“I met him . . . in the House of Commons, three days ago,” Pitt replied, shivering inside in spite of himself. “I know he hasn’t forgotten. But if I walk in fear, then he’s won already. My family is out of London, but I can’t stop him. I admit, if I thought there were any escape, I might be tempted to take it . . . but there isn’t.”
“You’re more of a realist than I gave you credit for,” Narraway said, and there was a grudging respect in his voice. “I resented Cornwallis for wishing you onto me. Took you as a favor to him, but perhaps it wasn’t after all.”
“Why do you owe Cornwallis any favors?” The words slipped out before he thought about it.
“None of your business, Pitt!” Narraway said tartly. “Go and find out what the devil that woman was doing . . . and prove it!”
“Yes, sir.”
It was only when he was outside again in the street in the late sunlight and the roar and rattle of traffic that Pitt stopped to wonder whether Narraway had meant Rose Serracold—or Maude Lamont!
CHAPTER
SIX
When Emily opened the newspaper the day after the discovery of the murder in Southampton Row, her immediate interest was in the political reports. An excellent picture of Mr. Gladstone caught her eye, but for the time being she was more concerned with the London constituencies. There was less than a week to go before voting would begin. She felt a sharp tingle of excitement, more than for the previous election because now she had tasted the possibilities of office and her ambition for Jack was correspondingly higher. He had proved his ability and, perhaps more importantly, his loyalty. This time he might be rewarded with a position of greater importance, and so more power to do good.
He had made an excellent speech yesterday. The crowd had been appreciative. She scanned the pages looking for a report of it. Instead she saw Aubrey Serracold’s name, and below it an article which began quite well. Until she was halfway through it she did not read between the lines the sarcasm, the veiled suggestion of the foolishness of his ideas, and that though well-intentioned, they were formed in ignorance, a rich man playing at politics, indescribably condescending in his ambition to change others to his own idea of what was good for them.
Emily was furious. She dropped the paper and stared across the breakfast table at Jack. “Have you seen this?” she demanded, jabbing her finger at it.
“No.” He held out his hand and she picked up the fallen sheets and passed them to him. She watched as he read it, the frown deepening between his brows.
“Will it hurt him?” she asked when he looked up. “I am sure it will hurt his feelings, but I mean his chances of being elected,” she added quickly.
A flicker of amusement lit his eyes for a moment, and then gentleness. “You want him to win, don’t you? For Rose’s sake . . .”
She had not realized she was so transparent. It was uncharacteristic of her. She was usually good at revealing only what she wished, totally unlike Charlotte, who could be read by almost anyone. Yet it was not always satisfying to feel so alone. “Yes, I do,” she agreed. “I thought it was more or less a certainty. It’s been a Liberal seat for decades. Why should it be different now?”
“It’s only one article, Emily. If you say anything at all, there’s bound to be someone who disagrees with you.”
“You disagree with him,” she said very seriously. “Jack, can’t you defend him anyway? They’re making him sound far more extreme than he is. They would listen to you.” She saw him hesitate, the shadow in his face. “What is it?” she demanded. “Have you lost confidence in him? Or is it Rose? Of course she’s eccentric, she’s always been that way. What on earth does it matter? Do our politicians have to be gray to be any good?”
There was laughter in his face for a moment, and then it was gone. “Not gray, but toned down a little. Don’t take anything for granted, Emily. Don’t take it as certain that I’ll win. There are too many issues at stake that could change the way people vote. Gladstone’s always on about Home Rule, but I think it’s the working day that’s going to decide it.”
“But the Tories wouldn’t grant that!” she protested. “They’re even less likely to than we are! Tell them so!”
“I have. But what they say about not granting Home Rule makes sense, at least to the workingman here in London, where our docks and warehouses serve the world.” His face tightened. “I’ve heard what Voisey is saying, and people are listening to him. He’s very popular just now. The Queen knighted him for courage and loyalty to the Crown. Nobody knows exactly what he did, but apparently it saved the throne from a very serious threat. He’s half won the audience even before he speaks.”
“I thought the Queen wasn’t very popular,” she said dubiously, remembering some of the ugly remarks she had heard, both in society and among more ordinary people. Victoria had been too long absent from public life, still mourning Albert although he had been thirty years dead. She spent her time in her beloved Osbourne, on the Isle of Wight, or at Balmoral, in the Scottish Highlands. People hardly ever saw her. There were no state occasions, no pomp, no excitement or color, no sense of unity that only she could have provided.
“We still don’t want her taken from us,” Jack pointed out. “We are just as perverse in general as we are individually.” He folded his paper and set it on the table, rising to his feet. “But of course I’ll support Serracold.” He leaned forward and gave her a quick kiss on the brow. “I don’t know when I’ll be back. Probably for dinner.”
She watched him to the door, then poured herself another cup of tea and opened the newspaper again. It was then that she saw the report of Maude Lamont’s death, and the fact that the police had no doubt that it was murder. The Bow Street station was mentioned, and apparently Inspector Tellman was in charge. He had made no statement, but speculation was rife. The journalists had invented what they did not know. Who were her clients? Who had been there that night? Who had she claimed to call up from the past and what had they revealed that had ended in murder? Whose secrets were so hideous they would kill to hide them? The whisper of scandal, violence and assault was irresistible.
She read it a second time, but there was no need. She could remember every word, and all the ugly implications. And she could remember very clearly Rose Serracold’s saying that she had consulted Maude Lamont. Somehow ragged ends were coming loose in what had seemed to be a simple way ahead. Anxiety gnawed at the back of her mind over Rose, a sense of vulnerability in her, a fear that threatened to escalate and endanger her and Aubrey, and possibly even Jack. It was time Emily did something.
She went straight upstairs to the nursery to spend the morning with her small daughter, Evangeline, who as always was full of questions about everything. Her favorite word was why.
“Where’s Edward?” Evangeline sat on the floor, her face puckered into a frown. “Why isn’t he here?”
“He’s gone for a holiday with Daniel and Jemima,” Emily answered, offering Evie her favorite doll.
“Why?”
“Because we promised it to him.”
“Why?” There was no challenge in her wide eyes.
“He and Daniel are special friends.” Thinking on it now, Emily was concerned that Thomas had been prevented from going with them and at almost the same time his reinstatement to Bow Street had been unaccountably withdrawn. Charlotte had suddenly and without explanation been reluctant to take Edward, whereas before she had been more than willing. She had said something halfhearted about Thomas not being there, and hinted at there being possible unpleasantness, but she had not been specific.