“I wish it were possible, believe me.” Her emotion was clear; he could not have doubted it. He turned to Charlotte.

She met his eyes and was aware of an intense intelligence-and a coldness of extraordinary, almost uncontrollable dislike. It startled her, and she found herself afraid. She could think of no reason for it. She had never met him before and certainly never done him harm.

He was speaking to her, his voice sharp.

“Have you seen these papers, Mrs. Pitt?”

“Yes.”

“And do you see in them the plans for revolution?”

“Yes, I am afraid I do.”

“How extraordinary that your husband did not find them, don’t you think?” Now the contempt in him was unmistakable, and she understood it was Pitt for whom he felt this emotion he could not conceal.

She was stung too. “I don’t imagine he was looking for plans to overthrow the monarchy and set up a new constitution,” she said coldly. “It would have been a more complete case if he could have found the motive, but it was not necessary. And then Adinett chose to go to the gallows rather than reveal it himself-which indicates how wide he believed the conspiracy to be. He knew of no one he dared trust, even to save his life.”

Voisey’s face was dark with blood under the skin, his eyes glittering.

Charlotte wondered how much he blamed himself, as a judge who had sat on the appeal, that he had condemned a man he now had to acknowledge as both a victim and a hero. She was sorry she had spoken so bluntly, but she could not bring herself to say so to him.

“And was he mistaken, Mrs. Pitt?” he said softly, his jaw tight. “If he had told the inspector his reason for killing Fetters, would he have met with belief and help?” He left the other half of the question unsaid.

“If you are asking if my husband is a revolutionary, or would have conspired with them-” She stopped, seeing his smile. She knew exactly what he was thinking: that Juno Fetters had believed in her husband’s innocence also-and been wrong. “I am certain he would have done what he could to expose the conspiracy,” she answered him. “But I take your point that he would not have known any better whom to trust. They would simply have destroyed the evidence, and him also. But he didn’t see it, so the question does not arise.”

He turned back to Juno, and his expression changed, the pity returned to it. “What have you done with this book, Mrs. Fetters?”

“I have it here,” she replied, offering it to him. “I believe that we should… that I must… see that Mr. Adinett’s name is vindicated and does not pass into history as that of a man who murdered his friend for no reason. I… I wish I could avoid that, for my husband’s sake, but I cannot.”

“Are you certain?” he said gently. “Once you have put the proof into my hands I cannot give it back to you. I must act upon it. Are you sure you would not prefer to destroy it and keep your husband’s name as it is: that of a man who fought for the freedom of all men, in his own way?”

Juno hesitated.

“Will it really do good for the public to know that there are such men among them?” he went on. “Men you cannot name, and therefore the rest you cannot exclude, who would overthrow our Houses of Lords and of Commons, our monarchy, and set in their place a president and a senate, however reformed, whatever justice or equality it offered? Those are strange ideas to the man in the street, who does not understand them and who feels safe with what he is accustomed to, even with the ills and iniquities it sustains. John Adinett may well have kept silent because he knew what turmoil knowledge of such a conspiracy could cause, as well as not knowing whom he could trust. Have you considered that?”

“No,” Juno said in a whisper. “No, I had not thought of it. Perhaps you are right. Maybe… if he were afraid to speak then, he would wish it kept silent now. He was a very fine man… a great man. I see why it grieves you so much that he is dead. I am sorry, Mr. Voisey… and ashamed.”

“You have no need to be,” he said with a brief smile, full of sadness. “It is not your fault. Yes, he was a great man, and maybe history will yet show him to be, but not yet, I think.”

Juno rose to her feet and walked over to the fireplace. Deliberately, she dropped the book into the flames. “I thank you profoundly for your advice, Mr. Voisey.” She looked across at Charlotte.

Charlotte stood up too, her head swimming, her thoughts in chaos, but at the brilliant, blazing core of her lay one piece of certainty-Charles Voisey was at the heart of the conspiracy! He knew those papers more intimately than they did. Juno had mentioned a presidency, but she had said nothing of a senate. Nothing of doing away with the Lords and Commons.

“Mrs. Pitt…” His voice cut across her thoughts.

“Mr. Voisey,” she replied, knowing she sounded awkward, preoccupied in a way for which there was no reason. He was staring at her, his clever eyes studying every expression of her face. Did he guess she knew?

“Perhaps you are right.” She forced the words out. Let him think she was disappointed because it would have vindicated Pitt. He hated Pitt. He would believe that. They must get out of here, away from him. Get home safely.

Safely! Martin Fetters had been murdered in his own library. She would have to tell Juno, get her to leave London and go to the country somewhere, completely anonymous. Never be found until they could protect her, or it no longer mattered.

“I believe so,” he said with a twisted smile. “It would do more harm than the good of restoring Adinett’s good name… which he was prepared to forfeit for his country’s sake.”

“Yes, I see that.” She moved towards the door, but she must go slowly, in spite of the almost overwhelming desire to hurry, even to run. He must not guess she knew. He must not sense fear. She actually stopped and allowed him to come closer to her, before going forward to follow Juno into the hall.

It seemed as if they would never reach the front door and the night air.

Juno stopped again to bid him good-bye and thank him for his advice.

Then at last they were outside in the coach and moving away.

“Thank God!” Charlotte breathed.

“Thank God?” Juno asked, her voice tired, disappointed.

“He knew about the senate,” Charlotte replied. “You didn’t mention it.”

Juno reached out and gripped her in the dark, her fingers digging into Charlotte’s flesh, locked tight in terror.

“You must leave London,” Charlotte said grimly. “Tonight. He knows you have read the book. Don’t tell anyone where you go. Send a message to Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould-not to me!”

“Yes… yes, I will. God, what have we fallen into?” She did not let go of Charlotte’s arm as they drove through the night.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Vespasia stood in the morning room staring out of the window at the yellow roses in full bloom at the far side of the lawn. The moment had come when she could no longer avoid facing the question which hurt her the most profoundly. She was afraid of what the answer would be, but she had always believed courage to be the cornerstone of all virtues. Without it integrity perished; even love could not survive, because love was risk, and somewhere, at some time or place, it would always hurt.

She had loved Mario for half a century. It had brought her the deepest, most complete joy and the greatest pain she had known-but never disillusion. She tried to tell herself it would not do so now.

She was still there when the maid came to say that Mrs. Pitt had called to see her.

For once Vespasia would have preferred to not be interrupted. It was an excuse to put the issue from her mind, but she did not wish for one. It changed nothing. But she would not refuse Charlotte.

“Invite her to come in,” she replied, turning away from the roses. It must be something urgent to bring Charlotte at such an early hour. It was barely past breakfast.