Belgrave Square (45 page)

I
T 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.