Read Online Cardington Crescent by Anne Perry - Free Book Online

boudoir swung open and Eustace stood with his hand on it. Any moment he would turn and see Emily listening. She moved on swiftly, head high, straining to catch the last words from the morning room. But the voices were too strident, too clashing to distinguish the words.
    “Ah, Emily.” Eustace swiveled round. “Time to retire, I think. You must be tired.” It was a statement, not a question. Eustace considered it part of his prerogative to decide when everyone wished to go to bed, as he had always done for his family when they all lived here. He had decided almost everything and believed it his privilege and his duty. Before she died, Olivia March had obeyed him sweetly—and then gone her own way with such discretion he was totally unaware of it. Many of his best ideas had been hers, but they had been given him in such a way he thought them his own, and he therefore defended them to the death and put every last one into practice.
    Emily had no will to argue tonight. She returned to the withdrawing room, wished everyone good sleep, and went gratefully to her room. She had undressed, dismissing her maid with instructions for the morning, and was about to get into bed when there was a knock on the dressing-room door.
    She froze. It could only be George. Half of her was terrified and wanted to keep silent, pretend she was already asleep. She stared at the knob as if it would turn on its own and let him in.
    The knock came again, harder. It might be her only opportunity, and if she turned him away she would lose it forever.
    “Come in.”
    Slowly, the door opened. George stood in the archway, looking tired and uncomfortable. His face was flushed—Emily knew why immediately. Sybilla had made a scene, and George hated scenes. Without thinking, she knew what to do. Above all, it would be disastrous to confront him. The last thing he wanted now was another emotional woman.
    “Hello,” she said with a very small smile, pretending this was not an important occasion, a meeting that might turn their lives and all that mattered to her.
    He came in tentatively, followed by old Mrs. March’s spaniel, which to her fury had taken such a liking to him that it had abandoned its mistress. He was unsure what to say, fearful lest she were only biding her time before launching at him with an accusation, a justified charge he could not defend himself against.
    She turned away to make it easier, as though it were all perfectly ordinary. She struggled for something to say that would not touch on all that was painful between them.
    “I really quite enjoyed my afternoon with Tassie,” she began casually. “The vicar is terribly tedious, and so is his wife. I can see why Eustace likes them. They have a lot in common, similar views on the simplicity of virtue”—she pulled a face—“and the virtue of simplicity. Especially in women and children, which they believe to be roughly the same. But the curate was charming.”
    George sat down on the stool before the dressing table, and she watched him with a tiny lift of pleasure. It meant he intended to stay, at least for a few minutes.
    “I’m glad,” he said with an awkward smile, fishing for something to continue with. It was ridiculous; a month ago they spoke as easily as old friends—they would have laughed at the vicar together. Now he looked at her, his eyes wide and searching, but only for a moment. Then he looked away again, not daring to press too hard, afraid of a rebuff. “I’ve always liked Tassie. She’s so much more like the Cumming-Gould side of the family than the Marches. I suppose William is, too, for that matter.”
    “That can only be good,” Emily said sincerely.
    “You’d have liked Aunt Olivia,” he went on. “She was only thirty-eight when she died. Uncle Eustace was devastated.”
    “After eleven children in fifteen years, I should imagine she was, too,” Emily said tartly. “But I don’t suppose Eustace thought of that.”
    “I shouldn’t think