“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.