Free Cardington Crescent by Anne Perry Page B

send someone up with a stiff brandy, and inform the household.”
    The maid was an elderly North Country woman, bright of face, broad of hip. In a lifetime of service she had seen many bereavements and suffered a few of her own. She made only the briefest of replies before taking Emily gently by the arm, sitting her on the chaise longue with her feet up, and patting her hand in a fashion which at any other time would have annoyed her profoundly. Now it was human contact and absurdly reassuring, a memory of safety more real than the sunlight in the room, the elaborate Japanese silk screen with its cherry blossom, the lacquer table.
    Vespasia left the room and went downstairs slowly. She was filled with grief—most of all for Emily, of whom she was deeply fond, but also for herself. She had known George since he was born. She had watched him through childhood and youth, and she knew both his virtues and his faults. She did not condone all he did by any means, but he was generous, tolerant, quick to praise others, and within his own parameters, honest. The obsession with Sybilla was an aberration, a piece of stupid self-indulgence which she did not forgive.
    But none of that altered the fact that she had loved him, and she felt a profound sorrow that he should have been robbed of life so young, barely yet half her own age.
    She opened the breakfast room door. Eustace was still at the table with Jack Radley.
    “Eustace, I must speak with you immediately.”
    “Indeed.” He was still nursing his affront and his face was cold. He made no move to stand up.
    Vespasia fixed Jack Radley with a glance, and he saw that there was something deeply wrong. He rose, excused himself, and left, closing the door behind him.
    “I would be obliged, Mama-in-law, if you would be more courteous to Mr. Radley,” Eustace said with ice in his voice. “It is very possible he may marry Anastasia—”
    “That is extremely unlikely,” Vespasia cut him off. “But that is far from important at the moment. I am afraid George is dead.”
    Eustace swung round, his face blank. “I beg your pardon?”
    “George is dead,” she repeated. “He appears to have had a heart attack. I have left Emily in my room with my maid. I think you had better call the doctor.”
    He drew breath to say something, but found it inadequate. The normally ruddy color had vanished from his face.
    Vespasia rang the bell, and as soon as the butler appeared she spoke to him, disregarding Eustace.
    “Lord Ashworth has had a heart attack in the night, Martin, and he is dead. Lady Ashworth is in my room. Will you send someone up with a stiff brandy. And call the doctor—discreetly, of course. There is no need to put the house into an uproar. I myself will inform the family.”
    “Yes, my lady,” he said gravely. “May I say how extremely sorry I am, and I am sure the rest of the staff will wish me to say the same on their behalf.”
    “Thank you, Martin.”
    He bowed his head and left.
    Eustace stood up awkwardly, as if he were suddenly rheumatic.
    “I will tell Mama. It will come as a terrible shock to her. I don’t suppose there’s anything that can be done for Emily, poor creature?”
    “I expect I shall send for Charlotte,” Vespasia answered. “I admit, I feel most distressed myself.”
    “Of course you do.” Eustace softened a fraction. After all, she was well over seventy. But there was another thought uppermost in his mind. “I really don’t think we need to send for her sister. I gather she is a rather unfortunate creature, whose presence would be anything but helpful. Why not send for her mother? Or better yet, take her back to her mother, as soon as she feels well enough to travel. Surely that would be the kindest thing to do.”
    “Possibly,” Vespasia said very dryly. “But Caroline is on the Continent, so for the time being I shall send for Charlotte.” She fixed him with such a glare the protest died on his lips. “I shall dispatch my carriage