Lady Cumming-Gould, may I present Mrs. Lillie Langtry-”

Vespasia’s eyes widened, her silver brows arched and her very slightly aquiline nose flared infinitesimally.

“To seek permission now seems a trifle late,” she said with only the barest edge to her voice, and a definite lift of amusement.

The man flushed. “I-er-” he stammered, caught off guard. He had thought well of himself. Most people had envied him his acquaintance with the Jersey Lily. Indeed he had bragged about it to some effect.

Vespasia turned to Mrs. Langtry. She inclined her head with very deliberate graciousness. She had been the greatest beauty of her day, and she deferred to no one on that score.

“How do you do, Mrs. Langtry,” she said coolly. She was an upstart. She might be the Prince of Wales’s mistress, and Lord knew who else’s, and have beauty and even wit, but Vespasia would not be introduced to her as if she could in a few years climb to that eminence Vespasia had taken a lifetime to achieve. That required also intelligence, patience, dignity and discretion. “I hope you are finding the London season enjoyable?” she added.

Mrs. Langtry was taken aback.

“How do you do, Lady Cumming-Gould. Indeed, thank you, it is most enjoyable. But it is not my first season, you know. Indeed, far from it.”

Vespasia’s eyebrows rose even higher. “Indeed?” she said without interest. One would have thought from her expression she had never heard of Lillie Langtry. She looked her up and down, her eyes lingering for a moment on her neck and waistline, where so often age tells most unkindly. “No-of course not,” she amended. “It must be simply that our paths have not crossed.” She did not say “nor are they likely to in the future,” but it hung in the air delicately suggested.

Lillie Langtry was the most famous of London beauties sprung from nowhere, and she had been rebuffed before and had overridden it with grace. She was not going to be stopped in her triumph by one elderly lady, no matter who.

She smiled tolerantly. “No, perhaps not,” she agreed. “Do you dine very often at Marlborough House?” She was referring to the Prince of Wales and his friends, as they all knew.

Vespasia was not going to be bested. She smiled equally icily.

“Not quite my generation,” she murmured, implying that they were Mrs. Langtry’s, although they were at least a decade older.

Mrs. Langtry flushed, but battle had been joined, and she did not retreat either.

“Too much dancing, perhaps?” Mrs. Langtry looked at Aunt Vespasia’s silver-topped cane.

Vespasia’s eyes glittered. “I care for the waltz, a delightful dance, and the lancers and the quadrille. But I fear some of the modern dances are not to my liking-the cancan, for example…” She left her distaste hanging in the air.

Mrs. Langtry’s lips tightened. The cancan’s scandalous reputation was well known. It was performed by prostitutes and women of other unspeakable occupations in places like Paris, and even there it was illegal. “You dine with Her Majesty, perhaps?” she suggested, still smiling. They both knew that ever since Prince Albert had died twenty-eight years before, the Queen had ceased to entertain. Her mourning was so profound as to have caused open criticism in the land that she did not do her duty as monarch.

Vespasia raised her eyebrows. “Oh no, my dear. Her Majesty does not entertain anymore.” Then she added gently, “I am surprised you did not know that. But still-perhaps…” She left it trailing in the air, too unkind to speak aloud.

Mrs. Langtry drew in her breath but at last a retort failed her and she forced a wintry smile, relying on beauty and youth alone, which were sure cards in any game. And certainly she was an exceptionally beautiful woman.

Vespasia had filled her time richly and she did not rue its passing, or regret that which was past. She inclined her head graciously.

“Most-interesting-to have met you, Mrs. Langtry.” And she swept away before victory could in any way be turned into defeat, leaving Charlotte to bring up the rear as she chose.

She caught up with Vespasia, opening her mouth to comment, then changing her mind and assuming an air of total innocence as though she had observed none of the exchange. Charlotte swapped a little polite conversation, suppressing her laughter and seeing the bravado in Vespasia’s eye.

Then balancing a glass of champagne and wishing she knew how to manage a cake elegantly at the same time, and knowing she did not, she made her way to where Emily was talking animatedly with Fitzherbert and Lord Anstiss. Odelia Morden stood desultorily a little to one side, her blush-pink gown and parasol delicate as apple blossoms, white ribbons on her hat and white gloves immaculate. She looked more feminine even than Emily. Charlotte felt a little twist of sorrow for her. She seemed isolated, uncertain what to say or to do.

Charlotte joined the group. Fitz made way for her quickly as though she had rescued him from a sudden silence.

“How nice to see you, Mrs. Pitt. I am sure you are acquainted with Lord Anstiss?”

“Indeed.” Charlotte dropped the slightest of curtseys. “Good afternoon, Lord Anstiss.”

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Pitt.” He smiled back at her. He was a more dynamic man than she had remembered. She was aware not merely of an acute intelligence in his glance, but of an energy within him, a restlessness of interest seeking new knowledge, hungry for experience, curious and powerful, and a needle-sharp humor. He was not a man she would have challenged. The thought of him as a friend was exciting, as an enemy something which raised a prickle of fear.

Apparently she had interrupted a conversation. It was resumed without niceties, and she was absorbed into it easily, which was in itself a kind of compliment.

“We made up a party to see it,” Fitz was saying with a smile. “I must admit I was most keen. Madame Bernhardt has such a reputation…”

“I believe she is to do Joan of Arc next year,” Anstiss said, his eyes bright. “In French.” He glanced at Odelia.

“I should enjoy that,” she said quickly. “I think my French is well enough.”

“I am sure.” He inclined his head very slightly. “After all, we are familiar with the story, and there is something extremely satisfying about watching a drama well played out towards a predestined end of which we are acutely aware. It has a piquancy.”

She seemed aware that he had a meaning deeper than that on the surface, but not what it might be.

“I did see Henry Irving last week,” Fitz offered cheerfully. “He was quite excellent, I thought. Captured the audience completely.”

“Indeed.” Anstiss seemed unconvinced. “Mrs. Pitt? Have you seen anything of interest lately?”

“Not at the theater, my lord.” She suppressed a smile, but saw the quick leap of humor in his eyes. Then as quickly it was gone, and he turned to Fitz again.

“I imagine you will be marrying soon?” He looked in Odelia’s direction. “Are you planning the Grand Tour as a honeymoon? You could leave in a month or two and still be returned long before a general election.” He shrugged. “Unfortunately one must think of such things. I apologize for raising the subject. It seems indelicate, but however graceful and amateur we may wish to appear, politics is a very professional affair, if we wish to succeed.” His words were pleasant, his voice quite light, but there was steel beneath it, and Fitz was not the only one to realize it. An answer was required, if he wished Anstiss to consider him for selection.

Beside Charlotte, Emily drew in her breath sharply.

Fitz raised his eyes slowly, his face losing the casual interest and the ease disappearing. Odelia waited motionless, except that her fingers curled tightly on the handle of her parasol.

“Of course,” he said slowly. “The art is to make the work look like a hobby, an interest undertaken for its own sake, and the skill like an art, something a gentleman might do to fill his time.”

“Oh quite,” Anstiss agreed with a smile that touched only his lips; his eyes did not flicker. “But we have enough dilettante politicians already. We need men who are committed.”

The last trace of lightness disappeared from Fitz’s eyes. He knew he could no longer evade making an irretrievable statement, a date he would have to abide by, regardless of either his own emotions or Odelia’s.

Anstiss was waiting.

Emily opened her mouth to prompt Fitz, then changed her mind, realizing she would intrude in something too serious for such comment to be anything but misplaced.

“I-” Fitz began, then stopped, his face pale. He turned himself to meet Odelia’s gaze. It was a long, painful look, his face puckered in a mixture of apology and shame.

No one else moved, but Anstiss’s brows darkened and the skin across his cheekbones became tighter.

Fitz drew in his breath slowly. The ghost of a smile returned to his lips, but it was bravado. There was no joy in it.

“I value my career, such as it is, and I wish to serve politics wholeheartedly, if I am given the opportunity, but I do not intend to allow it to dictate my personal arrangements, or those of my family. I shall marry when it best suits all those who are concerned.” He met Anstiss’s eyes squarely, although there was still regret and courtesy in his voice. “I hope that does not sound less than civil. It is not meant to.”

There was no answering warmth in Anstiss. His brows drew together, his lips narrowed.

Emily looked at Fitz, then at Odelia. A slow wave of emotion spread up her face, compassion, anxiety, and suddenly Charlotte knew it was not unmixed with guilt. So much hung in the balance, the inflections of Fitz’s words, whether he had the courage or the depth of feeling to cast away all that he was so close to winning, Anstiss’s reaction, Odelia’s-and on all of it depended Jack’s future as well.

Emily avoided Charlotte’s eyes and stepped forward, taking Odelia’s arm.

“Come, let us leave them to talk politics. Tell me of your own thoughts-would you care to do the Grand Tour? I did, you know, and there is much that is fascinating, and I would not have missed, but my goodness it can be uncomfortable at times. I found I am not cut out for physical adventure. Do you know, in Africa I saw-” And the grisly account of what she saw was lost as the two of them drifted away, leaving Fitz alone with Anstiss and Charlotte.

“Very tactful,” Anstiss said dryly without glancing at Emily’s back, although his meaning was quite apparent. “A woman of considerable poise-most necessary for a man who has any hope of surviving in politics.” There was no compromise in his eyes, hard, bleak light gray. “I take it from your reluctance that you have reservations about marrying Miss Morden? Surely you are not still thinking of that wretched Hilliard girl? Very pretty, but not remotely possible as a wife.”

A flash of anger sparked in Fitz’s face.

Anstiss ignored it. He had no need to tread warily. He held the patronage and he knew it.

“Whatever her morality, Fitzherbert-and it is open to question, even at the most charitable interpretation-her reputation is ruined.”

“I beg to differ,” Fitz said with freezing civility. “There has been a little whispering, largely by the idle and ill informed.”

“By society,” Anstiss snapped. “And whatever your opinion of them, or of their intelligence, you would do well to remember it is they who will put you in Parliament-or keep you out!”

A pink flush spread up Fitz’s cheeks, but he was stubborn in his convictions.

“I do not wish to owe my success to those who would grant it to me at the same time as they tear down the reputation of a young woman about whom they know nothing.”

“My dear Fitzherbert, they know she was publicly accused of being Carswell’s mistress, and she made not the slightest effort to deny it. On the contrary, she said nothing at all, and fled the scene-which is a confession of guilt. Not even a fool would deny that.”

Fitz’s face was unyielding, but he had no argument. Whatever his belief, the facts were as Anstiss had said. He was painfully unhappy, but he refused to give ground. He stood upright, head high, lips tight.

“Can you give me a date when you will marry Miss Morden?” Anstiss said levelly, his voice courteous and cold. “Keep Miss Hilliard as a mistress if you wish, only for God’s sake be discreet about it. And wait a couple of years-she’ll still be in the business.”

“That is not my standard of morality, sir,” Fitz said stiffly. His face was hot as he was hideously aware of how pompous he sounded, and how offensive, but unable to retreat. “I am surprised that you should suggest such a thing.”

Anstiss smiled sourly. “It is not mine either, Fitzherbert. But then I have no amorous interest in Miss Hilliard. You have made it apparent that you do. I am telling you that is the only arrangement with such a woman that society will accept.”

Fitz stood ramrod straight.

“We shall see.” He bowed. “Good day, sir.”

“Good-bye,” Anstiss replied with the faintest inclination of his head. The dismissal was unmistakable and absolute.

Fitz turned away. With a glance at Anstiss by way of excusing herself, Charlotte followed Fitz through the crowd, as he trod on skirts, brushed past people balancing glasses and plates, till he stood next to a glorious rosebush trailing flowers over an ornamental arch.

There he stopped and faced her.

“I hope you haven’t come to argue me out of it? No-of course you haven’t. You are Mrs. Radley’s sister.”

“I am also Fanny’s friend,” Charlotte said with chill.

He blushed. “I’m sorry. That was appallingly rude, and quite unjustified. I have no one to blame but myself, for any of it. And I’ve treated Odelia abominably. I hope her father will break off our engagement officially, and say that I have consorted with an unsuitable woman and proved myself unworthy of his daughter. Otherwise her reputation…” He left the rest unsaid. They both knew the ugly speculations that followed when a man jilted a young woman. There was the inevitable whisper that he had discovered she was not above suspicion.

“That will damage your own reputation,” Charlotte pointed out. “And untruly.”

“Not untruly. I have consorted with totally unsuitable women.”

“Have you?”

“Fanny…”

“You haven’t consorted with her-you have met her only socially in a way we all have.”

“I will have consorted with her by then-if you will be good enough to tell me where I may find her? You said across the river.”

“I don’t know where, but I can find out, if you are sure. She did not deny her relationship with Mr. Carswell, you know.”

He was very pale.

“I know.”

A few yards to the left a large gentleman in a hussar’s uniform gave a roar of laughter and slapped the shoulders of a slender young man with a large mustache. Behind them two ladies laughed vacuously.

“What Lord Anstiss says is true,” Charlotte went on carefully. But there was a growing hope in her, quite unreasonable and against all her common sense. What happiness could there be for Fitz and Fanny Hilliard? Even if he was rash enough to marry her, and she accepted him, that would not lift her to his social status. His friends would never look upon her as one of them. Whatever they supposed the truth to be, they would remember the charges, and that she had not denied them. She was a loose woman, and he a fool for marrying her. And Anstiss had made it plain that selection for Parliament was ended. Fanny would have to realize what it would cost him. And knowing Fanny better than Fitz did, Charlotte thought she would not marry him at that price.

The hussar hailed someone he knew and went striding over, crying out loudly.

“And consider it from Fanny’s view,” Charlotte went on. “If she loves you, she will not accept you at such a price to you. What happiness would that give her?”

He stared at her, not with the derision she had expected, but with suddenly candid eyes and a dawning brilliance in them.

“You think she loves me? You do. And far more to the point, Mrs. Pitt, you think her a woman of selflessness and such honor that she would prize my welfare and my reputation above her own, and her security as my wife.” Impulsively he put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her cheek. “Bless you, Mrs. Pitt, for a devious and unconventional woman. Now you will find out for me where I may call upon Fanny, because having gone this far you cannot now abandon me. And you will do your brother-in-law a favor, because he is an excellent fellow, and will make a fine member of Parliament, thoroughly acceptable to his lordship, having a wife above criticism, intelligent, tactful, charming and I suspect extremely clever. And her reputation is spotless.”

“I will find out,” she agreed with a rueful smile. “But I will ask Fanny if she wishes to receive you.”

“No-don’t do that. She will refuse. Allow me to press my own suit. I give you my word I will not harass her. And she has a brother to protect her-just tell me where I may call. For heaven’s sake, Mrs. Pitt, I am gentleman enough not to pay my attentions where they are unwanted.”

Charlotte bit her lip to suppress her amusement.

“Have they ever been unwanted, Mr. Fitzherbert?”

A little of the natural color returned to his face. He was being teased, and he could see it.

“Not often,” he admitted with a spark of the old humor. “But I think I’ll know it if I see it. Promise me.”

“I promise,” she conceded. “Now I must return to Emily and see what progresses. I shall send the address to her, and you may fetch it there.”

And with that he was content. He thanked her again and she excused herself and threaded her way back to where Emily was talking about climate to a retired colonel with a bristling mustache and stentorian opinions about India.

While Charlotte was attending the garden party, Pitt returned to the job he hated of further investigating Samuel Urban. It was something he could not avoid, whatever his personal liking for the man or his desire to believe him guilty of no more than misjudgment, and seeking a second and forbidden income in a manner which would have been perfectly legal had he not been in the police. It was far preferable in his mind to Latimer’s gambling and condoning of bare-knuckle fistfighting. But bitter experience had taught him that people otherwise law abiding and in many ways likable could, when frightened enough, caught without time to think, commit murder. And often men he despised for cruelty, indifference to others’ pain or humiliation, were nevertheless capable of coolness of thought which avoided the need for violence. Not that they abhorred it but because they understood the terrible consequences for themselves.

It was little use retracing his steps over Urban’s old cases until he knew of something else to look for. He had found no unexplainable irregularities the first time, and he knew where the extra money came from. Whether he had used his office to further the cause of the Inner Circle or not could wait for another time. Pitt thought not. He remembered how angry Urban had been over the Osmar case, and the influence he believed the Circle had brought to bear on that. And the very fact that he had betrayed them so far as to tell Pitt of their existence and his own membership was proof which way his loyalties lay.

In fact the more Pitt thought of him, the deeper was his liking for Urban personally, and his conviction that the Inner Circle had not succeeded in corrupting him to its uses. His disobedience had been the reason his name was on the list in the first place.

Then why was Carswell’s name there? He had succumbed. He had dismissed Osmar’s case. And what about Latimer? He needed to know more.

Where to find it?

He began with the music halls where Urban might have been seeking more remunerative employment, if he was telling the truth about the night Weems was killed. They were tawdry in the daylight: stages dusty, backdrops unreal; all the glamour lent by music, shadows and spotlights was gone, leaving a curious nakedness. It took him all day tramping from one hall to another, questioning reluctant management, which was very much on its dignity, protesting uprightness, moral probity and reputations not helped by having the like of Pitt hanging around asking questions. Yes of course they inquired into the backgrounds of everyone they hired. It was regrettably necessary to employ people to keep order, human nature being as it was, but they took on only men of the best character. It was grossly unfair that anyone should suggest otherwise.

Pitt brushed aside their arguments. He was not on this occasion interested in the general excellence of the establishment, only had they recently interviewed a man answering the description he gave.

Unfortunately three managers said they had. But in each case the description was so general it could have been Urban, or any of a thousand others. It only highlighted the impossibility of proving Urban innocent, unless the managers were faced with the actual man, and their memories were clear enough to make a positive identification.

Finally he went back to the hall in Stepney where he knew Urban had worked and asked to see the manager. A large man with thin hair scraped across the top of his head, and graying at the temples, came out to see him. He was well dressed, and it flashed through Pitt’s mind that he possibly owned the building as well as ran it.

“Yes, Inspector? My name is Caulfield, Hosea Caulfield. What can I do for you?” he asked agreeably. His voice was light and his diction a little sibilant. “Always help the police, if I can. What is it this time? Not that bouncer fellow again, is it? Getting hisself into trouble? Police were ’ere asking about him.”

“Yes it is,” Pitt answered, watching the man’s face, noticing the way he stood. There was something about him that puzzled, something not what he expected.

“Oh dear.” Caulfield rubbed his hands together as if he were cold, although it was midsummer and humid. “I feared as much, since the other officer was here. But I can’t help you.” He shook his head. “He never came back. Scarpered, you might say. Suspicious that, in itself.”

Pitt struggled to place what it was in the man that troubled him. He had spoken to enough music hall managers. They were all civil, but they were not fond of the police, and were better pleased to see him leave than arrive. But Caulfield was almost eager. He stood on the balls of his feet and under his fair brows his eyes were sharp on Pitt’s face. He was waiting for something, and it was not for Pitt to go. He wanted something first. Was it to receive information, or to give it?

To give it. Pitt could tell him nothing he could not have found out from Innes, and by general inquiry. And there was some emotion in him far stronger than fear, at least than fear of Pitt.

“What is it I can tell you, Inspector?” Caulfield urged, his face eager, his manner wavering between the dignified and deferential, as though he was uncertain of his role. “I know very little of the man, except he did his job well. Never gave me any trouble. Although he was an odd one.” He shook his head, then when Pitt was silent, pursued his thoughts regardless. “Struck up some strange friendships, or perhaps acquaintances would be a better term for it. I suppose a music hall is a good place for meeting people casually, unobserved, as it were, if you know what I mean?” He looked at Pitt questioningly.

Pitt found himself disliking him, and instinct fought with reason. He was being unfair. The man was probably anxious for his livelihood. There had already been one policeman inquiring about his employees. If he now suspected there had been some criminal activity on his premises he had every reason to be worried. An innocent man would behave this way.

Caulfield was watching Pitt’s face closely.

“Do you want to see the room he used?” he asked, licking his lips.

“Used?” Pitt said with a frown. “For what purpose?” Caulfield looked uncomfortable.

“Well-perhaps ‘room’ is a bit of a grand term for it.” He shrugged elaborately. “More of a cubbyhole, really. He-he asked to keep things now and then.” He looked sideways at Pitt rapidly then away again. “So of course I said ’E could. No harm in obliging.” He seemed to feel some need to explain himself as he led Pitt along a narrow, airless corridor and unlocked the door of a room very spartanly furnished with a wooden table, an unframed glass on the wall above it, two wooden chairs and a set of cupboards against the far wall, several tall enough to serve as wardrobes, and an uncurtained window looking into the blind wall of the next building.

“We use it for changing rooms for extra artistes,” Caulfield explained, waving his arm vaguely at the table.

Pitt said nothing.

Caulfield seemed to feel compelled to go on talking, his face growing pinker.

“Your man used that cupboard at the end there.” He pointed with a well-manicured hand.

Pitt looked, but did not move towards it.

Caulfield took a deep breath and licked his lips again. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to take a look inside?”

Pitt raised his eyebrows.

“Is there something in it?”

“I-well-I, er…” Caulfield was plainly caught in some embarrassment. Why? If he had looked that was not hard to understand. It was his cupboard and the man to whom he had lent its use had gone without warning. It would be usual to look and see if he had left anything behind. Such an act needed no explanation and certainly no apology.

Pitt regarded him unblinkingly and Caulfield colored.

“No,” he denied. “I don’t know if there’s anything there. I just thought-you bein’ police, and interested in the man, like, you’d want to see.”

“I do,” Pitt agreed, certain now that he would find something. It was unfair to be angry with the manager. It should have been Urban; it was Urban who had been greedy for the pictures and Urban who had gone moonlighting to get the money. No one had pushed him into ruining his career, certainly not this curiously uncomfortable man with his red face and constantly moving hands. “By the way, why was the room locked? There hardly seems anything worth stealing.”

Again Caulfield was thrown off balance. He shifted his feet.

“I-er-well-habit, I suppose. Sometimes people leave things…” He tailed off. “Do you want to see in the cupboard? Don’t mean to be uncivil, sir, but I do have duties…”

“Of course.” Pitt went over to the corner and opened the cupboard door. Inside was a large parcel, about two feet by three feet tall, but barely two inches thick, and wrapped in brown paper tied with string. He did not need to undo it to know what it was.

For once Caulfield kept silent. There was not even an in-drawn breath of surprise.

“Did he often leave pictures here?” Pitt asked.

Caulfield hesitated.

“Well?” Pitt asked.

“He often had parcels that size with ’im,” Caulfield said nervously. “He didn’t say what they were, an’ I didn’t ask. It did cross my mind as he was an artist, maybe, an’ that was why ’E needed the work extra.”

“An artist carrying his pictures about with him to work at a music hall?” Pitt sounded dubious.

“Well-yes.” Caulfield rose to his feet and his eyes were very wide as he gazed at Pitt. “ ’E did come with one picture sometimes, an’ leave with a different one.”

“How do you know? At first you didn’t even know they were pictures. You said ‘parcels.’ ”

“Well-I mean-the parcel ’E left with was a different size. an’ I just supposed they were pictures cause o’ the shape.” His voice grew sharper with irritation. “An’-An’ he carried them very careful, like. And because he asked to keep ’em safe, I took it as they was of value to ’im. What else could they be?”

Slowly Pitt undid the string and the paper and disclosed a large, very ornate, carved and gilded frame, containing nothing but a bare wood backing.

“Frames?” he said with a lift of bleak astonishment in his voice.

“Well I never!” The response was not wholly convincing. “What’d ’E do that for? I wonder what ’appened to the picture? Looks like there was one, don’t it?”

“It does,” Pitt conceded reluctantly. The frame was far from new and the backing was dark with age. It was probably the frame and backing from an old work of value. He ran his fingers over it and felt the smooth surfaces. He was not sure, but he thought it was probably gold leafed, not merely gilt paint.

“You reckon it’s stolen?” Caulfield said from close behind him.

“A stolen picture frame?” Pitt said with surprise.

“Well obviously there was a picture in it. Whoever it was he sold it to didn’t want the frame.”

“Or maybe he found an old frame for someone and brought it for them?” Pitt suggested, not believing it himself for a moment.

“Well it’s your business,” Caulfleld said resignedly. “You do as you like. I got my own affairs to run. If you seen what you need, maybe you’ll take that with you and I’ll call it an end to the matter.”

Pitt picked up the frame and rewrapped it.

“Yes, I’ll take it.”

“I’ll want a paper,” Caulfleld warned. “Just to protect me, like. I don’t want some other police officer comin’ ’ere and saying I kept it or sold it for myself.” This time he looked Pitt squarely in the face.

Pitt understood. What he meant was that he wanted proof that Pitt had found it, so he would be obliged to report it to his senior. That was the purpose of it, to make sure Urban was implicated. In what? Art theft, forgery, fencing stolen works-bribery with paintings for an officer who was prepared to turn his back now and again on theft? He was chilled inside. The Inner Circle again? Urban had defied them a second time by pressing for prosecution in the Osmar case. He had invited a more severe discipline than merely his name on Weems’s list. Was this it?

A loathing for the manager welled up inside him, although he knew it was unreasonable. Very probably the man was caught by the Inner Circle himself.

“That’s quite fair,” he said with a smile over bared teeth. “I shall take the matter back to Bow Street and report it to Mr. Urban; he’s head of the uniformed men there. I’ll tell him you are most cooperative. I daresay no one will bother you any further.”

Caulfleld drew in his breath sharply, his eyes wide. He was about to protest, then remembered just in time that he was not supposed to know who his employee had been. He had almost betrayed himself. With care he ironed out the expression from his face and forced himself to smile back at Pitt, a bare glimmer of triumph in his eyes for at least one snare avoided.

“Yes of course. I’m obliged. Now the paper, if you please? Just for my safeguard, you understand.”

“Oh I understand,” Pitt said viciously. “I understand perfectly. You’d better bring me a pen and paper.”

Caulfleld inclined his head. “Of course, right away, Officer.”

While Pitt was in Stepney struggling with the question of Urban and the Inner Circle, Charlotte sought for Fanny’s address and sent it to Emily so she might give it to Fitz. Then after a day spent in furious housework, baking bread and cakes more than anyone wanted, and ironing everything she could reach, laundered or not, she finally came to a decision the following morning. She confided to Gracie what she was going to do, and then set out in her best summer day dress and coat against a rising wind. She hired a hansom cab to take her to the magistrate’s court where Addison Carswell was accustomed to preside.

She had already written him a very carefully worded letter reminding him who she was, and that she had befriended Fanny Hilliard and grown fond of her on the several occasions on which they had met, so much so that Fanny had confided in her some of her present troubles. Therefore she would be most grateful if in the interests of compassion, Mr. Carswell would do her the honor of taking luncheon with her, so they might discuss how best to be of assistance to that charming but unfortunate young woman, for whom it seemed they both had some affection.

It was not intended as a threat-apart from anything else she would not have betrayed Fanny’s confidence in her-but on the other hand she did not wish Carswell simply to send a note to decline and say that he wished her well, but he had not the time to indulge in luncheons, much as he might care to.

She had been quite shameless in asking Emily for the means to pay both for the hansom ride there and back, and for luncheon at a public restaurant should Carswell accept, and not offer to pay for them both. She had also written to Emily and had Gracie post the letter on the previous evening. She had been unequivocal.

Dear Emily,

I am sure you are quite as desirous as I am that all should work out as well as possible between Fitz and Fanny Hilliard, albeit our interests are not precisely the same, but perhaps close-I do care very much that Jack should be selected for Parliament, and I am sure he will succeed when he is there. However you know as well as I that in the process poor Fanny seems to have suffered greatly. She is innocent of the charge, for which you will have to accept my word-one day I may be able to tell you the truth, which is quite remarkable. In the meantime I am going to do what I can to set matters right-for which I shall need a small sum, sufficient to take a hansom cab into the city, and back again, and treat a certain gentleman to luncheon, in an effort to get him to assist by making the truth known-to Fitz at least, if no one else.

I trust totally that you will help, therefore I shall take the money from my housekeeping, and rely on you to replace it.

Your loving sister, Charlotte

She sat in the hansom with every confidence that at least the mechanics of her plan would work. What was far more in the balance was whether she would find the words to persuade Addison Carswell to jeopardize everything he possessed in order to help Fanny, especially when there was no certainty that it was what Fanny herself wished.

In fact, as she jolted along, Charlotte began to have doubts that what she was doing was wise. She could not foresee the outcome, but she was perfectly sure Fanny loved Fitz and desired that he should know the truth about her and Carswell, and that Fanny herself would not tell him.

She reached the courthouse long before she was ready, and was obliged to alight, pay the cabby and either stand on the pavement and cause people to wonder and perhaps be accosted by peddlers, newsboys shouting the scandal of the latest case, or beggars in need of assistance she could not afford to give, or else to go straight in.

She wrapped her coat a little tighter around her, not because it was cold, but instinctively in a kind of protection, as though she was chilled and vulnerable, and ascended the steps.

Inside the courthouse was busy and impersonal. There were many nervous women clutching coats and shawls around themselves, pale faced, watching every passerby, hesitant to speak and yet seemingly wishing to. Shabby men waited, hands in pockets, eyes furtive. Bailiffs and clerks hurried past carrying piles of papers, gowns flying, wigs making them look either important or slightly ridiculous, depending on one’s own purpose and fears.

Charlotte spoke to one who was going a little less swiftly.

“Excuse me, sir-”

He swung to a stop, turning on his heel and staring at her with brisk arrogance.

“Yes ma’am?” He wore wire-rimmed pince-nez and blinked at her through them.

“I have a letter to deliver urgently to Mr. Addison Carswell.” She stated her business without preamble. “To whom may I give it to make certain it reaches him before luncheon?”

“He is in court, ma’am!”

“I assumed that, or I would have attempted to give it to him myself.” She held his eyes without flickering and he seemed somewhat taken aback. It was not what he expected from young women, or indeed any women at all.

“It is important,” she said firmly.

“Is it personal, ma’am?” He was still dubious.

“It is personal to Mr. Carswell,” she replied with a very slight edge to her voice, hoping it would put him off asking anything further about it. “Not to me.”

“Indeed. Then I will take it for you.” He held out his hand.

“Before luncheon,” she repeated, passing it to him.

“Certainly,” he agreed, taking it and putting it in his pocket, then with a nod proceeding on his way.

There was nothing further she could do but find a seat and compose herself to wait for an answer. Usually she enjoyed watching people, their faces, their clothes, their attitudes towards one another, and speculating in her imagination as to what they were like, their occupations, relationships. But in this place there was so much anxiety, hopelessness and underlying fear that it was too harrowing. She sat instead and whiled away the time wondering about Lord and Lady Byam, and Lady Byam’s relationship with Micah Drummond, and what manner of person Lord Anstiss might be if one knew him as a friend and were not overawed by him, indeed how Laura Anstiss had seen him!

She was quite lost in this when the lawyer’s clerk returned and stood in front of her with rather more courtesy than previously.

“Mrs. Pitt? Mr. Carswell requested me to give you this.” And he held out an envelope for her.

“Thank you.” She took it, surprised to find her fingers clumsy and shaking a little. She waited until he was gone again, bustling away full of importance, before she pulled her gloves off and tore it open. She read:

Dear Mrs. Pitt,

I fear I can contribute very little to Miss Hilliard’s happiness, but I shall be pleased to meet you and hope you will be my guest for luncheon at midday. If you request a clerk to bring you to my chambers I shall escort you to a suitable establishment where we may dine. I request that you will be punctual, because as you may appreciate, my time is circumscribed by the necessities of the court.

Faithfully yours, Addison Carswell

She folded it and put it in her reticule. She had thought to carry a fob watch her father had given her many years ago, against the possibility of having to keep an exact appointment and not being easily within sight of a public clock.

At five minutes before twelve she sought a clerk and was conducted to Cars well’s chambers, and at noon precisely he emerged looking composed but extremely pale. He saw her immediately and his features set, his chin hardened and his mouth thinned into a straight line.

Charlotte was not surprised, although it was an unpleasant feeling. She had worded her request in such a way that he might well think she meant to blackmail him. And indeed if William Weems had done so before, then he could hardly be blamed for such a fear.

“Good day, Mrs. Pitt,” he said levelly. “I am obliged to you for being punctual. May I escort you to luncheon? There is an excellent chophouse ’round the corner where we may sit discreetly without being overheard, and they will serve us without delay.” He did not offer her his arm.

“Thank you, that would be very satisfactory,” she accepted, unreasonably annoyed by an assumption on his part which she had just admitted was quite fair. She walked out, head high, precisely in step with him.

The chophouse was as he had said, noisy, busy with people at almost every table, mostly men and all in dark and sober dress. Waiters passed nimbly, swinging trays on their shoulders and setting dishes and tankards down with flair. When Charlotte and Carswell were seated and Carswell had ordered for them both, he came to the point without the pretense of courtesies. She had no time to look around her any further, which would normally have been most interesting. She had never been in a chophouse before. She assumed the other tables were filled with lawyers and their clients all talking earnestly, heads bent.

“You mentioned Miss Hilliard, Mrs. Pitt,” he said coldly. “And that you had formed an affection for her. I am quite aware of what unkind gossip has been said of her, and it is not something I propose to discuss with you. I am extremely sorry it has happened.” His eyes were miserable but there was no evasion in them, no flinching from her. “But I know of nothing I can do to repair it. I am sure you are aware that denial would accomplish nothing.”

She felt a considerable pity for him, and no dislike. Even more urgent to her, she had a very real regard for Regina, and knew very well the situation of the other daughters, and their hopes of marriage, indeed their need for it. But she also felt for Fanny, who was being pushed into a position where she alone suffered.

She steeled herself and took the irretrievable step.

“I would not expect you to deny it easily, Mr. Carswell,” she said with a tiny smile. “It is a miserable thing to have people believe, especially since it cannot but hurt your wife and your daughters, and ruin Miss Hilliard in society-which I know is not everything. The circle of people who have heard the rumor is small enough, and there may be other alliances open to her, in time…”

She took a deep breath and went on. “And ugly as it is, it is far better than the truth.” She saw him pale, but his expression barely changed and his eyes never left hers. She knew from the icy hardness in them that he was now quite certain in his mind that she had come to extort money. The contempt in him could almost be felt across the white-clothed table and the knives and forks.

He remained silent.

She was about to continue when the waiter brought them their meals and set them down.

Carswell thanked him grimly and dismissed him.

“I am sure you have some point, Mrs. Pitt. I would be obliged if you would reach it.”

A flicker of anger moved in her.

“I know that Fanny is your daughter, Mr. Carswell. I do not expect you to tell the world so; it would ruin your-your present wife and your other daughters, and Fanny herself would never wish that. Which indeed you know, since she left all that she hoped for and retreated to her home in disgrace, rather than explain herself and tell anyone, even Herbert Fitzherbert.”

He was staring at her without blinking. At the table behind him a young man was waving a legal document in the air, its red seal catching the light, its ribbons flapping. A waiter passed by with two tankards of ale on a tray.

“What is it you want of me, Mrs. Pitt?” Carswell asked her between clenched teeth.

“I want you to consider telling Herbert Fitzherbert the truth,” she replied. “He loves Fanny, and is prepared to marry her in spite of the scandal, but she will not trust even him and defend herself. I find it very hard that he will always think her a woman of no virtue, and in time it may come to sour his regard for her and cause suspicion between them. He has forfeited his opportunity to Parliament; his love for her is of greater value to him. But I fear she will not tell him the truth herself, in order to protect you, and she will not marry him as long as he does not know it but believes her your mistress.”

She picked up her glass by the stem, and then put it down again.

“Also her brother deserves to know. Why should she endure his contempt as well? She will become quite isolated and believed immoral by those she cares for most, and all to protect you and your new family. Is that something you can live with happily, Mr. Carswell?”

His face was pink, his eyes wretched. He fought off the most horrible decision a moment longer by facing the lesser.

“And what is your intent, Mrs. Pitt? Why do you concern yourself with this? You have known Fanny only a very short time. I find it hard to believe your emotion is so engaged.”

“I am aware of what you suppose, Mr. Carswell, and given your connection with Weems it is not unreasonable.” She saw his face blanch and a look of incredulity come over it. Then slowly realization came to him. “Pitt-Mrs. Pitt? You cannot be…”

All the world of social differences was there in his unspoken words: the gulf between Charlotte as Emily’s sister, receiving society, dancing, dining, visiting the opera; and as the wife of Pitt, a policeman calling at people’s houses to ask about the murder of a usurer in the back streets of Clerkenwell.

She swallowed back the sharp defense that came leaping to her tongue. With icy dignity, still less now would she permit him to think she would stoop to blackmail.

“I am,” she agreed. “And yes my emotion is engaged on Fanny’s behalf. It seems someone’s needs to be. Yours is not.”

He flushed hotly.

“That is unfair, Mrs. Pitt! Surely you must have some idea what it would do to my present family if such a thing were to become known? They are totally innocent, just as innocent of any wrong as Fanny. I have four daughters and a son. Would you have them ruined for Fanny’s sake?” His voice shook a little and Charlotte realized with sudden pity how appallingly difficult it was for him to be telling such intimate details of his life to someone who was not only a stranger, but an unsympathetic one.

“It is my error,” he went on, looking not at her but at his plate. Neither of them could eat. “I married Fanny’s mother when I was twenty and she seventeen. We thought we loved each other. She was so very pretty, full of life and laughter…” For a moment his face softened. “Like Fanny herself.” He sighed. “For four years everything was happy; Fanny was born, and then James. Then when James was still a baby, Lucy changed completely. She became infatuated with a dance teacher, of all things. I suppose I was absorbed in my work. I was an aspiring lawyer then, trying to take all the cases I could, and finding it hard to make sufficient money to keep us well-and I was ambitious.”

Charlotte took a bite of her meal, but her attention was undivided.

“I left her too much alone, I accept. And I was not yet in that place in society or income where I could offer her the pastimes she wished.” He shrugged. “She left her home and went off with the dancing master, taking the children with her.”

Charlotte was stunned. She knew the law regarding errant wives and their children.

“Did you not require that she at least leave the children in your custody?” she asked in surprise. “Even if you did not wish her back.”

He blushed. “No. I thought of it-and the embarrassment of admitting that my wife had run off with a dancing master. It hurt that I should lose my children, but what could I offer them? A nurse to care for them while I was working. She loved them and was a good mother.”

“And the dancing master?”

“It did not last.” There was pity both in his face and in his voice. “In two years he died of typhus, which was perhaps less cruel than if he had deserted her. She was living in the house off the Kennington Road, which he owned, and it became hers.” He colored with awareness of guilt. “Of course I should have divorced her, but I was ashamed of the scandal. And since I was in law, my friends would have known and I could not bear their pity. I could not afford to entertain, and with two nursing children Lucy had not had the inclination to accept invitations which we could not return. They did not know I was married, and so I simply said nothing.”

“What about her parents?” Charlotte asked.

“Lucy was an orphan. Her guardian, an elderly uncle, had nothing more to do with her personally after our marriage. He considered finding her a husband a discharge to his duty towards her.”

“And you did not take her back? Or your children?”

“Neither Lucy nor I had any desire to live under one roof anymore. And it would have been cruel and pointless for me to demand the children. I had no wife at that time who could raise them, and as I have already admitted, I did not wish the world to know of my unfortunate relationship.” He looked up at her, his eyes soft in spite of the misery in them. “And by then I had met Regina, and learned to love her in a way I had not loved Lucy. I was desperate she should not know of any earlier marriage. Her parents would never have looked upon me favorably. It was hard enough to persuade them I could provide for her adequately as it was…” He stopped, looking up at her.

It was not an attractive story and he was painfully aware of it, yet she could very easily understand how it had happened. Told in the space of a few minutes it was bereft of the shock, the sense of humiliation and loneliness; the young man fall of overwhelming inadequacy, fearing ridicule, coming home tired to the house where so shortly before he had been met by wife and children, now finding only servants, polite, distant and unsympathetic.

At last he had simply denied it, pushed it from his mind. Then when happiness had offered itself in the form of Regina, he had grasped it, paying the necessary price. And now twenty-three years later the price had suddenly become so very much higher, and not only he had to pay it, but Fanny-or else Regina and his other children.

“Did you pay Weems?” she asked without warning. His face was slack with surprise.

“No. As God is my judge, I never even knew the man.”

“But you let Horatio Osmar off. You threw the case out without calling Beulah Giles.”

“That had nothing to do with Fanny or my first marriage-or with Weems or his murder.”

“No.” She was about to add that it had everything to do with the secret society of the Inner Circle, when Pitt’s warning about their power rang sharply in her mind, and she bit the words back. “No,” she said again. “I did not think so, but I had to ask. What are you going to do about Fanny and Herbert Fitzheibert?”

“What are you going to do, Mrs. Pitt?”

“Nothing. I have already done all I can. It is your decision.”

“Fitzherbert may betray me, in Fanny’s interest-and his own.”

“He may. But if he does he will lose Fanny’s love forever, and he is quite intelligent enough to know that.”

“I must think.”

“Please do not leave it long. Once Fanny has refused him he may believe her and not ask again.”

“You press me hard, Mrs. Pitt.”

For the first time she smiled. “Yes. It is a very hard matter. I daresay Mrs. Carswell-by that I mean Regina-may find it very difficult to accept that your marriage to her is bigamous.” She saw him wince but carried on. “But I think she might find it no more painful than the thought that you have been currently having an affaire with a girl Fanny’s age. Surely when faced with two such awful alternatives, there is something to be said for the truth-and before the lie can bite too deep with its pain.”

“Do you believe that? How would you feel, Mrs. Pitt, to discover that your husband was not your husband at all, and that your beloved children were illegitimate?”

“I cannot think how dreadful I should feel, Mr. Carswell. Or how angry and how confused and betrayed. But I think I might find it easier to forgive than the thought that my husband had loved and been intimate with a girl not much older than my own daughter.”

He smiled very bleakly. “How very aspiring to the genteel, Mrs. Pitt. I might even say working class. A lady would accept such a thing as part of life, and as long as it was not forced upon her attention or made public to her embarrassment, she would scarcely observe it at all. Indeed, a lady of refined tastes might very well be glad her husband satisfied his less pleasing appetites elsewhere without troubling her, and causing her to bear a larger family than she wished, or her health could support.”

“Then I am quite definitely of a distinctly lower class, Mr. Carswell,” she said with crisp satisfaction. “If that is the guide by which to judge. And I would not be surprised if Mrs. Carswell is as well. But the decision is yours.” And with that she bent to eat some of her almost cold pork chop, and drink a little of the really very good wine.

“I will speak to Fitzherbert,” he said at last, just before they rose to leave. “And to James.”

“Thank you,” she accepted, matter-of-factly, as if he had passed the salt. But inside she felt a little swift, singing happiness, very small, very bright.

In the days after the garden party at which Fitz had made it only too apparent that he did not intend to marry Odelia, and had virtually defied Lord Anstiss, Jack Radley became very slowly and painfully aware of just what such an act had cost him.

Nothing was said. No overt comments were made and Jack did not hear Anstiss himself make any remark at all, and he saw him on several social occasions. The first thing he came across was at his club, where he overheard quite by chance two men he knew slightly, discussing Fitz and shaking their heads over the fact that he had been blackballed from another club of which one of them was a member.

“Good heavens, George. Herbert Fitzherbert? Really!” The man’s blond eyebrows rose in amazement. “Whatever for? Always thought he was a pretty decent chap-one of us, and all that.”

“So did I,” his friend agreed. “That’s what made it stick in my mind.”

“Sure it was Fitzherbert?”

“ ’Course I’m sure. Take me for a fool, Albert?”

“Whatever for? Not because that girl Morden jilted him, surely? Don’t care what he did, you don’t blackball a fellow for that sort of thing. Good God, if they started doing that, there’d be precious few of us left, what.”

“No, of course not. Something else. Don’t know what exactly. Word went out. That’s all I know. But I’ll tell you this: White’s follows-and then all the other clubs worth belonging to.”

“You think so? But what’s he done?”

“Doesn’t really matter, poor fellow. Don’t need to know, people just follow suit. Too bad. Liked him. Nice chap, always agreeable, and generous.”

“Can’t be that Hilliard girl, can it?”

“Don’t be an ass. Who the devil cares if a fellow sees a lady of dubious reputation? Long as you don’t insult your wife, or expect decent people to treat her like one of the family…”

“Oh really? Does the Prince of Wales know that?”

“What? Oh-Mrs. Langtry? Well what the Marlborough House set do isn’t really the pattern for all of us. Can’t get away with it just because they do. Anyway, all he did, as I hear, was flirt with the girl a bit. No harm in that. No-no, it’s something else. No idea what.”

Jack did not know that it was Anstiss, but he feared it. He remembered the anger in his eyes, the sudden hard line of his mouth. It had changed from being an amiable, intelligent face into one that held a ruthlessness that was final.

He heard other remarks, saw the change in people’s expressions when Fitz’s name was mentioned.

“It is a curious comment on one’s acquaintances,” he said to Emily and Charlotte one afternoon as they were sitting in Charlotte’s garden in the sun. They had called briefly to tell her of their change in plans. He smiled with an uncharacteristic twist of cynicism. “I think I can almost divide them into two classes: those I admire and those I don’t, according to their reactions. It is a very sour thing to discover how many people are prepared to condemn a man without knowing even what it is he is supposed to have done, let alone whether he is guilty of it or not.”

“You shouldn’t be surprised, my dear,” Emily said with a sad little grimace. “Society is all about influence and fashion. Someone with influence has blackballed Fitz, and suddenly he is no longer fashionable. Everyone, or almost everyone, is a follower, trying desperately to climb a little higher. And since no one knows where they are going, it is imperative one follows the right people.”

Charlotte shot her a glance to see if she were as bitter as her words, but saw the flicker of amusement in her eyes, and was reassured that it was a tolerant understanding and not a matter of self-pity, or worse, of hatred.

“What are you going to do?” Charlotte asked, looking at Jack.

“Tell Lord Anstiss that I will seek selection, but that I will not enter the society to which he has invited me,” Jack answered with sudden deep seriousness. And looking at him more closely Charlotte saw the gravity in him, and a flicker of fear. She knew then that he believed it was Anstiss at the back of Fitz’s disfavor. They were all aware of his real power, not the money, the philanthropy, the open counsel, patronage and hospitality, but the influence that made or broke people according to his wish. He was a Mend one could not do without, he was also an enemy one could not afford.

“He will not like it,” Charlotte said quietly, but inside she was immensely relieved. No hope of failure Anstiss could threaten was anything like the horror that the Inner Circle visited on its members, the twisting of conscience, the tearing of loyalties, the secrecy and uncertainty, not knowing who to trust, and thus in the end the distrust of everyone, and the final utter loneliness.

“I know,” Jack agreed. “And I don’t know whether it is the same secret society that Thomas mentioned, but just in case, I should prefer not to.”

“But you will still stand?”

“Of course. But independently, if that is the price.” His smile was a little bleak. Perhaps already he had some idea that indeed that was the price, and in the end without the help of Anstiss and people like him, he would have no better a chance than Fitz.

Charlotte felt an overwhelming rush of sadness for all that he might have accomplished, and a pride in him that he would not do it at such a cost. She glanced across at Emily, and saw the answering pride in her eyes, and a happiness that was brighter than ambition, even for the opportunity to serve.

“I’m glad,” Charlotte said quietly. “No one can please everyone. It is very important indeed to know whose approval matters in the end.”