They would hear of it soon enough, but I wanted to take this as an opportunity to warn Rafael not to do anything foolish.”
She paled, the anger in her eyes instantly replaced by horror.
He put his arm around her and gently led her toward the parlor. When they were inside he closed the door.
“They have arrested a very respectable young married man named Alban Hythe,” he told her, his voice calmer now. “His wife is young and charming, and so far still believes in him totally.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened, all fury turned to pity. “Poor woman,” she whispered. “I imagine she loves him—loves what she thought he was. She won’t be able to bear thinking anything else … until she has to.” She shook her head, and all the tiny muscles in her face tightened as she imagined the other woman’s pain. “I didn’t think there would be anything worse than losing a child, but perhaps this would be. It has robbed her not only of the present and the future, but of all that she believed of the past.”
“We don’t know that he’s guilty,” Pitt said gently. He wanted to comfort her, but he would not dare say anything less than the truth.
“Narraway isn’t at all sure that Hythe is guilty,” he said, watching her face.
She was startled. “Victor isn’t?”
Pitt didn’t mind that Charlotte had used his given name, that there was a degree of familiarity between his wife and his friend. He was perfectly aware that Narraway had been in love with Charlotte during the Irish adventure, and for some time before that, and that Charlotte knew it. She was quite certain that the feelings would pass, if they hadn’t already. Pitt wasn’t sure he agreed, but he trusted Narraway entirely.
“No,” Pitt agreed. “And he has been doing some investigating of his own.”
“So this Hythe man, he was Catherine’s lover?” she asked.
“He says not. She was lonely, intelligent, starved for someone with whom to share ideas, discovery, beauty.”
“And her husband is …” she chose her words delicately, “… a bore?”
“Perhaps insensitive,” he amended. “Yes, from her point of view, very possibly a bore. Maybe he was too involved in his business affairs.”
“And she was lonely enough to take a lover?” she pressed.
“Enough to seek a friend,” he corrected. “At least that is what Narraway thinks. He says Mrs. Hythe is also warm and interesting, and quite individual.”
Charlotte smiled. “For him to have noticed, she must be! So do they have the wrong man?”
“I don’t know, but it seems quite possible.”
“And what about Neville Forsbrook?” she challenged. “There is no doubt he is the one Angeles Castelbranco was terrified of.”
“Isn’t there?” Pitt thought back to his conversation with Stoker. “I wanted to ask you about that. You don’t think it could have been one of the other young men he was with? Think carefully, remember exactly what you saw.”
“Would that be his defense, if you charged him?” she said quickly.
“I imagine so.”
“Well, it was him. The others were only following his lead. She was looking at him all the time she backed away.” There was absolute conviction in her voice and in the bright anger in her eyes. “I’ll swear to it if I have to,” she added.
“You won’t.” Suddenly he was weary. “There’s nothing with which to charge him.”
“So Hythe may be innocent, and yet he’ll go to trial, whereas Forsbrook is guilty, and he’ll walk away without anyone even mentioning his name? What’s the matter with the world?” Now there was fear in her face again: fear of the unreason, the lack of justice.
Pitt wanted desperately to give her an answer that would offer comfort, or at least hope. She was looking at him, wanting it not only for herself but for everyone, for her children, and there was nothing he could say.
“Hythe hasn’t been tried yet,” he said quietly. “He may be found not guilty, clear his name.”
“Will it clear his name?” she asked. “Or will people go on thinking it was him, but that he just got away with it? Do you suppose people in general will really listen to the evidence?”
“We may get someone else for it,” he said, trying to force hope into his voice and his eyes.
“And Forsbrook?” she went on. “Will justice ever catch up with him? Or will people go on, happy with the easy answer that Angeles was a foreigner who lacked propriety?” Then she saw his face, and blushed miserably. “I’m sorry, Thomas. I know there’s nothing you can