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moved in such circles.
    The door was opened and Jack waited to hand her down. She stepped out, wincing against the cold needles of rain. She felt no better about the impending visit, but she could hardly remain in the carriage and say she had changed her mind. She weighed her sense of caution and the anticipation of Thomas’s anger against the excitement she had felt when she and Emily discussed the plan.
    She was still of two minds when the parlormaid opened the front door and Jack handed her his card, which was engraved with his name. And Miss Elisabeth Barnaby had been added by hand. Now it was too late; the die was cast. Charlotte put on her most charming smile and stepped inside.
    The parlormaid had a creamy complexion and dark hair. She was very pert, with wide eyes and a handspan waist; but then parlormaids were usually chosen for their looks. A handsome parlormaid was a mark of one’s status and taste.
    Charlotte barely had time to glance round the hall, except to notice that it was spacious. The stair was wide and remarkably fine, with beautifully carved bannisters, and the chandelier blazed with light on this dark winter afternoon.
    They were shown into the withdrawing room. There was no time to look at the furnishings or the paintings; all Charlotte’s attention was taken up by the two women who sat opposite each other on the overstuffed and buttoned red settees. The younger, who must be Veronica York, was tall, and perhaps a good deal too slender for the current fashion, but there was an intense femininity in the delicate lines of her shoulders and throat. Her soft black hair was swept up and off her face, showing a lovely brow and fine features, slightly hollow cheeks, and a startlingly sensuous mouth.
    The older woman had thick, curly light brown hair; her curls were so rich no rags or irons could have created them, only nature. She looked to be considerably shorter than the other woman. Although she was of heavier build, she was still extremely comely in an embroidered gown of the latest fashion. Her features were regular and she had obviously been something of a beauty well into her prime. She was only just beyond it now, and the telltale lines on her pink and white skin were few, and round the mouth rather than the eyes. It was a face of arresting strength. This must be Loretta York, the dead man’s mother, whom Thomas had said behaved with such dignity on the night of the tragedy.
    As mistress of the house she welcomed them, inclining her head to Jack and offering her hand. “Good afternoon Mr. Radley, how agreeable of you to call, and to bring your cousin.” She turned to Charlotte with a scrutinizing eye. “Miss Barnaby, I believe you said?”
    Charlotte put on the most innocent air she could imagine and all but curtsied. She was supposed to be shy and grateful, seeking London Society and, as a single woman of desperate age, a husband.
    “How do you do, Mrs. York. It is most kind of you to receive us.”
    “I hope we find you as well as you look, ma’am.” Jack’s flattery was automatic; it was the usual coin of exchange, and he had dined out most of his adult life on his charm. “You make me forget it is winter outside, and several years since we last met.”
    “I see your manners have not changed,” she said a trifle tartly, but there was a flush of pleasure in her cheeks. She might protest, discard it as convention, but she liked it all the same. “Of course you know my daughter-in-law,” she said, indicating the younger woman with no more than a glance in her direction.
    Jack bowed again, very slightly, but enough for grace.
    “Of course. I was most grieved to hear of your loss, and I hope that the future will hold some happiness for you.”
    “Thank you.” A tiny smile touched the corners of Veronica York’s lips. Watching closely, Charlotte could see there was an old understanding between them that had been picked up effortlessly. A thought of Emily flashed into her mind, and she