Either he had not understood other women in the past or he had considered their own natures the cause and himself merely the unfortunate catalyst.
“I think tragedy is the appropriate word,” she continued. “Perhaps we should look a little more closely at what passions can do. For example, take Mrs. Denbigh. You have seen her? Her despair over Mr. Lagarde would hardly be covered by so gentle and commonplace a term as unhappiness, do you think?”
For several minutes he was silent, and she began to grow uncomfortable as she became aware of his eyes on her. She was very sensitive to being alone in the room with him. Visiting him by herself in his home was a ridiculous thing to have done, and she should have insisted that Emily come with her. Someone was bound to have seen her; there was always a servant about. There would be talk! She had no reputation to lose—Paragon Walk did not care about her—but what about Emily? Someone might have recognized Charlotte from the time when she had stayed with Emily during the murders here.
And what of Paul Alaric himself?
She blushed with discomfort at her own thoughtlessness—and yet she had not wished Emily to accompany her!
Very slowly she raised her eyes to meet his and was startled by the perception in them, a closeness as if he and she had touched, as if her skin had felt a sudden warmth, a tingling.
She must leave. She had said what she came for. Emily’s carriage was at the door and would take her back to Rutland Place. She could join Emily at Theodora von Schenck’s house.
Thought of Theodora reminded her of the other purpose of her visit. She must force herself to ask him now; the idea of returning was unthinkable.
The maid brought the tea and retired. She took a sip of it gratefully; her mouth was dry and her throat tight.
“Emily has called to see Madame von Schenck,” she remarked as conversationally as she was able. “I believe you know her quite well.”
He was surprised, and his dark eyes widened. “Moderately. The acquaintance is more a business one than social, although I find her very congenial.”
Now it was she who was startled. She had hardly expected him to be so frank.
“Business? What sort of business do you mean?” Then, realizing how blunt that sounded, she went on: “I did not know Madame von Schenck had business. Or did you perhaps know her husband?” She stammered, “I—I mean—”
“No.” He smiled faintly at her embarrassment, but there was no unkindness in it. “I did not, although I believe he was a most charming man. So much so that she has never desired to remarry.”
Charlotte pretended that she found such a thing hard to understand, although in truth the thought of remarrying, should anything happen to Pitt, was quite absurd to her.
“Not even for the security of having a husband?” She tried to sound sincere. “After all, she has two children to support.”
“And an excellent business head.” He was quite openly amused now. “Not in the least a fashionable thing to have, which I imagine is why she is discreet about it. Especially since her particular interest lies in the area of bathroom furniture!” His smile broadened. “Not exactly what the ladies of Rutland Place would find suitable—the design of baths and other such hardware. And she is most imaginative in selling and precise in her finances. I think she has begun to make a considerable profit.”
She knew there was a silly smile on her face. It was all so ridiculously harmless, even funny, that she wanted to laugh. She gathered herself and was ready to rise, but before she could frame the words to excuse herself, the maid opened the door again to bring in a choice of cakes and was followed immediately by Caroline.
Charlotte froze, halfway to her feet, the smile dead on her lips.
For an instant Caroline did not see her; her face was turned to Alaric, soft with excitement and pleasure.
Then she saw Charlotte, and every vestige of color bleached out of her skin. She looked at her as she might have at some horned thing risen out of the ground.
There was absolute silence in the room. The maid was too frightened to let go of the trolley.
With a tremendous effort Caroline took a deep breath, and then another.
“I beg your pardon, Monsieur Alaric,” she said in a shaking voice. “I appear to have interrupted you. Do excuse me.” She stepped backward past the maid and out the door.
Charlotte glanced for a moment at Paul Alaric and saw his face as white and appalled as she knew hers must be, mirroring the same realization and guilt that she felt. Then she ran across the room, pushed the maid aside, and swung the door open.
“Mama!”
Caroline was in the hallway and could not have failed to hear her, but she did not turn her head.
“Mama!”
The footman opened the front door and Caroline walked out into the sun. Charlotte went after her. Snatching her cloak from the footman as she passed, she clattered down the steps and out onto the street.
She caught up with Caroline and took her arm. It was stiff, and Caroline shook her off sharply. She kept her face straight ahead.
“How could you?” she said very quietly. “My own daughter! Is your vanity so much that you would do this to me?”
Charlotte reached for her arm again.
“Don’t speak to me.” Caroline jerked away roughly. “Don’t speak to me, please. Not ever again. I don’t wish to know you.”
“You’re being stupid!” Charlotte said as fiercely as she could without raising her voice for the whole street to hear. “I went there to find out if he knew how Theodora von Schenck got her money!”
“Don’t lie to me, Charlotte. I’m perfectly capable of seeing for myself what is going on!”
“Are you?” Charlotte demanded, angry with her mother not for misjudging her but for being so vulnerable, for allowing herself to be swept away by a dream till the awakening threatened everything that really mattered. “Are you, Mama? I think if you could see anything at all, you would know as well as I do that he doesn’t love you in the least.” She saw the tears in Caroline’s eyes, but she had to go on. “It isn’t anything to do with me, or any other woman! He is simply unaware that your feeling for him is anything more than pleasant—a little relief from boredom—a courtesy! You have built up a whole romantic vision around him that has nothing to do with the kind of person he is underneath. You don’t even know him really! All you see is what you want to!” She held on to Caroline’s arm, this time too hard for her to snatch it away.
“I know exactly how you feel!” she went on, keeping up with her. “I did the same with Dominic. I pinned all my romantic ideals onto him, put them over him like a suit of armor, till I had no idea what he was like underneath them. It isn’t fair! We haven’t the right to dress anyone else in our dreams and expect them to wear them for us! That isn’t love! It’s infatuation, and it’s childish—and dangerous! Just think how unbearably lonely it must be! Would you like to live with someone who didn’t even look at or listen to you, but only used you as a figure of fantasy? Someone to pretend about, someone to make responsible for all your emotions so that they are to blame if you are happy or unhappy? You have no right to do that to anyone else.”
Caroline stopped and stared at her, tears running down her face.
“Those are terrible things to say, Charlotte,” she whispered, her voice difficult and hoarse. “Terrible.”
“No, they aren’t.” Charlotte shook her head hard. “It is just the truth, and when you’ve looked at it a bit longer you’ll find you like it!” Please God that could be true!
“Like it! You tell me I have made a ridiculous fool of myself over a man who doesn’t care for me at all, and that even the feeling I had was an illusion, and selfish, nothing to do with love—and I shall come to like that!”
Charlotte threw her arms around her because she wanted to be close to her, share in her pain and comfort her. Besides, looking at her face right now would be an intrusion into privacy too deep to allow forgetting afterward.