Betrayal at Lisson Grove (Treason at Lisson Grove)

“And yet I have the distinct idea that he is fond of you, Mrs. Pitt,” McDaid replied. “Am I wrong in that too, do you suppose?”

“I don’t do much supposing, Mr. McDaid … at least not aloud,” she said. And as she spoke, her mind raced, remembering what Phelim O’Conor had said of Narraway, and wondering how much she really knew him. The certainty was increasing inside her that it was Narraway of whom Talulla had been speaking when she referred to Kate O’Neil’s betrayal—both of her country, and of her husband—because she had loved a man who had used her, and then he allowed her to be murdered for it.

Pitt had believed in Narraway; she knew that without doubt. But she also knew that Pitt thought well of most people, even if he accepted that they were complex, capable of cowardice, greed, and violence. But had he ever understood any of the darkness within Narraway, the human man beneath the fighter against his country’s enemies? They were so different. Narraway was subtle, where Pitt was instinctive. He understood people because he understood weakness and fear; he had felt need and knew how powerful it could be.

But Pitt also understood gratitude. Narraway had offered him dignity, purpose, and a means to feed his family when he had desperately needed it. He would never forget that.

Was he also just a little naïve?

She remembered with a smile how disillusioned her husband had been when he had discovered the shabby behavior of the Prince of Wales. She had felt his shame for a man he thought should have been better. He had believed more in the honor of his calling than the man did himself. She loved Pitt intensely for that, even in the moment she understood it.

Narraway would never have been misled; he would have expected roughly what he eventually found. He might have been disappointed, but he would not have been hurt.

Had he ever been hurt?

Could he have loved Kate O’Neil, and still used her? Not as Charlotte understood love.

But then perhaps Narraway always put duty first. Maybe he was feeling a deep and insuperable pain for the first time, because he was robbed of the one thing he valued: his work, in which his identity was so bound up.

Why on earth was she riding through the dark streets of a strange city, with a man she had never seen before tonight, taking absurd risks, telling lies, in order to help a man she knew so little? Why did she ache with a loss for him?

Because she imagined how she would feel if he were like her—and he was not. She imagined he cared about her, because she had seen it in his face in unguarded moments. It was probably loneliness she saw, an instant of lingering for a love he would only find an encumbrance if he actually had it.

“I hear Talulla Lawless gave you a little display of her temper,” McDaid said, interrupting her thoughts. “I’m sorry for that. Her wounds are deep, and she sees no need to hide them; it is hardly your fault. But then there are always casualties of war, the innocent often as much as the guilty.”

She turned to look at his face in the momentary light of a passing carriage’s lamp. His eyes were bright, his mouth twisted in a sad little smile. Then the darkness shadowed him again and she was aware of him only as a soft voice, a presence beside her, the smell of fabric and a faint sharpness of tobacco.

“Of course,” she agreed very quietly.

They reached Molesworth Street and the carriage stopped.

“Thank you, Mr. McDaid,” she said with perfect composure. “It was most gracious of you to have me invited, and to accompany me. Dublin’s hospitality is all that has been said of it, and believe me, that is high praise.”

“We have just begun,” he replied warmly. “Give Victor my regards, and tell him we shall continue. I won’t rest until you think this is the fairest city on earth, and the Irish the best people. Which of course we are, despite our passion and our troubles. You can’t hate us, you know.” He said it with a smile that was wide and bright in the lamplight.

“Not the way you hate us, anyway,” she agreed gently. “But then we have no cause. Good night, Mr. McDaid.”

CHARLOTTE FACED NARRAWAY ACROSS the breakfast table in Mrs. Hogan’s quiet house the next morning, still in conflict as to what she would say to him.

“Very enjoyable,” she answered his inquiry as to the previous evening. And she realized with surprise how much that was true. It was a long time since she had been at a party of such ease and sophistication. Although this was Dublin, not London, Society did not differ much.

There were no other guests in the dining room this late in the morning. Most of the other tables had already been set with clean, lace-edged linen ready for the evening. She concentrated on the generous plate of food before her. It contained far more than she needed for good health. “They were most kind to me,” she added.

“Nonsense,” he replied quietly.

She looked up, startled by his abruptness.