Rutland Place by Anne Perry

little hesitantly. “I mean—is that right?”
    Tormod was still casual, his voice light. He smiled at her with a little twist of regret.
    “I suppose not, if one knew for sure who it was and had proof that it had occurred,” he said. “But we haven’t. All we would do is rouse suspicion, and perhaps quite unjustly. Better to let the matter lie. Once one begins an inquiry into evil, one can start a train of events that is very difficult to stop. A silver-plated buttonhook is hardly worth all the anger and fear, and the doubts, that inquiry would raise.”
    “I think you are quite right,” Charlotte said quickly. “After all, a case of something missing—one has no idea where—is very different from actually knowing beyond question that a particular person has stolen it.”
    “How wise of you.” Tormod flashed her a rapid smile. “Justice is not always best served by shouting ‘thief.’ ”
    Before Caroline could defend her view, the maid announced another caller.
    “Mrs. Denbigh, ma’am,” she said to Eloise. “Shall I say that you will receive her?”
    Eloise’s face tightened almost imperceptibly. In another light, farther from the window, the change in her expression might not have been visible at all.
    “Yes, of course, Beryl, please do.”
    Amaryllis Denbigh was the sort of woman Charlotte felt quite uncomfortable with. She came into the room with assurance, carrying with her an air of always having been successful, always valued. She was not beautiful, but there was an appeal in her face of wide eyes and slightly too round, curved lips, the innocence of an adolescent who does not yet understand her own potential for excitement and hunger. She had an abundance of fair, wavy hair that was dressed just casually enough not to look unnatural. It required a very skilled maid to achieve such an effect. Her dress was undeniably expensive—not in the least ostentatious, but Charlotte knew how much it cost to have a dressmaker cut it so cleverly that the bust looked just that much fuller, the waist those few inches smaller.
    Introductions were formal and very complete. Amaryllis weighed Charlotte to an exactness, and dismissed her. She turned to Tormod.
    “Shall you be coming to Mrs. Wallace’s soirée on Thursday? I do so hope so. I have heard the pianist she has invited is quite excellent. I’m sure you would enjoy it. And Eloise too, of course,” she added as an afterthought, a politeness without conviction.
    Charlotte noted the tone in her voice and drew conclusions of her own.
    “I think we will,” Tormod replied. He turned to Eloise. “You have nothing else prepared, have you, dear?”
    “No, not at all. If this pianist is good, it will be a great pleasure. I only hope they do not all make such a noise we cannot hear him.”
    “My dear, you cannot expect conversation to cease just to listen to a pianist—not at a soirée,” Amaryllis said gently. “After all, it is primarily a social event, and the music is merely a diversion, a pleasantness. And of course it gives people something to talk about without having to think too hard for a suitable subject. Some people are so awkward, you know.” She smiled at Charlotte. “Do you not think so, Mrs. Pitt?”
    “Indeed, I am sure of it,” Charlotte agreed frankly. “Some cannot think of anything suitable to say at all, while others speak far too much and at all the wrong times. I greatly like a person who knows how to be silent comfortably, especially when there is good music playing.”
    Amaryllis’ face tightened. She ignored the implication.
    “Do you play, Mrs. Pitt?” she asked.
    “No,” Charlotte answered blandly. “I regret I do not. Do you?”
    Amaryllis regarded her chillingly.
    “I paint,” she replied. “I prefer it. So much less intrusive, I think. One can look or not, as one chooses. Oh”—she widened her eyes and bit her lip—“I’m so sorry, Eloise. I had forgotten that you play. I did not mean you, of course! You