slopped noisily on the stones as the wash from a string of barges reached them.
“My lord, we both know what was done to Mrs. Quixwood. Think what you like about Hythe, but if he’s the guilty party—and he is the one charged—there was no like nor understanding between him and Catherine Quixwood at the end.”
Narraway said nothing. He stood in the sun by the water. The rising tide would wash away the bloodstains at his feet, but, remembering the injuries Dr. Brinsley had described, he thought nothing would ever rid his mind of the images they conjured, or the sick misery that filled him.
CHAPTER
13
SEVERAL DAYS LATER, CHARLOTTE was attending a luncheon at the very beautiful town house of her sister Emily, which she had inherited from her first marriage to Lord Ashworth. His early death had left her with a considerable fortune, and several very fine properties, held in trust for her son, who was heir to his father’s title as well as the benefits that went with it.
Her very happy second marriage was to Jack Radley. Early in his career he had been a gentleman of fashion, and little else. Now he was a member of Parliament, and had grown into a position of considerable responsibility.
Half a dozen ladies were sitting in the large garden room, which was open onto the paved terrace and the sloping lawn with flowers beyond. It was as beautiful a place in which to dine as any in London, and they were taking full advantage of the very pleasant weather. Pastel silks and muslins fluttered in the fitful breeze. Parasols carefully placed kept the sun’s harsher light from fairer skins.
“Everything seems to be in such turmoil,” Marie Grosvenor said with a slight frown. “People are talking about all kinds of wealth, and loss. I have friends who are saying they’ll end up with unimaginable money, and others who are terrified they’ll be ruined. Some say Dr. Jameson’s a true patriot, and others that he’s an irresponsible madman. I really don’t know what to believe.”
Charlotte glanced at Emily and saw her attention quicken. The presumably harmless conversation had suddenly taken a darker turn with talk of financial ruin. Was she going to struggle against the tide, or go with it? It was her duty as hostess to govern the mood of the party, but it would require a very strong will to alter its course. Not that Emily was without such a will; it was more about her desire to use it when not doing so might prove far more entertaining.
“Will you attend the trial?” Arabella Scott asked, her fair eyebrows raised, interest sharp in her pale blue eyes. “I’m thinking of it myself. Poor Dr. Jameson. But heroes are often vilified, do you not think?” She looked from one to the other of them, her gaze finally resting on Charlotte.
Everyone else turned to look at her also, clearly thinking she had some special knowledge. They had heard, at the very least, that Pitt had been in the police. Of course it was not an occupation for a gentleman, but there was a certain gruesome fascination in it, all the same.
Charlotte was annoyed. She had to guard her tongue in so many things, she was compensating for it by being less conciliatory in others. Right now she was ready for battle. She looked at Arabella with a smile.
“Oh, yes, I agree with you,” she replied, ignoring Emily’s look of surprise. “We are very hard on heroes, exactly as you say. And often we praise the wrong people, not even realizing who has done what. We can accept the most superficial of explanations and attribute courage to people who are merely foolhardy, or even stupid and self-serving. Then we totally ignore those who set the good of others before their own profit. How wise you are to see it, and brave to point it out, if I may say so.”
Arabella looked completely nonplussed. The last thing she had intended to be was brave, as Charlotte well knew.
Flora Jefferson blinked. “Maybe I am not paying due attention, but I am not certain if you mean that Dr. Jameson is a hero, or that he is not,” she said pointedly.
Emily drew in her breath, watching Charlotte.
“Neither am I,” Charlotte said charmingly. “I hear one story, then I hear another. According to some people, Dr. Jameson led an army of patriots to save Mr. Rhodes’s railway in the Pitsani Strip, which I believe borders on the Transvaal, which belongs