of young people. It was in observing how many that the answer came to her.
It was far easier making such inquiries face-to-face than on a telephone. Accordingly she arranged to have luncheon with Lady Tattersall; the following day they sat pleasantly chatting over a dessert apple flan, and far more cream than was good for either of them. Vespasia introduced the name of a fictitious sociable friend.
“She heard the party was a great success, and knew she would have to make hers equally delightful,” Vespasia said, broaching the subject at last. “She does not know anyone who was there whom she might approach, so I promised her I would ask you.”
“Of course,” Lady Tattersall said agreeably. “What would she like to know?”
Vespasia smiled. “I think a simple account of how it went would be excellent, perhaps with a little detail, particularly as to how the younger guests responded to the evening. That would serve very well, and be most kind of you.”
Lady Tattersall was delighted to recount everything she could remember. Vespasia had been careful enough to make her fictitious friend live quite out of the way, in Northumberland, so the absence of word of such a party ever taking place would not be noticed. She learned a great deal: a vivid firsthand account of a large but outwardly successful event. The only person less than happy had been Angeles Castelbranco, but her distress had been put down to her youth, and her foreign blood.
Vespasia left, certain in her own mind that Neville Forsbrook had raped Angeles at Mrs. Westerly’s party, exactly as she and Charlotte had feared. Now the question was what to do with that knowledge, besides informing Thomas Pitt.
IN THE LATE MORNING of the day after her luncheon with Lady Tattersall, Vespasia was taken very much by surprise when her maid announced that Mr. Rawdon Quixwood had called and asked if he might take a few moments of her time. He had a matter of some importance he wished to discuss with her.
She gave the maid permission to ask him in. A moment later he was standing in her quiet sitting room with its view onto the garden. It was in full summer bloom, hot colors of roses and, in the background, the cool blue spires of delphinium.
Quixwood was a stark contrast to the gaudy profusion beyond the windows. He was smartly dressed, but in black, relieved only by the white of his shirt. His thick hair was combed and his shave immaculate, yet his face was that of a man haunted by grief. His skin was pale and the lines around his mouth furrowed deep.
Vespasia struggled to think of anything to say that would not be banal.
“Good morning, Mr. Quixwood,” she began. “May I offer you tea, or—if you would prefer it—something more?”
“That is kind of you, Lady Vespasia, but I shall return to my club for luncheon. I am presently living there. I … I cannot yet face returning to my home.”
“I can imagine not,” she agreed quickly. “I would not find it hard to understand if you never did. I am sure there are other properties that would be equally agreeable, and convenient for you.”
He smiled very slightly. “You are quite right. Forgive me for intruding on you without warning. If the matter were not of some urgency and moral importance, I would not do so.”
She indicated the chair opposite her and, as he sat down, she resumed her own seat. “What can I do for you, Mr. Quixwood?” she invited.
He looked down, smiling very slightly in a wry expression of amusement and pain.
“I have heard from a friend of mine that you have been making certain inquiries about Pelham Forsbrook’s son, Neville, after the tragic night where young Angeles Castelbranco met her death.” He winced. “It is … it is a painful reminder of my own wife’s death.” His voice was husky and he clearly found mastery of his emotions almost impossible.
Vespasia tried to think of something to ease his awkwardness, but she had no idea what he meant to say, so nothing appropriate came to mind.
He looked up at her. “I don’t know how to say this graciously.” He bit his lip. “I know that young Neville behaved in a manner that can be described only as crass when he teased the poor girl. If he were my son, I hope I would have raised him to be more sensitive, more aware of the feelings of others, no matter how much wine