“It’s damnably dangerous!” Emily’s mouth pulled into a hard, unforgiving line. “Think of the harm she could do to other people, never mind what happened to her! I suppose she hardly deserved to be killed for it, but it’s a wicked thing to do nevertheless.”
“And pathetic,” Charlotte insisted. “She must have had nothing of her own inside herself to be forever staring outwards, needing to know about other people’s lives.”
“That hardly excuses her!” Emily was angry. “Everybody’s unhappy some time or other—we don’t all go around prying and repeating!”
Charlotte did not bother to argue. “She was worse than that,” she said. “She invented, sowing seeds of all sorts of vicious things. I suppose there is an ugly side to most people’s imaginations, if you want to reach for it.” She changed her expression entirely. “You were excellent with Papa, but we still have to discourage Monsieur Alaric a little. I have heard he knows Theodora quite well. I shall go and call on him this afternoon and see if he has any idea where her money comes from.”
Emily’s eyebrows rose. “Indeed? And how do you propose to introduce yourself to such a call, let alone elicit that kind of information from him?”
“I shall throw myself on his mercy.” Charlotte made a rapid and rather violent decision.
“You’ll do what?” Emily was startled.
“With regard to Mama—you fool!” Charlotte snapped, her face suddenly hot. “I shall contrive to let him know that Papa is aware of the—friendship—and that he does not look kindly on it.”
“You never ‘contrived’ anything in your life!”
“I didn’t say I was going to be subtle! Then when I have done that, I shall talk about Mina and how upset everyone is. Why? What are you going to do?”
“If that is what you are going to do, then I shall go and call upon Theodora at the same time, before Monsieur Alaric has an opportunity to warn her, if by chance they are in it together. If there is anything to be in? It will be a little difficult because I don’t know her, but if you can go to a music hall with Inigo Charrington, I daresay I shall manage an unintroduced call upon Madame von Schenck!”
“You need not have brought up the music hall again!” Charlotte said sourly. “That was unnecessary.”
“Well, don’t worry, I shan’t tell Thomas you went alone to call on Monsieur Alaric,” Emily returned. “In fact, I think you would be wise not to let him know you have any continued interest in the affair at all.”
“If you imagine he will suppose I have forgotten it, you hardly know Thomas.” Charlotte made a rueful face. “He wouldn’t believe it for a moment!”
“Then use a little sense—and at least make sure you stay sober!” Emily responded. “You can take my carriage to Monsieur Alaric’s house, and I shall walk. That way it will be marginally more respectable.”
“Thank you!”
Charlotte had misgivings as soon as the carriage turned out of Rutland Place, and were it not that she would appear such a fool, she would have called the driver and told him to return her at once.
But she was committed. It was an extraordinary thing to do, and possibly Alaric would misinterpret her motives; her face flushed hot at the thought of it. Caroline was certainly not the only woman to have become so dazzled by him as to have lost all sense of proportion!
By the time the carriage pulled to a stop in Paragon Walk and the footman handed her out, she sincerely hoped that Paul Alaric was not at home and she would be spared the whole affair and could retire with integrity. But fortune was against her—he was not only at home, but received her with pleasure.
“How charming to see you, Charlotte.” He stood a little away from her, smiling, and if he was surprised he concealed it entirely. But of course he would; not to do so would be discourteous.
“That is very generous of you, Monsieur Alaric,” she replied, then instantly felt stiff. She was barely through the door, and already her interview was not going the way she had intended. Perhaps in France, or wherever he came from—they had all assumed he was French, but no one recalled his saying so—it was less familiar there to use a person’s Christian name.
He was still smiling, and she collected her scattered wits with an effort.
“Please forgive my calling upon you without either invitation or having left my card beforehand.” That was ridiculous and he knew it as well as she did, but it afforded her a way to begin.
“I am sure the circumstances are quite unusual,” he said gently. “May I offer you some refreshment—a dish of tea?”
It would give her something to occupy her hands graciously, and would mean that her stay would be at least half an hour.
“Thank you,” she said. “That would be most pleasant.” She sat down on the most comfortable-looking chair, and he rang the bell, gave the maid instructions, and then sat opposite her on a simple dark velvet sofa.
The room was unusually spare of ornament; there were great numbers of leatherbound, gold-tooled books in a mahogany case, a soft gray seascape above the mantel, and a Turkish prayer rug so brilliant it was like a cathedral window. The whole was alien . . . and beautiful.
He was sitting easily, still smiling, one leg crossed over the other, but there was a seriousness about his eyes. He knew she would not have come over any trivial or social matter, and he was waiting for her to begin.
Her mouth was dry; all small talk eluded her.
“Emily and I have been dining with Papa,” she said rather abruptly.
He did not interrupt, still watching her steadily, frankly.
She took a breath and plunged on. “We were obliged to discuss a rather painful subject—quite apart from Mina’s death, or poor Tormod’s injury.”
A shadow of concern crossed his face. “I’m sorry.”
She had very little knowledge how much of the relationship was purely on Caroline’s part. She must be careful, as she had so far seen him display nothing beyond extreme courtesy. Either he was far more discreet than Caroline or—more probably—he was unaware of the depth of her feeling. After all, he did not know Caroline as Charlotte did.
She cleared her throat. Now that she must either commit herself or allow the subject to drop and talk of something else, she found it unexpectedly difficult. She was very conscious of him sitting only a few feet away from her.
Once, she had considered him as the leader of a black magic ritual—that seemed preposterous now. But was she crediting him with less vanity and more compassion than he possessed? Might he not enjoy the fascination he held for them, seemingly without effort?
She swallowed and began again, sounding far more pompous than she wished. “It seems that Papa has been too much engaged in his business lately and has not paid the attention to his domestic life that he should. Poor Mama has felt a little neglected, I think. Of course she has not complained. One cannot ask for small signs of affection from one’s husband, because even if he responds they are then of no value—you feel you have prompted them yourself, and he does not truly mean them.”
“So you and your sister have prompted him?” he suggested, understanding beginning to show in his eyes.
“Quite,” she agreed quickly. “We would be deeply distressed to see our family hurt by a misapprehension. In fact, we do not intend to allow it to happen. These things grow out of hand very quickly—new affections form, other parties are drawn in, and before you can undo it, there is . . .”
He was looking directly at her, and she found herself unable to go on. It was quite obvious now that he knew what she meant.
“A domestic tragedy,” he finished for her. She noticed with surprise that there was a faint color under his skin, a consciousness of himself—a raw and unpleasing light. Suddenly, with a rush of warmth for him, she realized he had been unaware of his power, underrating its depth completely.