Anne Perry - Death in the Devil's Acre

“I told Gracie I was going to the dressmaker.”

Emily grunted and gave her a suspicious look. “Then I suppose I had better give you a dress-for your alibi!”

“Thank you,” Charlotte said graciously. “That is very generous of you. I’d like a red one.”

“Would you indeed!”

Mrs. Woolmer turned over the gold-embossed card and examined it carefully. It was of excellent quality, discreet. And there was no denying the title, Viscountess Ashworth.

“Who is she, Mama?” May inquired hopefully. She was finding this state of limbo exceedingly tiresome. No one yet seemed sure whether Bertie had been the victim or an offender who deserved whatever end he met. May herself, therefore, could not be sure what attitude to adopt, and meeting people in the meantime was testing all her abilities. On the other hand, not meeting people was like being imprisoned.

“I have no idea,” Mrs. Woolmer replied with a frown between her carefully plucked brows. She was wearing purple again, a good choice for those who were not quite certain whether they were in mourning or not. May wore black because she looked utterly dazzling in it; she glowed like warm alabaster in sunlight.

The parlormaid dropped a curtsy. “If you please, ma’am, she is most soberly dressed, ma’am, an’ she came in a carriage with a coat of arms on the side, and two footmen, ma’am, in livery. An’ she ’as ’er sister with ’er, very proper like. An’ she looks like she would be a lady, too, but she didn’t give me any card.”

Mrs. Woolmer made a rapid decision. Social behavior must be judged to a nicety if one were to climb to the heights. Nature had given her one great advantage in the most beautiful daughter of the Season. It would be ungracious to squander it with a clumsy gesture now.

She smiled at the maid. “Please invite Lady Ashworth and her sister to come in, Marigold, and then tell cook to prepare refreshments-tea, and the best cakes and delicacies-and bring them to us.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Marigold withdrew to do as she was bidden.

As soon as Emily and Charlotte came in, Mrs. Woolmer was reassured. Obviously the Viscountess Ashworth was a lady; one had but to observe the quality and discretion of her clothes. Only the nobility mixed good taste with the spending of money in quite such a way.

May was also delighted. They were young enough to gossip a little, and perhaps before too long even extend her an invitation. A private dinner would not be unseemly; after all, she had not actually been betrothed to Bertie! The more she thought about it, the more she considered it would be best to maintain a gentle and dignified silence upon the whole affair. Let people interpret that as they wished; to say nothing was always safer than to commit oneself. And a great many men preferred women without too many opinions of their own. And-rather more to the point in the marriage stakes-their mothers always approved. Silence and a sweet smile were taken as signs of an obedient nature, a thing much to be desired in a daughter-in-law.

Lady Ashworth was dressed in the height of fashion, in a subdued color that made her look all the more elegant. Her sister was far less fashionable, but undeniably handsome. Indeed her face was quite individual; there was a warmth in it May found herself drawn to.

“My dear.” Lady Ashworth came forward, her hands outstretched, and took May’s before she could readily think of anything to say. “I am so sorry. I had to come and assure you of my sympathy in your distress.”

May had been distressed, but not as Lady Ashworth supposed. She had not been especially fond of Bertie. In fact, she greatly preferred Beau Astley; he was better-looking and a good deal more fun. But one had to be practical. He had been a younger son with very few prospects, and he would have had even fewer when Bertie married and there was a new mistress in Astley House.

She re-collected herself and smiled sadly. “Thank you, Lady Ashworth, that is most sensitive of you. I can still hardly believe that anyone I knew could meet with such a dreadful fate.”

Mrs. Woolmer cast her a warning glance. She must not say anything to link herself irretrievably with the Astleys. They might turn out to have possessed heaven knew what disgusting habits! For all the newspapers’ genteelisms, one knew where he had been found. But May was perfectly aware of all the pitfalls and had no intention of falling into any of them.

Lady Ashworth introduced her sister Mrs. Pitt, and the ladies accepted seats graciously. “Life can give us some cruel surprises,” Emily observed, her expression one of wise sorrow. “They can be very hard to bear.” She lowered her head, apparently overcome with her own thoughts.

May felt compelled to say something; good manners demanded it. “Indeed. I–I realize now how little I knew him. I had never imagined such a …” She stopped because there was no satisfactory conclusion to that sentence. She looked frankly at Lady Ashworth’s sister Mrs. Pitt. “I believe I must be most lamentably innocent. I fear the less charitable might be laughing at me already.”

“The envious,” Mrs. Pitt corrected generously. “And they will always be there. The only way to avoid them is to fail where they may see it and be satisfied. I assure you, no person of worth will feel anything but understanding for you. It is a situation in which any woman might find herself.”

May had a fluttering, nervous feeling that Mrs. Pitt was referring to her indecision about Beau Astley with a very acute perception, and not at all to her grief for Bertie. It was uncomfortable to have her motives so thoroughly perceived. She looked at Lady Ashworth and saw the same frank understanding in her clear blue eyes. She decided at once to enlist them as allies. May was blessed with one virtue of perspicacity; she knew precisely whom she could deceive and whom she could not.

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.