“He is a man of intense pride,” Cornwallis continued. “But in day-to-day life he has the skill to conceal it, or at least make it appear as something less offensive.”
“Less vulnerable,” Pitt said instantly.
Cornwallis did not miss the meaning. “You are looking for a weakness?”
Pitt remembered with an effort that Cornwallis knew nothing of the Whitechapel affair, except Adinett’s trial in the beginning and Voisey’s knighthood at the end. He did not even know that Voisey was the head of the Inner Circle, and for his own safety it was better that he never learn it. Pitt owed him at least that much in loyalty for the past, and he would have wished it in friendship now.
“I’m looking for knowledge, and that includes both strengths and weaknesses,” he replied. “He is standing for Parliament as a Tory, in a strong Liberal seat. The question of Home Rule has already arisen!”
Cornwallis’s eyebrows rose. “And that means Narraway?”
Pitt did not answer.
Cornwallis accepted his silence.
“What do you want to know about Voisey?” he asked. “What kind of weakness?”
“Who does he care for?” Pitt said softly. “Who is he afraid of? What moves him to laughter, awe, pain, any emotion? What does he want, apart from power?”
Cornwallis smiled, his eyes steady on Pitt’s, unblinking. “It sounds as if you are deploying for battle,” he said with a very slight lift of question.
“I am searching to see if I have any weapons,” Pitt replied without looking away. “Have I?”
“I doubt it,” Cornwallis answered. “If he cares for anything apart from power, I’ve not heard of it, not enough that the loss of it would hurt him.” He was watching Pitt’s face, trying to read in it what he needed. “He likes to live well, but not ostentatiously. He enjoys being admired, which he is, but he’s not willing to curry favor to get it. I daresay he doesn’t need to. He takes pleasure in his home, good food, good wine, the theater, music, company, but he’d sacrifice any of them if he had to, to reach the office he wants. At least that’s what I’ve heard. Do you want me to ask more?”
“No! No . . . not yet.”
Cornwallis nodded.
“Anyone he fears?” Pitt asked without hope.
“None that I know,” Cornwallis said dryly. “Has he cause? Is that what Narraway is afraid of . . . an attempt on his life?”
Again, Pitt could not answer. The silence was worrying him, even though he knew Cornwallis understood.
“Anyone he cares about?” Pitt asked doggedly. He could not afford to give up.
Cornwallis thought for a moment or two. “Possibly,” he said at last. “Although how deeply I don’t know. But I think there are ways in which he needs her—as his hostess, if nothing else. But I think he does care for her, as much as a man of his nature can.”
“Her? Who is she?” Pitt demanded, hope quickening in him at last.
Cornwallis dismissed the matter with a tiny, rueful smile. “His sister is a widow of great charm and formidable social skills. She appears, at least on the surface, to possess a gentleness and moral sensitivity he has never shown, in spite of his recent knighthood, of which you know more than I.” It was not a question. He would never intrude where he knew he had no rights, and a refusal would hurt. He frowned very slightly; it was just a shadow between the brows. “But I have met her only twice, and I am no judge of women.” Now there was a slight self-consciousness in him. “Someone more skilled might tell you quite differently. Certainly she is one of his greatest political assets among those in the party with the power and the will to support him. With the voters he has little to rely on but his own oratory.” He sounded discouraged, as if he feared that would be sufficient.
Pitt feared it even more so. He had seen Voisey face the crowd. It was a blow to discover that he had a social ally of such ability. Pitt had been hoping that perhaps being unmarried would be Voisey’s one weakness.
“Thank you,” he said aloud.
Cornwallis smiled bleakly. “Have some more cider?”
Emily Radley enjoyed a good dinner party, most especially when there was an edge of danger and excitement in the air, struggles of power, of words, ambition hidden behind a mask of humor or of charm, public duty or a passion for reform. Parliament had not been dissolved, but it would be any day, and they all knew it; then the battle would be in the open. It would be swift and sharp, a matter of a week or so. There was no time to hesitate, reconsider a blow, or moderate a defense. It was all in hot blood.
She prepared as for a campaign of war. She was a beautiful woman, and she was very well aware of it. But now that she was in her thirties and had two children, it required a little more care than it used to in order to be her best. She set aside the youthful pastels she had once favored for her delicate coloring and selected from the latest fashions from Paris something bolder, more sophisticated. The basic skirt and bodice were midnight-blue silk, but with an overdress of light blue-gray slashed diagonally to swathe up over the bosom and be caught at the left shoulder, and again at the waist, with another deep slash and ties falling from her hip. It had the usual high rouched shoulders, and of course she wore kid gloves to the elbows. She chose diamonds rather than pearls.
The result was really very good. She felt ready to take on any woman who might be in the room, even her current closest friend, the dashing and superbly stylish Rose Serracold. She liked Rose enormously, and had since the day they met, and she sincerely hoped that Rose’s husband, Aubrey, would gain his seat in Parliament, but she had no intention of being outshone by anyone. Jack’s seat was pretty safe. He had served with distinction and made several valuable friends in power who would no doubt stand by him now, but nothing should be taken for granted. Political power was a highly fickle mistress and must be courted on every possible occasion.
Their carriage drew up outside the Trenchard’s magnificent house on Park Lane, and she and Jack alighted. They were welcomed by the footman at the door and crossed the hall and were announced. She entered the withdrawing room on his arm with her head high and an air of confidence. They were greeted by Colonel and Mrs. Trenchard at exactly quarter to nine, fifteen minutes after the hour stated on the invitation that in turn had been received five weeks earlier. It was precisely the correct moment to arrive; they had judged it to perfection. To be on time would be vulgarly eager, whereas it was rude to be late. And since dinner was announced approximately twenty minutes after the first guest arrived, long after that one might easily find oneself shown in when everyone else was already going into the dining room.
Etiquette, which was of immovable rigidity, dictated who should go in with whom, and in what order, or the whole procedure would be thrown into chaos. To be noticed for beauty was always admirable; for wit was usually so, although there were risks attached. To make a spectacle of oneself would be disastrous.
No drinks were served in the brief time before the butler announced dinner. It was customary merely to sit and exchange a few pleasantries with whomever one might know until the procession to the dining room commenced.
The host would lead the way, with the senior ranking lady on his arm, followed by the remainder of the guests, in order of the ladies’ rank, followed at the last by the hostess on the arm of the senior male guest.
Emily had time only to speak for a moment with Rose Serracold, easy to see with her ash-blond hair and sharp, straight profile even before she turned her pale aquamarine eyes to regard the latest arrivals. Her face lit with pleasure and she moved swiftly to Emily’s side, twitching her flesh-pink taffeta dress. The gown plunged to the waist at the front, over claret-red embroidered brocade, which was echoed in mid-hip panels and an underskirt. It made her slender hips look richly curved and her waist a mere handspan. Only a woman of supreme confidence could have looked so dazzling in such a gown.