CHAPTER 23
The Gift of a Friend
Miss Charlotte Cambric had changed into a highbuttoned dress of grey moiré silk with leg o’ mutton sleeves and the suggestion of a bustle. Her eyes were bright as jet and the froth of white hair over her forehead had recovered its natural élan.
She stood between the tall doors to the library, holding them apart, scanning her guests, reading their expressions.
“You’ve won,” she said. “But you’ve had a battle. You look as if you’ve just been acquitted of barratry but you’re free men again. My dears, I’m so happy I could dance a fandango. I came over as soon as I heard that Slavonic Mephistopheles leave. It’s no good being apologetic, Vassily—the place is sweeter without him.”
Her force recharged the air, infusing vitality after minutes of uneasy reaction.
