Pitt had been set in his place, his enemies sure he would not have the steel in his soul to succeed. They had been wrong, at least so far. But Victor Narraway had remained out of office, removed to the House of Lords, where his abilities were wasted. There were always committees, and political intrigues of one sort or another, but nothing that offered the immense power he had once wielded. That in itself might not matter to him, but to be unable to use his extraordinary talents was a loss he surely found hard to bear.
“Looking for the cue to go home?” Narraway asked with a slight smile, reading Pitt as easily as he always had.
“It’s not far off midnight. I don’t think we really need to stay much longer,” Pitt agreed, returning the slightly rueful smile. “It’ll probably take half an hour to make all the appropriate goodbyes.”
“And Charlotte, another half hour after that,” Narraway added, glancing across the room toward Charlotte and Vespasia.
Pitt shrugged, not needing to answer. The remark was made with affection—or probably more than that, as he well knew.
Before his train of thought could go any further, they were joined by a slender man well into his forties. His dark hair was threaded with gray at the temples but there was a youthful energy in his unusual face. He was not exactly handsome—his nose was not straight and his mouth was a little generous—but the vitality in him commanded not only attention but an instinctive liking.
“Good evening, m’lord,” he said to Narraway. Then without hesitation, he turned to Pitt, holding out his hand. “Rawdon Quixwood,” he introduced himself.
“Thomas Pitt,” Pitt responded.
“Yes, I know.” Quixwood’s smile widened. “Perhaps I am not supposed to, but seeing you standing here talking so comfortably with Lord Narraway, the conclusion is obvious.”
“Either that, or he has no idea who I am,” Narraway said drily. “Or who I was.” There was no bitterness in his voice, or even in his eyes, but Pitt knew how the dismissal had hurt and guessed how heavily Narraway’s new idleness weighed on him. A joke passed off lightly, a touch of self-mockery, did not hide the wound. But perhaps if Pitt had been so easily deceived he would not belong in the leadership of Special Branch now. All his adult life in the police had made understanding people as second nature to him as dressing a certain way, or exercising courtesy or discretion. Seeing through the masks of privacy worn by friends was a different matter. He would have preferred not to.
“If he did not know who you were, my lord, he would be a total outsider,” Quixwood responded pleasantly. “And I saw him speaking with Lady Vespasia half an hour ago, which excludes that as a possibility.”
“She speaks to outsiders,” Narraway pointed out. “In fact, I have come to the conclusion that at times she prefers them.”
“With excellent judgment,” Quixwood agreed. “But they do not speak to her. She is somewhat intimidating.”
Narraway laughed, and there was genuine enjoyment in the sound.
Pitt was going to add his own opinion when a movement beyond Narraway caught his eye. He saw a young man approaching them, his face pale and tense with anxiety. His gaze was fixed on Pitt with a kind of desperation.
“Excuse me,” Pitt said briefly, and moved past Narraway to go toward the man.
“Sir …” the man began awkwardly. “Is … is that Mr. Quixwood you were speaking to? Mr. Rawdon Quixwood?”
“Yes, it is.” Pitt wondered what on earth was the matter. The younger man’s distress was palpable. “Is there something wrong?” he prompted.
“Yes, sir. My name’s Jenner, sir. Police. Are you a friend of Mr. Quixwood’s?”
“No, I’m afraid not. I’ve only just met him. I’m Commander Pitt, of Special Branch. What is it you want?” He was aware that by now at least one of the other two would have noticed the awkward conversation and Jenner’s obvious unhappiness. They might be refraining from interruption on the assumption it was Special Branch business.
Jenner took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, sir, but Mr. Quixwood’s wife has been found dead at their home. It’s worse than just that, sir.” He gulped, and swallowed with difficulty. “It looks pretty plain that she’s been murdered. I need to tell Mr. Quixwood, and take him there. If he has any friends who could … be there to help him …” He trailed off, not knowing what else to say.
After all his experience with violent and unexpected death, Pitt