She let out a sigh and smiled disarmingly. “What a relief it is to know someone who really does understand. So many people speak kindly, but they think only of a natural grief at losing a friend.”
Mrs. Woolmer fidgeted, twisting her hands in her lap. She did not like the turn of this conversation, but could not think how to alter it without displaying marked discourtesy.
“Quite.” Lady Ashworth agreed with a little nod, continuing May’s thought. “One imagines one knows people, and then something like this occurs! But what can one do? If one is introduced by respectable acquaintances, that is all anyone requires. My husband and I were astonished.” She took a deep breath. “Of course I do not know Sir Beau at all-”
But May was not to be so easily trapped.
“He appears to be extremely pleasant,” she replied without emotion. She forced Beau’s face from her mind- the laughter, the soft voice, memories of dancing, lights, music, whirling feet, his arms about her. “Sir Bertram always behaved himself impeccably in my company,” she finished levelly.
“Of course!” Mrs. Woolmer said, a shade too quickly.
“I’m sure.” Lady Ashworth brushed her fingers delicately over her skirt. “But if you will forgive me saying so, my dear, men have been known to behave very rashly indeed when they fall in love. And even brothers have learned to hate one another over a beautiful woman.”
“Oh!” Mrs. Woolmer’s hand flew to her mouth and stifled an exclamation in language far less than genteel.
May felt distinctly uncomfortable. Of course she was aware that many men had desired her. Surely that was what the Season was for? But so far she had considered the emotions superficial, all a part of the exquisite charade where the winners retired with agreeable husbands and with futures assured both socially and financially. The losers retreated to consider next year’s tactics. May had always known her strengths and her weaknesses, and how best to deploy them. She had every intention of being a winner, and envy was to be expected-but not hatred, and certainly not the kind of passion that breeds murder.
“I think you flatter me, Lady Ashworth,” she said carefully. “I have given no one cause for such feelings.” Perhaps it would be better to change the subject, turn Lady Ashworth’s curious eyes onto something even more shocking. “I do not have the amorous skill of many of the ladies with”-she gave a tiny smile-“shall we say ‘experience’? I am loath to repeat rumor, but it is so persistent that in all common sense I cannot believe it is entirely false. There are some ladies of perfectly good family who behave like women of pleasure. No doubt they have the art to inflame the sort of dreadful emotions you are speaking of.”
It burst like a bombshell, as was intended.
“Nonsense!” Mrs. Woolmer choked on her indrawn breath. “You cannot possibly know of such a thing! Women of pleasure indeed! I will thank you to hold your tongue.”
Lady Ashworth’s head came up, her eyes wide. But surprisingly it was Mrs. Pitt who came to May’s rescue. “It is most distressing,” she agreed, dropping her voice to a confidential tone. “But I also have heard of such things. And I have to admit that my source was irreproachable. It makes me wonder how ever to judge where to pursue acquaintances, and where one dare not! I am sure you must have had the same doubts as I. I feel guilty even for suspecting people who are probably as innocent as the day, and yet I would be appalled to find myself, through good nature and an excess of gullibility, in a situation from which I could not retreat with my reputation unblemished-not to think of things far worse!”
Lady Ashworth seemed to be in the grip of some overpowering emotion. She coughed furiously and covered her face with her handkerchief. Her shoulders shook. Her skin was pink to the very roots of her hair. Fortunately, at that moment the maid returned with tea and other refreshments, and they were able to revive Lady Ashworth. Her face was flushed but she was apparently otherwise in control of herself.
But Mrs. Pitt was quite right. One simply could not afford to associate with women who were even suspected of such behavior. May racked her thoughts to know which of her acquaintances might be involved. Several names came to mind, and she determined to avoid them on every possible occasion. Perhaps she should, in all kindness, warn Mrs. Pitt?
“Are you acquainted with Lavinia Hawkesley?” she inquired.
Lady Ashworth’s eyes widened. There was no need for indelicate explanations. May blandly mentioned a few other names, and then they discussed fashion and current romances for a pleasant half hour, all undershot with a frisson of scandal. Mrs. Woolmer tried to guide the conversation toward the Ashworths’ acquaintance with eligible young men, and met with no success whatsoever.
At four o’clock, the parlormaid opened the door and asked if the ladies would receive Mr. Alan Ross, who had called to offer his family’s sympathies.
Lady Ashworth jumped to her feet, seizing Mrs. Pitt by the hand. “Come, Charlotte, we really must not monopolize the whole afternoon.” She turned to May. “I fear we have enjoyed your company so much we have forgotten our manners. If you will permit us to take our leave before Mr. Ross arrives, we will not make him feel uncomfortable by appearing to avoid him.”
Mrs. Woolmer was startled. “Of course, if-if that is what you wish. Marigold, have Mr. Ross wait in the morning room for a moment, if you please.”
Marigold closed the door behind her.
Lady Ashworth bent to May with a confidential whisper. “My sister and I were once acquainted with Mr. Ross’s family during a period of tragedy which must be most distressing to him. I think it would be a kindness, my dear, if you were not to mention our names to him. I’m sure you understand?”
May did not understand at all, but she was perfectly capable of taking a hint. “Of course. You will merely be two ladies who have called by in friendship. I appreciate your sensitivity, and I hope I shall have the good fortune to meet you again in more fortunate circumstances.”
“I am sure of it,” Lady Ashworth said confidently, with the slightest of nods.
May understood; it was all she wished.
Outside in the street, Charlotte turned on Emily. “What are you thinking of? Surely it would have been to our advantage to meet with Alan Ross again? Max may have used his old connections to find these women!”
“I know that!” Emily exclaimed. “But not in there. He won’t be long-we can wait out here for him.”
“It’s freezing! Why on earth should we stand around here? He’ll know we are forcing an acquaintance if-”
“Oh, don’t be so silly. William!” She waved her hand at the coachman. “Find something wrong with one of the horses-keep yourself occupied until Mr. Ross comes out of the house.”
“Yes, m’lady.” William obediently bent and ran his hand down the near horse’s leg, and began to examine it.
Charlotte shivered as the wind cut through her coat. “Why on earth couldn’t we simply have stayed in there and met him?” she demanded, glaring at Emily.
“I always thought General Balantyne was very fond of you.” Emily appeared to ignore the remark.
Charlotte had liked to think so, too. The memory brought a pleasant glow, a tinge of excitement. She did not argue.
“Christina moves in just the right circle to know the sort of women who might be used by Max,” Emily continued. “She could be of great assistance.”
“Christina Ross wouldn’t assist us across the street if we were blind!” Charlotte remembered Callander Square vividly. “The most likely assistance she could give me would be into the nearest ditch!”
“Which is why we must pursue the general instead,” Emily said impatiently. “If you conduct yourself properly, he will help you to anything you like! Now be quiet. Mr. Ross is coming out. I knew he wouldn’t be long.”