Relief nearly made her sick. She felt heat and icy cold rush over her, prickling on her skin. She pulled the door open with shaking hands.
“I’m here!”
Ten minutes later she was downstairs in the withdrawing room again, her hair a trifle disheveled; that was easily explained by saying that she had been lying down, and yes thank you, she was quite recovered now. She remained fairly quiet, not wanting to risk the amazing luck she had had so far. Her hands still trembled a little and her mind was crowded with anything but stupid conversation.
The party broke up early, as though by common consent. By quarter to eleven Charlotte was sitting beside Jack in the carriage, telling him about Garrard and Loretta in the conservatory, and the expressions she had seen in their faces.
Then she told him what she proposed to do next.
Ballarat agreed to see her with reluctance.
“My dear Mrs. Pitt, I am sorry you have been caused such distress, believe me,” he protested. “But there is really nothing I can do for you.” He rocked backwards and forwards on the soles of his feet and stood again in front of the fire. “I wish you wouldn’t harrow yourself in this way! Why don’t you go and stay with your family until, er ...” He stopped, realizing he had painted himself into a corner.
“Until they hang my husband,” she finished for him flatly.
He was acutely uncomfortable. “My dear lady, that is quite—”
She stared at him, and he had the grace to blush. But she had not come to antagonize him, and giving free rein to her feelings was self-indulgent and stupid. “I’m sorry,” she apologized with difficulty, swallowing her loathing of him because his fear was so much greater than his loyalty. “I came to tell you I have discovered something which I felt I must tell you immediately.” She ignored his exasperated expression and went on. “The woman in pink who was killed in Seven Dials was not the same woman in cerise whom Dulcie saw in the York house and Miss Adeline Danver saw on the landing in the Danver house. That woman is still alive, and is the witness that Thomas was looking for.”
A twinge of pity touched his face and vanished again. “Witness to what, Mrs. Pitt?” he asked with an effort at patience. “And even if we could find this mysterious woman—if she exists—it would hardly help Pitt. The evidence is still there that he killed the woman in Seven Dials, whoever she was.” He sounded eminently reasonable, certain of his lightness.
“Yes it is!” Charlotte’s voice was rising and there was a sharp note of panic in it in spite of herself. “Someone dressed that woman in a pink dress and killed her to protect the real Cerise, and to get rid of Thomas at the same time. Don’t you see?” she asked, her tone scathing with sarcasm. “Or do you imagine Thomas pushed the maid out of the window as well? And presumably killed Robert York too—God knows why.”
Ballarat put his hands up ineffectually, as if he would pat her, then saw the passion in her eyes and backed away instead. “My dear lady, you are overwrought. It’s very understandable, in your circumstances, and believe me, I have the deepest pity.” He drew breath again and steadied himself. Reason must be paramount. “Robert York was killed by a burglar, and the maid fell quite accidentally.” He nodded. “It does happen sometimes, unfortunately. Extremely sad, but not in the least criminal. And really, my dear lady, Miss Adeline Danver is quite elderly, and I believe not the most reliable witness.”
Charlotte stared at him in disbelief at first, and then with sickening comprehension. Either he was frightened of all the unpleasantness, the anger, the blame if it were true and there really was treason in the Foreign Office—or else he was part of it! She looked at his rounded jowls, his blustery complexion, his lidless brown eyes, round as buttons. She could not believe he was a brilliant enough actor to seem so much the ambitious man tricked and caught out of his depth. For a second that passed like a ripple of wind over the surface of a pond, she was sorry for him; then she remembered Pitt’s bruised face and the fear she had seen in his eyes.
“You are going to feel very foolish when this is all over,” she said icily. “I had thought you had more love for your country than to allow treason to flourish merely because up-rooting it might prove distasteful, and embarrass certain people whose favor you would like to keep.”
Ballarat’s face mottled purple as a turkey cock, and he took a step forward. “You insult me, madam!” he said furiously.
“I’m glad!” She glared at him with scorching contempt, cutting off his words. “I had feared I merely spoke the truth; prove the wrong and no one will be happier than I. In the meantime I believe what I see. Good day, Mr. Ballarat.” She walked out without looking back, leaving the door open behind her. Let him come after her and close it himself.
She knew what she must do. Ballarat had left her no choice. Had he promised to investigate she would have left it, but now there was nothing else she could think of. There was a ruthlessness in it of which she would not have thought herself capable, but it was shocking to her how easily it came, because she was fighting to protect those she loved more than herself, whose pain she could not bear as she might have her own. Her response was primal and nothing to do with the mind.
Charlotte had understood that look in Loretta’s face in the doorway of the conservatory. She was in love with Garrard Danver—totally, obsessively in love, which was not hard to believe. He had a grace, an individuality that was unusual. And he would be a challenge to most women; there was something elusive in him, the suggestion of great passion beneath his rather brittle shell and self-protective humor, if only one could find the secret of touching the heart or the soul inside. To lovely Loretta, bored with the charming but controlled Piers, the hint of something much wilder might be irresistible.
And obviously Garrard had loved only Cerise. All that hunger and flood of emotion, all Loretta dreamt of awakening herself, had been plain in his face when for a moment the sight of Charlotte outlined in the half light, and the flame of the dress, had stirred an anguished memory.
She must get them all together and press and press until someone broke. Garrard was the weakest link. He was afraid—she had seen that in his face too—and repelled by Loretta’s hunger for him. Charlotte could remember when a man had once felt such a lust for her and Caroline had blindly thought him suitable as a husband. Charlotte had been nearly hysterical when left alone with him briefly. It had seemed ridiculous later; Caroline had been angry, not understanding. It was years ago now and the incident had vanished from her mind, until she saw Garrard’s face in the lamplight and the peculiar mixture of horror, embarrassment, and revulsion brought it back with such precision that it made her skin crawl.
Garrard was the one she must press with all the force she had.
But there was no way within her power to make the Yorks invite the Danvers, the Ashersons, and herself, and no one else. They might not ever do it—certainly not within the few remaining days before Pitt would be arraigned and brought to trial. To have such a gathering in Emily’s house would be inexplicable, and Jack had no facilities either, although Emily would willingly have financed the event. No, the answer lay with Aunt Vespasia, and surely she would be willing.
Accordingly Charlotte abandoned the public omnibus and recklessly took a hansom cab to Aunt Vespasia’s house. Having paid the cabbie and released him, she climbed the shallow steps up to the front door and rang the bell. She had been here many times before and the maid showed not the slightest surprise at seeing her.
Vespasia received her in the boudoir, which was full of light and space, sparsely furnished in cream and gold with touches of deep green. A great green fern in a jardinière stood against one wall. Only the steeply banked fire saved it from chill.