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before it became completely addled!
    “The man who was murdered was Robert York,” she said briskly. “The widow is Mrs. Veronica York, of Hanover Close.” She stopped. He was smiling broadly.
    “Not difficult at all,” he said confidently. “I used to know her. In fact . . .” He hesitated, apparently uncertain how indiscreet to be.
    Emily felt a stab of jealousy that was quite uncharacteristic. She knew it was extremely silly; she was thoroughly aware of his reputation. And anyway, she was a woman who had never cherished delusions. She knew perfectly well that men held themselves accountable to quite a different set of standards from those they expected of women. It was only necessary never to be so flagrant that others could not affect ignorance; what they suspected was irrelevant. All realistic people knew as much. Judicious blindness was the only way to preserve peace of mind. But it was a standard Emily was becoming increasingly impatient with, even though she knew her feelings were foolish, and highly impractical.
    “Did you part in a manner which would allow you to take up the acquaintance again?” she said crisply.
    His face fell. “Certainly!”
    She looked down, not wanting him to guess at any emotion in her, certainly nothing as unattractive as the truth.
    “Then will you? With Charlotte? As you say, it would be impossible for me.”
    “Of course,” he said slowly, and she knew he was looking at her. “But will Pitt approve? And I can hardly introduce her as a policeman’s wife. We’ll have to think of something better.”
    “Thomas won’t have to know. She can come here first, borrow one of my dresses, and go as . . .” She searched her imagination. “As a cousin of yours up from the country. A close cousin, so it will not be in the least improper for you to accompany her without a chaperone.”
    “Will she agree to that?” There was already interest in his voice, and not the incredulity he might have felt towards someone else. Perhaps he was remembering Cardington Crescent.
    “Oh yes,” Emily said with intense determination. “Certainly she will.”
    Two days later, handsomely dressed in one of Emily’s winter gowns adapted from last season—she had bought nothing but black this winter—Charlotte found herself in a smart carriage bowling along Park Lane towards Hanover Close, with Jack Radley beside her. He had called at the York house immediately upon parting from Emily. He left his card and asked if he might introduce to them his cousin, Miss Elisabeth Barnaby, who was newly come up from the country after nursing her aunt through a long and distressing illness, from which she was at last mercifully recovered. Now Miss Barnaby was in need of a little diversion, and for this reason Jack had presumed on an old acquaintance, in the hope he might introduce her.
    The reply had been brief, but perfectly civil, quite enough upon which to call.
    Charlotte pulled the rug tighter round her knees. The carriage was bitterly cold and it was raining hard outside, daggers of water stabbing the gutters, hissing under the wheels and spraying high. The leather upholstery inside felt damp to the touch—even the wood of the window frames was clammy. Emily’s dress was excellent, since her maid had let it out across the bosom and lengthened the cuffs an inch, all very suitable for a young woman recently come up from the country: while not obviously secondhand, neither was it of the latest fashion, such as might be worn by someone in no need of introduction. But Charlotte was still cold.
    The carriage stopped. She glanced quickly at Jack Radley beside her and swallowed, feeling a tight flicker of apprehension. This was a very rash thing she was doing. Pitt would be furious if he knew, and the chance of being caught was very real. It would be easy enough to make a crucial mistake or slip of the tongue; she might have the misfortune to meet someone who had known her before her marriage, when she still