Bedford Square by Anne Perry Read Free Book Online Page B

other and vanished. She felt the horror of the Devil’s Acre murders as if they were still happening, all the pain and injustice raw.
    She paced back and forth. Once she actually went as far as the door into the hall and opened it. But there was a housemaid on the stairs. If she left now she would be seen. She would look even more absurd than if she stayed.
    She closed the door again and waited, facing it as if she expected an attack.
    It opened and General Balantyne stood there. He wasolder. Tragedy had marked his face; there was a knowledge of pain in his eyes and his mouth which had not been there when they had first met. But his back was as straight, his shoulders as square, and he looked as directly as he always had.
    “Mrs. Pitt?” There was surprise in his face, and a softness which was almost certainly pleasure.
    She remembered how very much she had liked him.
    “General Balantyne.” Without thinking, she stepped forward. “I really don’t know why I have come, except to say how sorry I am that you should have the misfortune of some miserable man choosing your doorstep on which to die. I hope they can clear it up rapidly and you—” She stopped. He did not deserve platitudes. Lyndon Remus had already done the harm by resurrecting the Devil’s Acre case. No solution to this new murder would undo that.
    “I’m sorry,” she said sincerely. “I suppose that was all I wanted to say. I could have written a letter, couldn’t I?”
    He smiled very slightly. “A beautifully phrased, most tactful one, which would not have meant much and not sounded like you at all,” he answered. “And I should think you had changed, which I should regret.” Then he colored faintly, as if he were aware of having been too outspoken.
    “I hope I’ve learned a little,” she said. “Even if I sometimes fail to put it into practice.” She wanted to remain at least a few minutes longer. Perhaps there was something she could do to help, if only she could think of it. But it would be horribly intrusive to ask questions, and Pitt would already have done so anyway. Why did she imagine she could do anything more?
    He broke the silence. “How are you? How is your family?”
    “Very well. My children are growing up. Jemima is quite tall ….”
    “Ah, yes … Jemima.” A smile touched his mouth again. No doubt, like her, he was thinking of Jemima Waggoner, who had married his only son, and after whom Charlotte had named her daughter. “They returned the compliment, you know?”
    “The compliment?” she asked.
    “Yes. They called their second son Thomas.”
    “Oh!” She smiled back. “No. I didn’t know. I shall tell him. He’ll be very pleased. Are they well?”
    “Very. Brandy is posted in Madrid now. We don’t see them very often.”
    “You must miss them.”
    “Yes.” There was a moment of deep loneliness in his eyes. He looked away, staring out of the window into the quiet summer garden, roses lush and heavy in the morning sun, the dew already evaporated from them.
    The clock ticked on the mantelshelf.
    “My mother remarried,” Charlotte said awkwardly.
    He dragged himself to the present and turned back to face her.
    “Oh? I … hope she is happy.” It was not a question; one did not ask about such things, it was far too personal and intrusive. One did not even speak about happiness or unhappiness; it would be indelicate.
    She smiled at him, meeting his eyes. “Oh, yes. She married an actor.”
    He looked mystified. “I beg your pardon?”
    Had she gone too far? She had meant to lighten the tension, and perhaps he had taken it for levity. She could not go back, so she plunged on. “She married an actor, rather younger than she is.” Would he be scandalized? She felt the heat burn up her cheeks. “He has a great deal of courage … and charm. Moral courage, I mean … to remain loyal to friends in difficulty and to fight for what he believes to be right.”
    His expression eased, the lines around his