But the bird’s antics were no longer of any interest to Juliet and Charles, for the locket was not the only thing to have been dislodged from the greatcoat pocket. A crumpled note had been pulled out at the same time. Charles moved swiftly to retrieve it, but his wife’s fingers closed over it first. She heard his sharp intake of breath, saw the guilt written large in his eyes, and knew this was his moment of nemesis. Had he made no move or sound she would simply have pushed the note back into the pocket and thought no more of it; instead she held it tightly in her hand as she studied her husband’s face, which was suddenly pale beneath his tan.
He swallowed, then cleared his throat and tried to make light of things. “It’s nothing, sweeting,” he said, and held out his hand for the note.
She stepped back. “What’s going on, Charles? Why don’t you want me to see this?”
“It’s nothing at all,” he repeated, but his tone gave the lie to his words.
Lady Marchwell’s attention was now riveted upon her niece and her husband.
“Then you will not mind if I look at it?” Juliet went on.
He didn’t reply.
“Charles?”
“I would prefer you not to,” he said then, at last meeting her gaze properly.
Time seemed to suddenly stand still, and all she could hear beyond the thudding of her heart was Jack’s pleased little noises as he deposited the locket amid the greenery and subjected it to a close, single-eyed examination. She knew too that a little gaggle of guests were at the top of the staircase, having paused there in some embarrassment as it was realized there was a scene of some sort taking place below.
“What is the matter, Juliet? Charles?” Lady Marchwell was anxious, especially now there were other ears to hear.
Charles tried to smile reassuringly. “Nothing, Lady M, nothing at all, although I fear I may have given Juliet the opposite impression. It’s merely a note from a fellow member at White’s challenging me to a match next spring between his brown colt and my bay filly. He suggests Newmarket, and I am agreeable. That is all. The sum involved is rather more than I usually wager, and in all honesty I’d prefer Juliet not to know how much I am prepared to risk on my filly’s unproven talents.”
Experience not only told Lady Marchwell he was lying, but also the likely truth. Her natural impulse was to shield her niece by pretending to accept his explanation, not least for the benefit of the eavesdropping guests whose numbers increased by the moment. “There you are, Juliet. Gentlemen will always be gentlemen, and they will always wager upon anything, so don’t be a ninny, just give it back to him.” The underlying advice was plain enough. If you read that note now the whole house will soon be party to its contents; better to play the ostrich, prevent gossip, and save your marriage.
But Juliet could brook no such double standards, and didn’t care about the faces gazing from the floor above. To have simply returned the note to him unread might bring the immediate awkward moment to a close, but it would also ensure countless other such moments as her wretchedness refused to let the matter lie. She had to see what the note really said, for she could not continue as she had these past months.
There was a stir from the landing and staircase as with trembling hands she began to smooth the paper.
3
“Please don’t read it, Juliet,” Charles pleaded, “for I swear that it contains nothing over which you need concern yourself.”
Juliet moved farther away from him, fearing he would snatch it from her, but he remained where he was. At last the few handwritten words were quite legible. She read them aloud. “My darling Charles, I yearn for you to come to me again, and pray to be in your arms tonight. Your adoring mistress, Sally.”
There were gasps from the onlookers, and Lady Marchwell closed her eyes. Charles stood as if carved from stone, his face ashen, his eyes tormented with remorse. The note slipped from Juliet’s numb fingers. A mistress? “Oh, Charles, how could you do this . . . ?” she whispered.
He was stricken to the core, and his voice was choked. “If you want me to say that I am sorry, then I say it with all my heart. If you want me to say that it will never happen again, then that too I say with all my heart.”
Something seemed to shatter within her, and her air of calm disintegrated into fury. “What I want you to say is that this hasn’t happened! That you are not the Charles to whom those words are directed! That you don’t keep some tawdry belle de nuit for your pleasure?”
A rustle of whispering passed among the watching guests, whose numbers had now swollen to include almost everyone staying at the house, or so it seemed to Lady Marchwell. Charles was now as beyond considering an audience as Juliet. He turned away, his hands momentarily hiding his face, then he dragged them away again to make himself confront the bitter accusation in his wife’s eyes. “Oh, my darling, would that I could offer that reassurance, but I cannot.”