“Did you part in a manner which would allow you to take up the acquaintance again?” she said crisply.
His face fell. “Certainly!”
She looked down, not wanting him to guess at any emotion in her, certainly nothing as unattractive as the truth.
“Then will you? With Charlotte? As you say, it would be impossible for me.”
“Of course,” he said slowly, and she knew he was looking at her. “But will Pitt approve? And I can hardly introduce her as a policeman’s wife. We’ll have to think of something better.”
“Thomas won’t have to know. She can come here first, borrow one of my dresses, and go as . . .” She searched her imagination. “As a cousin of yours up from the country. A close cousin, so it will not be in the least improper for you to accompany her without a chaperone.”
“Will she agree to that?” There was already interest in his voice, and not the incredulity he might have felt towards someone else. Perhaps he was remembering Cardington Crescent.
“Oh yes,” Emily said with intense determination. “Certainly she will.”
Two days later, handsomely dressed in one of Emily’s winter gowns adapted from last season—she had bought nothing but black this winter—Charlotte found herself in a smart carriage bowling along Park Lane towards Hanover Close, with Jack Radley beside her. He had called at the York house immediately upon parting from Emily. He left his card and asked if he might introduce to them his cousin, Miss Elisabeth Barnaby, who was newly come up from the country after nursing her aunt through a long and distressing illness, from which she was at last mercifully recovered. Now Miss Barnaby was in need of a little diversion, and for this reason Jack had presumed on an old acquaintance, in the hope he might introduce her.
The reply had been brief, but perfectly civil, quite enough upon which to call.
Charlotte pulled the rug tighter round her knees. The carriage was bitterly cold and it was raining hard outside, daggers of water stabbing the gutters, hissing under the wheels and spraying high. The leather upholstery inside felt damp to the touch—even the wood of the window frames was clammy. Emily’s dress was excellent, since her maid had let it out across the bosom and lengthened the cuffs an inch, all very suitable for a young woman recently come up from the country: while not obviously secondhand, neither was it of the latest fashion, such as might be worn by someone in no need of introduction. But Charlotte was still cold.
The carriage stopped. She glanced quickly at Jack Radley beside her and swallowed, feeling a tight flicker of apprehension. This was a very rash thing she was doing. Pitt would be furious if he knew, and the chance of being caught was very real. It would be easy enough to make a crucial mistake or slip of the tongue; she might have the misfortune to meet someone who had known her before her marriage, when she still moved in such circles.
The door was opened and Jack waited to hand her down. She stepped out, wincing against the cold needles of rain. She felt no better about the impending visit, but she could hardly remain in the carriage and say she had changed her mind. She weighed her sense of caution and the anticipation of Thomas’s anger against the excitement she had felt when she and Emily discussed the plan.
She was still of two minds when the parlormaid opened the front door and Jack handed her his card, which was engraved with his name. And Miss Elisabeth Barnaby had been added by hand. Now it was too late; the die was cast. Charlotte put on her most charming smile and stepped inside.
The parlormaid had a creamy complexion and dark hair. She was very pert, with wide eyes and a handspan waist; but then parlormaids were usually chosen for their looks. A handsome parlormaid was a mark of one’s status and taste.
Charlotte barely had time to glance round the hall, except to notice that it was spacious. The stair was wide and remarkably fine, with beautifully carved bannisters, and the chandelier blazed with light on this dark winter afternoon.
They were shown into the withdrawing room. There was no time to look at the furnishings or the paintings; all Charlotte’s attention was taken up by the two women who sat opposite each other on the overstuffed and buttoned red settees. The younger, who must be Veronica York, was tall, and perhaps a good deal too slender for the current fashion, but there was an intense femininity in the delicate lines of her shoulders and throat. Her soft black hair was swept up and off her face, showing a lovely brow and fine features, slightly hollow cheeks, and a startlingly sensuous mouth.
The older woman had thick, curly light brown hair; her curls were so rich no rags or irons could have created them, only nature. She looked to be considerably shorter than the other woman. Although she was of heavier build, she was still extremely comely in an embroidered gown of the latest fashion. Her features were regular and she had obviously been something of a beauty well into her prime. She was only just beyond it now, and the telltale lines on her pink and white skin were few, and round the mouth rather than the eyes. It was a face of arresting strength. This must be Loretta York, the dead man’s mother, whom Thomas had said behaved with such dignity on the night of the tragedy.
As mistress of the house she welcomed them, inclining her head to Jack and offering her hand. “Good afternoon Mr. Radley, how agreeable of you to call, and to bring your cousin.” She turned to Charlotte with a scrutinizing eye. “Miss Barnaby, I believe you said?”
Charlotte put on the most innocent air she could imagine and all but curtsied. She was supposed to be shy and grateful, seeking London Society and, as a single woman of desperate age, a husband.
“How do you do, Mrs. York. It is most kind of you to receive us.”
“I hope we find you as well as you look, ma’am.” Jack’s flattery was automatic; it was the usual coin of exchange, and he had dined out most of his adult life on his charm. “You make me forget it is winter outside, and several years since we last met.”
“I see your manners have not changed,” she said a trifle tartly, but there was a flush of pleasure in her cheeks. She might protest, discard it as convention, but she liked it all the same. “Of course you know my daughter-in-law,” she said, indicating the younger woman with no more than a glance in her direction.
Jack bowed again, very slightly, but enough for grace.
“Of course. I was most grieved to hear of your loss, and I hope that the future will hold some happiness for you.”
“Thank you.” A tiny smile touched the corners of Veronica York’s lips. Watching closely, Charlotte could see there was an old understanding between them that had been picked up effortlessly. A thought of Emily flashed into her mind, and she pushed it aside. That was another problem, to be faced at another time.
Veronica was looking past Jack and assessing Charlotte, judging the cut of her gown, its newness, its cost, as was Loretta. Charlotte was satisfied that it communicated her new status precisely—it was the gown of a country woman somewhat retired from Society by duties of compassion, but of good family and more than adequate means.
“I do hope you will find London to your liking, Miss Barnaby,” Veronica said graciously. “There will be much to divert you, but of course you must take care, because there is also company you would not wish, and it is easy enough to find yourself in distasteful places if you are not wise in your choices.”
Charlotte seized the chance. She smiled shyly. “That is most kind of you, Mrs. York. I shall be sure to take your advice. A woman’s reputation can be so quickly ruined.”