Callander Square

TWO

The following day Pitt went back to Callander Square, hoping to interview the servants in the last two houses, but it was not until the early afternoon that they returned from their long weekends in the country. Consequently it was nearly three o’clock when he was shown by the Campbells’ butler into the back parlor and, one by one, saw the rest of the servants. Of course they were expecting his questions-the news must have been virtually waiting for them on the doorstep in the shape of scullery maid, tweeny, or bootboy bursting with the events and their own rich interpretations of them.

Pitt learned nothing new, and he was ready to leave when he met the mistress of the house. The Honorable Garson Campbell was a younger son of a family of wealth and position, and he had maintained a lifestyle appropriate to it. Mariah Campbell was a pleasant looking woman in her late thirties, with broad, good-humored face and fine, hazel eyes. She had been busy unpacking and organizing her family, which, she explained hastily, comprised a son, Albert, and two daughters, Victoria and Mary. She showed considerable distress on hearing of the purpose of his questions. Apparently the gossip had not reached her, and she begged that he would be discreet enough that the children might not come to hear of it.

“I assure you, ma’am, I should not dream of introducing such a subject to a child,” he said honestly, although he forbore to say that if some child should mention the matter to him, he would not be averse to listening. He had usually found children much less affected by death than adults. And it was a rare child indeed that was not inveterately inquisitive, and would have extracted from the servants every last detail that was to be had, or even invented and embroidered upon.

“Thank you,” she said courteously. “Children can be-hurt,” she was looking out of the window, “and frightened. There is so much that is ugly. The least we can do is protect them from it as long as we are able.”

Pitt was of a totally different opinion. He believed that the longer you hid from the truth the less able you were to cope with it when it finally broke through all the barriers, like a dammed river, and carried away the careful structure of your life with it. He opened his mouth to argue, to say that a little at a time bred some tolerance to pain, a balance; but remembered his place. Policemen did not give advice in the upbringing of children to ladies who lived in Callander Square. In fact, policemen did not philosophize at all.

“I’m afraid, ma’am, that they may well hear it from the servants,” he said gently.

She frowned at him.

“I shall forewarn the servants,” she answered. “Any servant who mentions such a thing will lose his or her position.”

Pitt spared a thought for the unwitting maid who in a careless, garrulous moment might yield to childish insistence, or even petty blackmail, and thus lose home and job at one blow. Childhood would have given her no such protection from the unpleasant realities of life.

“Naturally,” Pitt agreed sadly. “But there are other servants in the square, ma’am; and other children.”

Instead of the anger he had expected, she merely looked suddenly tired.

“Of course, Mr.-Pitt, did you say? And children will tell each other such gruesome stories. Still, I’m sure you will not frighten anyone unnecessarily. Do you have children of your own?”

“Not yet, ma’am. My wife is expecting our first.” He said it with a ridiculous sense of pride and waited for her approval.

“I hope everything goes well with her.” There was no light in her face. “Is there anything else I can tell you?”

He was at a loss, deflated.

“No, thank you. I shall almost certainly have to return; it may take us a long time to solve it, if we ever do. But that is all for today.”

“Good afternoon, Mr. Pitt. Jenkins will show you to the door.”

“Good afternoon, ma’am.” He bowed very slightly and went out to the waiting butler and the front door into the leafy square.

The Doran house was utterly different from the other houses in the square. It was unbelievably cluttered with photographs, embroidery, flowers dried, cased in glass, pressed, growing in pots, and even some fresh and arranged in painted vases. There were also at least three birds in cages, all hung with fringes and bells.

The door was opened by a middle-aged parlormaid. This one was an exception to the generality: by no twist of the imagination could she have been chosen for her looks; except that when she opened her mouth her teeth were perfect, and her voice was as rich and smooth as Devon cream.

“We’ve been expecting you,” she said calmly, with a faint southwestern distortion of the vowels. “Miss Laetitia and Miss Georgiana are taking tea. No doubt you will be wanting to speak to them first, as a matter of course.” She did not seem to require an answer to that, and turned away, leaving him to close the door and follow her into the inner recesses.

Laetitia and Georgiana were indeed taking tea. Georgiana was displayed fragilely on a chaise longue, bony as a halfpenny rabbit, and dressed in delicious mauves and grays. Tea was balanced on a three-toed, piecrust table at her elbow. She looked at Pitt without displeasure.

“So you are the policeman? What an odd-looking creature you are, to be sure. Pray do not be vulgar with me. I am extremely delicate. I suffer.”

“I am sorry to hear it.” Pitt controlled his face with an effort. “I hope to disturb you very little.”

“You have already disturbed me, but I shall put up with it in good grace, in the name of necessity. I am Georgiana Duff. This,” she pointed to a slightly younger, better-upholstered version of herself in the other chair, “is my sister, Laetitia Doran. She is the one to have the misfortune, or the ill-judgment, to own a house in such a disastrous place; so you had better address your remarks to her.”

Pitt turned to Laetitia.

“Indeed, Mrs. Doran, my apologies again; but owing to the tragic discovery in the gardens, I am sure you understand it is necessary for us to question the servants, especially the younger, female servants, in all the houses that face onto the square.”

Laetitia blinked.

“Of course,” Georgiana said sharply. “Is that all you’ve come to say?”

“To ask your permission to speak to your servants,” Pitt replied. Georgiana snorted. “You’ll do it anyway!”

“I would prefer to do it with your permission, ma’am.”

“Don’t keep calling me ‘ma’am.’ I don’t like it. And don’t stand there towering over me. You make me feel quite giddy. Sit down, or I shall faint!”

Pitt sat down, stifling a smile.

“Thank you. Have I your permission to interview your servants?” he looked at Laetitia.

“Yes, yes I suppose so,” she said uncomfortably. “Please endeavor not to upset them. It is so hard to replace a servant satisfactorily these days. And poor Georgiana must be properly looked after.”

Pitt privately thought that “poor Georgiana” would see to it herself that, come hell or high water, she would be properly looked after.

“Of course,” he stood up again and moved to the door before Georgiana had time to feel affected by his presence. “Have you had any servants dismissed in the last half year, young women who have left the house?”

“None,” Laetitia said quickly. “We have been exactly as we are for years! Years and years!”

“You have no children, ma’am? Daughters who have married and taken a lady’s maid with them?”

“None at all!”

“Thank you. I shan’t need to disturb you again,” he went out and closed the door softly.

He remained in the Doran house for two hours, but he learned nothing there either.

Charlotte was perfectly correct, Emily was beginning to find that the fashionable life lacked something, a certain bite, for which she was increasingly developing a taste. Beyond question, she enjoyed her life; it was the ideal mode of existence for her. When she and Charlotte were still at home in Cater Street with Mama and Papa, when poor Sarah was alive, Emily had known precisely what suited her. She had determined from very early in their acquaintance that she would marry Lord George Ashworth; and a very satisfactory arrangement it had proved. Of course George had his faults, but then what man did not? His overriding virtue was that he appreciated her, and was constantly both generous and civil; and he was undoubtedly handsome to look at, and witty when he chose. It would be pleasant if he would gamble a little less, it was a shocking waste of money. But if he flirted, he was eminently discreet about it, and he very seldom went out without inviting Emily also; and he did not nag her as to her occupations or the female society she kept. And that was a considerable point in his favor. Emily knew any number of wives who were forever being left at home while their husbands went to places wholly unsuitable for a woman of any decency at all, and yet criticized them for extravagance or for the afternoon parties they themselves put on.

But undeniably there was a certain lack, a purposelessness to her present round. Since she was Lady Ashworth, she had already done with relative ease all the social climbing she desired, at least for the moment. Charlotte’s disgusting mystery might prove to be just the diversion she required, and it had the additional advantage of being genuinely helpful to someone, if the wretched girl were ever found!

And also, she was very fond of her sister. Of course Charlotte was socially impossible! It would never do to introduce her to the afternoons, the dinners, and the balls she herself attended; although on some of the more pompous occasions she had frequently found it passing through her mind to wonder what Charlotte might have said, had she been there. This affair would also give her an opportunity for them to do something together, which in itself would be pleasant.

When George returned, in time to change for dinner, she abandoned her dignity and scampered up the stairs after him. He turned at the top in surprise.

“What’s the matter?”

“I want to meet Christina Balantyne,” she said immediately.

“Tonight?” He was incredulous, a smile on his elegant mouth. “She’s not all that amusing, I assure you!”

“I don’t want to be amused. I want to be invited to her house, or at least to be able to call without obviously seeking her acquaintance.”

“Whatever for?” His eyebrows went up over his dark eyes. “Is it Augusta you want to meet? Very grand, Augusta. Her father was a duke, and she’s lived up to it all her life; not that it is any effort, I think.”

It was not the reason, but it seemed an excellent explanation to adopt.

“Yes, I would. Please, George?” she smiled at him frankly.

“You’ll be disappointed. You won’t like her,” he looked down with a faint frown.

“I don’t care about liking her, I just want to be able to call!”

“Why?”

“George, I don’t press you about your friends at White’s, or Boodle’s, or wherever it is; let me entertain myself by calling upon whom I please.” She smiled at him with a mixture of charm, because she genuinely liked him, and honesty, because the pretense between them was wholly one of manners, and there was no real deception.

He patted her on the cheek and kissed her.

“It should be easy enough to look up Brandy Balantyne, and he’s an amiable fellow. In fact he’s the best of his family, by a long way. You’ll be disappointed in the others, I warn you!”

“Maybe,” she smiled seraphically, utterly satisfied. “But I wish to discover for myself.”

It was three days before Emily’s plans bore fruit and she was able to dress carefully in muted browns with gold trimmings and fur muff against the cold, and set out to call upon Christina Balantyne. Her attire seemed to her precisely the right mixture of dignity and assurance, coupled with the quality of friendliness that a lady of title could afford to extend toward someone who was very nearly of her own social rank, but not quite. She had also taken the trouble to ascertain that Christina would be at home this afternoon: and that had required some delicate detective work through her lady’s maid, who just happened to have scraped an acquaintance with the lady’s maid of a certain Susanna Barclay, who was in the habit of calling at Callander Square herself. Indeed, there lay more in common between Emily and Mr. Pitt than Pitt would have imagined.

Emily duly bade her carriage with its footmen wait, and presented herself at the door of the Balantynes’ house at quarter to four. It was opened by the parlormaid, as was the custom in the afternoon. Emily smiled charmingly, took her card from its ivory case, and held it out in an elegantly gloved little hand. She was proud of her hands.

The parlormaid took it, read it without appearing to, and returned the smile.

“If your ladyship would be pleased to come in, Lady Augusta and Miss Christina are receiving in the withdrawing room.” It was an unusually voluble greeting, and could only be accounted for by the fact that Emily was a viscountess, and had not called before, therefore her visit in person, instead of merely leaving a card, was something of an honor; and a good parlormaid was as well versed in the niceties of social distinctions as her mistress.

She did not knock at the door, such would have been considered vulgar, but pushed it open and announced Emily.

“Lady Ashworth.”

Emily was agog with curiosity, but naturally she concealed it with a magnificent dignity. She sailed into the room looking neither to right nor left, holding out her hand. There was a slight flutter among the half dozen or so ladies present, a natural interest quickly stifled by protocol. It was not done to display such an unsophisticated emotion.

Lady Augusta remained seated.

“How charming,” she said with a slight lift in her voice. “Pray do sit down, Lady Ashworth. So gracious of you to call.”

Emily sat down, arranging her skirt almost absently, but precisely to its best advantage.

“I’m sure we have many mutual friends,” Emily said noncommittally. “It must be only chance that we have not met before.”

“Indeed,” Augusta would not commit herself either. “I know you are acquainted with my daughter, Christina.” It was a statement. Emily looked across at the pretty face of Christina with its soft little chin and full lips. It was an unusual face; far more important than beauty, it had individuality, and considerable provocation, a face that men would no doubt find attractive. It promised both appetite and yielding. But then men were incredibly foolish where women were concerned. Emily could see at a glance the hardness in the balance of the pert nose and the curve of the lips. A taker, not a giver, Emily judged. She stored her decision, and turned to the next woman to whom Augusta was already directing her.

“Lady Carlton,” Augusta was saying. “Sir Robert is in the government, you know, the Foreign Office.”

Emily smiled across. This woman was entirely different, wide-mouthed, less pretty, warmer. But now her hands were knotted in her lap, and there were the finest of lines round her eyes and mouth. She was older than Christina, perhaps even in her middle thirties, and there was a nervousness, a tension underlying the pleasantness. She and Emily exchanged inclinations of the head and a polite recognition. Others were introduced and conversation began; first about the weather, which was exceptionally gentle for late October, then about fashion, and thence into the truly interesting area of gossip. Tea was served at four o’clock, brought in by the parlormaid and poured by Lady Augusta.

Emily contrived to engage herself with Christina and Euphemia Carlton. Without difficulty the subject of the bodies in the square was introduced.

“Quite shocking,” Euphemia shivered. “Poor little souls.” A bleak look passed over her face.

“I daresay they knew nothing about it,” Christina answered realistically. “I understand they were newborn. In fact they may even have been born dead.”

“They still had souls,” Euphemia stared into the distance.

Emily felt a quick flicker of excitement, and a peculiar distress. Could this be it, so soon, so very easily? Was it guilt in Euphemia Carlton’s face? Find out more about her. Why should she have done such a fearful thing? Indeed, why should any married woman of wealth and quality? As soon as possible she must ask Charlotte more about the babies. Had they been black, or of some other startling appearance that would betray infidelity?

“I assume you do not know about our little piece of horror,” Christina was speaking again.

“I beg your pardon?” Emily turned an innocent face to her.

“Our horror,” Christina repeated. “The bodies buried in the square.”

“Only the few fragments you have mentioned,” Emily lied without an atom of compunction. “Pray, if it does not distress you, oblige me with a little information.” It was not, of course, that she imagined Christina knew anything that Charlotte had not already told her, indeed less; but she wished to see Euphemia’s reaction to the retelling, and of course Christina’s, if it were of any note.

“Little to tell,” Christina began instantly. “The gardeners were digging to plant a tree, or some such, and discovered these dead bodies of babies. Naturally they sent for the police-”

“How do you know?” Emily inquired.

“My dear, from the servants, of course! Where does one ever learn anything that goes on, of any interest? And then the oddest policeman came round. Really, you never saw such a creature, all arms and legs and hair! I swear no barber ever took hand to it, far less comb or scissors. Or perhaps the working classes don’t have barbers. And he was perfectly enormous!”

Emily smiled within herself at this view of Pitt, not wildly inaccurate. She would have recognized him from it.

“Imagine my surprise,” Christina went on, “when he opened his mouth and spoke most civilly to me. Had I not seen him, I might have taken him for a gentleman.”

“Surely he didn’t question you?” Emily looked suitably shocked, principally to exercise some emotion strong enough to override her amusement.

“Of course not! I merely chanced to see him in the hall. He has been questioning all the servants, all round the square. I imagine it must be some unfortunate girl who cannot control herself.” She looked down for a moment, as if an embarrassment had caught her. Then she raised her head and the brilliance was back in her eyes. “Rather exciting, having detectives in the place. Of course Mother thinks it is all too macabre, and will lower the tone of the neighborhood. But I imagine people will understand. After all, everyone has servants. These problems are bound to occur. Ours is just a little more gruesome, that’s all!”

Euphemia was pale, and it was obvious she did not wish to continue the subject. Emily rescued her.

“I’m sure they will,” she agreed. “Lady Carlton, Lady Augusta said your husband is in the government. I imagine you must have to be most careful about your servants, only the most discreet.”

Euphemia smiled.

“Sir Robert very seldom brings home work that is of a confidential nature; but of course it is important that servants are discreet as to conversations overheard at dinner, and so on.”

“How exciting!” Emily feigned girlish delight, and pursued the subject until her tea was finished and it was the appropriate time to take her leave. She must make other calls, or it would appear she was too eager. A cultured woman of society never restricted herself to one visit. She would call on at least one other, and leave her card at two more.

She excused herself, her mind whirling to find some assured way of returning to Callander Square, if possible within the week.

“So charming,” she murmured to Lady Augusta. “George has spoken so well of you, it was delightful to meet you,” to remind her that George was a friend of Brandy Balantyne’s and that they were of the same social circle.

“Most gracious of you,” Augusta replied absently. “We are having a small entertainment this Friday afternoon. If you have no previous engagement, perhaps you would care to call in?”

“How very pleasant,” Emily said equally nonchalantly. “I believe I shall.”

She swept out with a feeling of infinite satisfaction.

The following afternoon she put on a plain green dress, took a single unliveried footman, and went straight to Charlotte. It was far easier than waiting for Charlotte to come to her; for one thing, Charlotte did not have the use of a carriage, and had to resort to the hire of a hansom. The other reason, of course, was that she simply could not wait.

She burst in upon Charlotte, who was busy mending linen.

“What on earth are you doing?” she demanded. “Put it down, and listen to me!”

Charlotte held the linen in her hand.

“I thought ladies did not call before three? It is hardly a quarter past two,” she said with a smile.

Emily snatched the linen and threw it on the sofa.

“I have the most exciting news!” she said urgently. “I have been to the Balantynes’ and I have made the acquaintance of Christina and Lady Augusta; and infinitely more interesting, of a Lady Euphemia Carlton, who is peculiarly discomfited by talk of the babies in the square! I truly believe she knows something about it. She is laboring under some burden, I will swear to that! Charlotte, do you think I have solved it already?”

Charlotte looked at her seriously.

“Is Lady Carlton not married?”

“Of course she is married!” Emily said impatiently. “But perhaps she is having an affair. Perhaps the children, the babies, would have betrayed it! Were they of any unusual appearance, such as a dark skin, or red hair, or the like?” Emily drew breath and rushed on before Charlotte had time to consider the question and reply. “Her husband is in the government. Perhaps it is a foreign lover, a Greek or an Indian or something. Maybe there are secrets involved. Charlotte, what do you think? She is very handsome, you know; not beautiful, but warm. She looks as if she might well fall in love and behave quite irresponsibly.”

Charlotte looked back at her, thought deep in her face.

“I shall have to ask, but I doubt Thomas will tell me-”

“Oh, don’t be so feeble!” Emily said exasperatedly. “Don’t tell me you can’t persuade him! The man is besotted on you. Invent some reason! I need to know, else why should she do it? A woman does not kill her own children, or even bury the stillborn, without some overpowering reason.”

“Of course not,” Charlotte agreed reasonably. “But Thomas will not imagine I ask out of idle curiosity. He is not as amiable as George, you know; nor anything like as innocent,” she added.

Emily had never thought of George Ashworth as innocent; but on consideration she realized what Charlotte meant; only perhaps it was not so much lack of guile as lack of concern. He considered he knew what Emily would do in any given situation, and had explicit trust in her good sense. Pitt, on the other hand, had far more perception than to trust anything so erratic as Charlotte’s good sense.

“Nevertheless, you will try,” she persisted.

Charlotte smiled, her thoughts inward.

“Of course. I have always expressed an interest in his work. I shall endeavor to help him.” Her smile broadened. “With a woman’s point of view, which of course he cannot get from his policemen.”

Emily gave a sigh of relief that left Charlotte laughing.

By the time Emily arrived in Callander Square on Friday afternoon she had heard from Charlotte the rather disappointing news that there was nothing remarkable about the appearance of the second baby, but a deformity of the head of the first one, the one buried the deeper. But her heart had lifted when Charlotte pointed out that since the unfortunate bodies had been in the earth for some time, it was impossible to tell if at birth they might indeed have had skin or hair of an unusual color. Emily had not considered the point of putrefaction, and the thought of it distressed her unexpectedly. Of course, the flesh would not remain. In fact, Charlotte pointed out that, according to Pitt, it was only the clay nature of the soil that had preserved them so far. It was an extremely disagreeable consideration.

She had dismissed it from her mind when she presented herself at the Balantynes’ door. She was admitted immediately and was shown from the hall into the great reception room where a small crowd had already gathered, of both men and women. An enormous gleaming grand piano stood in the center, its legs decently masked. At a glance Emily saw Christina, Euphemia Carlton, Lady Augusta, and several others she knew from her own social round. She also recognized Brandy Balantyne, tall, slender, dark like his mother and sister, but with an easier face, outward looking. He turned as Emily entered and his face lit in a smile.

“Lady Ashworth, how delightful,” he came forward to welcome her, ushering her in. “Do you know Alan Ross? No. Alan’s misfortune.”

“Mr. Ross,” she acknowledged him with grace. He bowed a little formally. He was in his thirties, slight of build but with a strong, delicate face of unusual intensity.

“Lady Ashworth, I am honored,” he offered no further compliment, and she was rather pleased. Flattery could become a bore. It was, after all, no more than a formula in the mouth of most men, as automatic as “good morning” or “good-bye.”

They fell to discussing some innocuous subject, none of them paying more than cursory attention. Emily let her eyes stray to Euphemia Carlton. She was piqued to see that today the woman looked uncommonly well, indeed it would hardly be an exaggeration to say she glowed. Could the tension and the guilt Emily had seen before have been no more than an indisposition? Emily dismissed the thought. It was too early to tell.

She accepted a delicate refreshment from a crisp-aproned maid. There was a footman over by the door-a handsome man, in a heavy-lidded, sensuous sort of way. Emily had seen the same features on dandies and spendthrifts leaving George’s clubs, the big winners and losers. That man would have been one of them, had his birth been kinder to him. Now he stood against the wall of a general’s house, dressed in livery and waiting on ladies and the few gentlemen who had nothing better to do with this particular afternoon. She saw Christina Balantyne walk past him, laughing, as oblivious of his humanity as if he had been a piece of furniture, a carving to hold flowers.

The entertainment began, first a rendition of a waltz by Chopin, more precise than lyrical; then a rather wavering contralto sang three ballades. Emily forced a look of rapt attention on her face, and let her mind wander.

She had not been introduced to Sophie Bolsover, but she had overheard her name in a neighboring conversation, and knew that she also lived in Callander Square. Now Emily looked sideways at her, partly from interest, partly because it was easier to keep her face straight when not looking directly into the contralto’s earnest eyes. Sophie Bolsover was a type she had become familiar with over the last couple of years; still very young, pretty enough by nature for art successfully to concentrate on her good features and mask the poor ones. She was born of a good family with enough money to insure a satisfactory marriage. She had never had to fear being left an old maid, dependent; she had not had to fight the way ahead of numerous sisters in a female-ridden house. All this Emily knew from the calm, rather shallow assurance in her face.

As soon as the songs were finished and suitably applauded, Emily made a point of seeking her acquaintance. Emily was charming, skilled, and quite ruthless in such social arts. Within five minutes she was conversing with Sophie about fashion, mutual acquaintances, and speculation as to who might marry whom. Emily guided the considerations toward those resident in the square, beginning with a compliment toward Christina.

“So beautiful,” Sophie agreed with a smile.

Emily would have quarreled with the choice of words; Christina was fashionable, appealing, to men certainly, but not beautiful.

“Indeed,” she said confidentially. “No doubt she will be able to take her pick of offers.”

“I thought at one time she might have married Mr. Ross,” Sophie inclined her head very slightly toward Alan Ross, who was talking earnestly to Euphemia Carlton. “But of course he has never got over poor Helena,” Sophie went on.

Emily’s ear sharpened.

“Helena?” she inquired with a masterly attempt at indifference. “Did some tragedy befall her?”

“She is never spoken of,” Sophie said somewhat inconsequentially.

Emily’s interest grew even keener.

“My dear, how fascinating! By whom is she never spoken of?”

“Why Laetitia Doran, of course.” Sophie opened her eyes wide. “Helena was Laetitia’s only child. Georgiana did not live with her then, naturally.”

“She came-afterward?” Emily pieced it together.

“Yes, to console her.”

“For what?”

“What? Why, when Helena ran away. Eloped-so they say. What an irresponsible and foolish thing to do! And such a shame to her mother.”

“With whom did she elope? Why did she not marry him? Good gracious, was he a servant, or something?”

“Who knows? Nobody ever saw him!”

“What? You cannot mean it?” Emily was incredulous. “Was he so appalling she dared not-oh my gracious! He wasn’t already married, was he?”

Sophie paled.

“Oh dear, I do hope not. How perfectly dreadful! No, I shouldn’t think so. She was very beautiful, Helena, you know. She could have had her choice among-oh, I don’t know how many men. Poor Mr. Ross was quite stricken when she went away.”

“Did he know about it?”

“Of course. She left a letter saying she had run off. And of course those of us with any sense knew perfectly well she had an admirer. Women know that sort of thing. I remember I thought it rather romantic, at the time. I never dreamed it would end so awfully.”

“I don’t see that it is so very dreadful,” Emily replied with a little frown, “if she ran off and married him somewhere else. Perhaps he was someone her mother did not approve of, but who loved her. A trifle silly, I agree; especially if he did not have any money; but not entirely fatal. Romantic loves are a little impractical, when it comes to day to day living, paying the cook and the dressmaker and so on. But if one has good sense, it can be quite bearable. One of my sisters married a considerable degree beneath her, and seems to be disgustingly happy on it. But she is an unusual creature, I will be the first to grant.”

“Is she really happy?” Sophie raised her eyebrows in interested surprise.

“Oh yes,” Emily assured her. “But you and I would find it quite dreadful. Perhaps Helena is like her, but feared her mother’s objections, so simply took the easiest way out.”

Sophie’s face brightened.

“What a delicious thought! Perhaps she is in Italy, married to a fisherman, or a gondolier, or something.”

“Do you have many gondoliers calling in Callander Square?” Emily asked politely.

Sophie stifled a rich giggle, and then looked about her in dismay at her own social gaffe-the spontaneous laughter, not the idiotic question.

“How deliriously refreshing you are, Lady Ashworth,” Sophie said through the fingers over her mouth. “I’m sure I’ve never met anyone so witty.”

Emily felt a withering reply to that rise to her lips, but she merely smiled.

“Poor Mr. Ross,” she said noncommittally. “He must have been very devoted to her. Was it long ago?”

“Oh, it must be well over a year, perhaps closer to two years.”

Emily’s heart sank. Helena Doran had sounded like an excellent possibility as a suspect. With Sophie’s answer she receded into profound unlikelihood. She looked instinctively across the room at Euphemia. There was a man with her whom Emily had not seen before, a man of considerable distinction, perhaps fifty-five or sixty years old.

“Who is that most elegant gentleman with Lady Carlton?” she asked.

Sophie’s eyes followed hers.

“Oh, that’s Sir Robert! Did you not know?”

“No,” Emily shook her head slightly. He must be at least twenty years older than his wife-a most interesting fact. “I think I should be a little in awe of so grand a husband,” she said carefully. “He looks so very-important. He is in the government, is he not?”

“Yes, indeed. You know, I believe I should also. How perceptive you are. You put so excellently into words exactly what was in my mind, had I but known it.”

Emily was hot on the scent.

“I should not think him a great deal of fun,” she pursued.

“No, indeed.” Sophie looked her up and down and moved a little closer. Emily knew a confidence was coming and her blood tingled with excitement. She smiled encouragingly.

“She is very,” Sophie hesitated, “attracted-to Brandy Balantyne. So charming, Brandy. I swear if I were not simply devoted to Freddie, I should be quite in love with him myself!”

Emily took a deep breath, her heart beating in her throat.

“You mean,” she said in wonder, “she is having an affair with Brandy?”

Sophie held up her finger to her lips, but her eyes were dancing. “And she is expecting!” she added. “About the third month!”