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viscountess, and had not called before, therefore her visit in person, instead of merely leaving a card, was something of an honor; and a good parlormaid was as well versed in the niceties of social distinctions as her mistress.
    She did not knock at the door, such would have been considered vulgar, but pushed it open and announced Emily.
    “Lady Ashworth.”
    Emily was agog with curiosity, but naturally she concealed it with a magnificent dignity. She sailed into the room looking neither to right nor left, holding out her hand. There was a slight flutter among the half dozen or so ladies present, a natural interest quickly stifled by protocol. It was not done to display such an unsophisticated emotion.
    Lady Augusta remained seated.
    “How charming,” she said with a slight lift in her voice. “Pray do sit down, Lady Ashworth. So gracious of you to call.”
    Emily sat down, arranging her skirt almost absently, but precisely to its best advantage.
    “I’m sure we have many mutual friends,” Emily said noncommittally. “It must be only chance that we have not met before.”
    “Indeed,” Augusta would not commit herself either. “I know you are acquainted with my daughter, Christina.” It was a statement. Emily looked across at the pretty face of Christina with its soft little chin and full lips. It was an unusual face; far more important than beauty, it had individuality, and considerable provocation, a face that men would no doubt find attractive. It promised both appetite and yielding. But then men were incredibly foolish where women were concerned. Emily could see at a glance the hardness in the balance of the pert nose and the curve of the lips. A taker, not a giver, Emily judged. She stored her decision, and turned to the next woman to whom Augusta was already directing her.
    “Lady Carlton,” Augusta was saying. “Sir Robert is in the government, you know, the Foreign Office.”
    Emily smiled across. This woman was entirely different, wide-mouthed, less pretty, warmer. But now her hands were knotted in her lap, and there were the finest of lines round her eyes and mouth. She was older than Christina, perhaps even in her middle thirties, and there was a nervousness, a tension underlying the pleasantness. She and Emily exchanged inclinations of the head and a polite recognition. Others were introduced and conversation began; first about the weather, which was exceptionally gentle for late October, then about fashion, and thence into the truly interesting area of gossip. Tea was served at four o’clock, brought in by the parlormaid and poured by Lady Augusta.
    Emily contrived to engage herself with Christina and Euphemia Carlton. Without difficulty the subject of the bodies in the square was introduced.
    “Quite shocking,” Euphemia shivered. “Poor little souls.” A bleak look passed over her face.
    “I daresay they knew nothing about it,” Christina answered realistically. “I understand they were newborn. In fact they may even have been born dead.”
    “They still had souls,” Euphemia stared into the distance.
    Emily felt a quick flicker of excitement, and a peculiar distress. Could this be it, so soon, so very easily? Was it guilt in Euphemia Carlton’s face? Find out more about her. Why should she have done such a fearful thing? Indeed, why should any married woman of wealth and quality? As soon as possible she must ask Charlotte more about the babies. Had they been black, or of some other startling appearance that would betray infidelity?
    “I assume you do not know about our little piece of horror,” Christina was speaking again.
    “I beg your pardon?” Emily turned an innocent face to her.
    “Our horror,” Christina repeated. “The bodies buried in the square.”
    “Only the few fragments you have mentioned,” Emily lied without an atom of compunction. “Pray, if it does not distress you, oblige me with a little information.” It was not, of course, that she imagined Christina