Belgravia (15 page)

He had not let his imminent betrothal to Maria Grey alter his behavior much. She was beautiful and he was glad of that. But, if he was honest, she was proving to be rather more demanding, and even, he hesitated at the word, more
intellectual
than he had previously noticed. He was beginning to suspect that she found him… again, could
boring
really be the term he was looking for? It was an odd conceit. A chit of a girl found him, John Bellasis, one of the most eligible men in London, a shade too dull for her taste? In the light of this, and even though Maria was in the room and so he might get into trouble at any moment, still he could not ignore the more obvious charms of Susan Trenchard.

She saw him lurking as she talked brightly to some diplomat from a country of which she had never heard. He winked at her, and of course she knew enough to disapprove, but it was hard to demonstrate disapproval and she started to giggle. Her companion was puzzled at first and then offended when he caught sight of John hovering behind them. Without much ado, he excused himself and walked away.

“We meet again.” John stepped closer.

“Really, Mr. Bellasis.” Susan smiled, the ribbons in her hair shivering with delight. “Now you’ve made me offend nice Baron Whatever-his-name-was. Honestly, and I was on my best behavior, too.”

“I bet your behavior’s always pretty good, worse luck.” He laughed. “Quickly!” he said suddenly, and pulled her through the door into a card room that was much emptier than the drawing room they had left. “That terrible bore was coming toward us, and it took me half an hour to shake him off the last time.”

Susan followed his gaze. “That bore is my father-in-law,” she said.

“Poor you.” He laughed and, despite herself, so did she.

“I know your type. You’re just the sort of man who makes me say things I don’t want to say at all.”

“And I hope I can make you
do
things you don’t want to
do
at all.” He stared into her eyes as he spoke, and it started to dawn on her that she was getting into very deep waters indeed. John wondered if he should make any further advance. He was inclined to think he’d done enough for one evening. She was a very pretty woman, and she didn’t seem unassailable, but there was no rush. She had made no more than a glancing reference to her husband during the time they had spent talking together, so he could safely classify her as a bored wife. But they had better separate now. There was no point in causing talk before anything had really happened.

Maria Grey was wandering slightly aimlessly through the rooms. She saw her mother conversing with my great-aunt, and rather than join them for the usual discussion of how strange it was that she had grown so much since they last met, she decided to occupy herself for a moment admiring the Beechey portrait of the young Countess of Brockenhurst above the fireplace. But it was not long before she was overcome by the roaring heat and sought refuge on the terrace.

“I’m sorry,” she spoke as she stepped out into the cool air of the June night. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

Charles Pope looked around at the sound of her footstep. He had been staring pensively over the white stone balustrade and into the square. “Not at all,” he answered. “I’m afraid it is I who am disturbing you. If you would rather be alone…?”

“No.”

“I suspect your mother would rather you were alone. Or at least not alone with a strange man to whom you haven’t been introduced.” But he looked amused as he said it.

Maria was rather intrigued by him. “My mother is deep in
conversation with my great-aunt who will not release her without a fight.”

This time he laughed. “Then perhaps we had better introduce ourselves. Charles Pope.” He held out his hand and she took it.

“Maria Grey.” She smiled.

There was a pause while they both turned their attention to the square below. The pavements were almost empty, but the roads were lined with carriages, the horses occasionally pawing the ground, the familiar scraping of their metal hooves against stone just audible from where they stood.

“So why are you hiding out here?” she asked eventually.

“Is it that obvious?”

She found herself studying this man’s face, and there was no denying he was attractive. The more so because, unlike John, he didn’t appear to be aware of it. “I felt so sorry for you when you were being paraded around by our hostess. How do you know them? Are you related?”

Charles shook his head. “Heavens, no.” He looked at her, this pretty girl who seemed so confident in what was, to him, an unsettlingly alien environment. “This isn’t my natural habitat at all. I am a very ordinary sort of fellow.”

She seemed quite unfazed by his revelation. “Well, Lady Brockenhurst doesn’t seem to agree with you. I’ve never seen her so animated. She is not a woman known for her enthusiasms.”

“You’re right that she’s taken an interest in me, although I couldn’t tell you why. She wants to invest in a venture I’m working on.”

Now this really was extraordinary. She almost gasped. “Lady Brockenhurst wants to invest in a
business venture
?” If he had told her that their hostess wanted to walk on the moon, she could not have sounded more astonished.

He shrugged. “I know. I don’t understand it, either, but she seems very enthused by the whole idea.”

“What is the idea?”

“I have bought a mill in Manchester. Now I need a better supply of raw cotton, and for that I must have some more funding. I
also have a mortgage on the mill, and I believe it would pay me to lower that and increase my debt to Lady Brockenhurst, if she is willing. She will be the one to gain in the end. I’m sure of it.”

“Of course you are.” She was touched by his obvious desire to create a good impression.

He saw her amusement. Was he being very gauche? Of what possible interest were his business dealings to this beautiful young woman? Hadn’t he been told never to discuss money? Least of all with a lady? “I don’t know why I said that. Now I seem to have told you everything there is to know about me.”

“Not quite.” She studied him. “I thought Indian cotton production was in terrible disarray. I heard the shipping was too expensive to be worth it. Haven’t most of the mills gone over to American cotton?”

Now it was his turn to be astonished. “How on earth do you know that?”

“India interests me.” She smiled. It felt good to have surprised him. “I have an uncle who served there as Governor of Bombay. Unfortunately, I was too young to visit him during his term, but he is full of the country’s woes and strengths to this day. He still reads the Indian newspapers, even if they are three months old when he gets them.” She laughed, and he wondered at the evenness and whiteness of her teeth.

Charles nodded. “I’ve never been, but I believe it is a country with a great future.”

“Within the Empire.” Did she say this approvingly? He couldn’t decide.

“Within the Empire for now, but not forever,” he said. “What is your uncle’s name?”

“Lord Clare. He was there from 1831 to 1835. He used to bring back silks that were the finest I have ever seen, and precious stones that were simply stunning. Did you know they have wells where you climb down more than a thousand steps before you get to the water? And there are cities where the skies are full of kites? And temples made of gold. I’ve heard they don’t bury their dead as we do. They burn them, or float them down the river. I’ve always
wanted to go to India.” Charles looked into her clear blue eyes, admiring the softness of her lips and the curve of her determined chin. He had never met anyone quite so charming. “Do you know which part of India you’ll be dealing with?” she continued, quite aware of his gaze and yet uncertain what to do with it.

“I am not sure just yet. The north, I think.…”

“Oh.” Her enthusiasm brought color to her cheeks, and he thought he had never in his life seen anyone lovelier. “Then, if I were you, I should be sure to visit the Taj Mahal in Agra.” She almost sighed at the thought. “It’s said to be the most beautiful monument to love ever built. A Mughal emperor was so struck down with grief on the death of his favorite wife that he ordered its construction. I’m afraid he had several wives, which of course we disapprove of terribly.” She laughed and he laughed with her. “But she was his favorite. The marble is supposed to change color—from a blush pink in the morning, to a milky white in the evening, to gold when lit by the moon. The legend is that the shade reflects the mood of any woman who sees it.”

Charles Pope was transfixed. The way she moved, the way she spoke, her wit, the alluring way she did not seem to be aware of her own beauty. “What about the men who see it?” he said. “What does it tell us about them?”

“That when they lose the right woman, they find her harder to replace than they expected.”

They were still laughing when they heard a voice. “Maria?”

The girl turned around. “Mama.”

Lady Templemore stood, silhouetted, in the doorway. “They’re calling us to supper,” she said, looking Charles up and down. It was obvious he did not meet with her approval. “It is time we went and found John. I’ve hardly spoken to him all evening.”

And a moment later they were gone. Charles stood gazing at the spot where Maria had been standing, his reverie broken only when Lady Brockenhurst found him on the balcony and insisted he accompany her to the supper, which was just being served.

The guests crowded into the dining room, where a collection of small round tables were now dressed with linen cloths, silver
candelabra, and exquisitely decorated plates and cut-glass decanters. Charles had never seen anything so lavish. He knew that things were done well in Society, and he’d heard that Lady Brockenhurst was known for her entertaining, but he had never expected anything quite on this scale.

“Mr. Pope,” she said, indicating the seat right next to her. “You will come and sit by me.” There were only four other places at the table. He looked frantically around the room. Surely the hostess would want someone else to sit in the place of honor? He felt himself flush. She patted the seat with her closed fan and smiled up at him. There was little else he could do but accept. Footmen were circulating the room as guests arrived and left, and soon Charles was dipping his spoon into a plate of iced soup. This was followed by cold salmon mousse, then quail, a little venison, pineapple, ices, and finally candied fruits: These were all served in the new fashion,
à la russe
, with the footmen bringing each course and standing to the left of the guests to allow them to help themselves. And all the while Lady Brockenhurst was delightful, including Charles in as many of her conversations as she could, even interrupting her passing husband at one point so he could hear about Charles’s plans.

“What on earth is my sister-in-law up to?” complained Stephen Bellasis to his son, who was seated on the other side of Anne Trenchard. She was consequently drawn into the conversation without the slightest desire to be so. “Why is she making such a fuss of that dull man?”

John shook his head. “I can’t understand it.”

“There are at least three dukes in the room, but when they look across at the seat to the right hand of our dear hostess, they see it occupied by… by whom, exactly? Who is he?” Stephen was finding time to wrestle with a rather bloody quail as he spoke.

John turned to his neighbor. “I think Mrs. Trenchard will know the answer. Doesn’t he work for your husband, Mrs. Trenchard?” Anne was quite surprised, as Mr. Bellasis had not given the slightest clue before this that he knew who she was.

She shook her head. “No, he doesn’t work for him. He works for himself. They know each other. They may have some common interest. But that’s all.”

“So you can’t explain Lady Brockenhurst’s fascination?”

“I’m afraid not.”

Anne looked over to the table. Caroline Brockenhurst was playing a dangerous game. Even John Bellasis had noticed the attention she was paying her grandson, and Anne was worried. Did Lord Brockenhurst know? If not, how long would it be before he did, if his wife was prepared to be this indiscreet? How long would it take for the secret to get out? How long before Sophia’s reputation lay in tatters and all they had worked for was in ruins at their feet? She caught her husband’s eye. He was sitting opposite her, flanked by Oliver and the tiresome Grace. He caught her eye, nodding at the perilous situation evolving in front of them.

“I believe your aunt is interested in one of Mr. Pope’s enterprises,” Anne suggested eventually, abandoning her own quail and wishing she had held on to the salmon mousse. At least it was soft enough to swallow. As it was, she could barely eat a thing.

“I have business with the local butcher,” said John indignantly. “But I don’t invite him to the supper table.”

“I don’t think Mr. Pope is quite the local butcher,” replied Anne as diplomatically as she could.

“Don’t you?” said John, as he stared across the room at Susan and smiled. She had been so angry to miss the last chair at that table and was trying to be content with a group of politicians who were ignoring her. But now, after John’s smile, she felt ready to burst into song.

It was almost time to leave before Anne managed a private word with their hostess. Even then she had to catch her on the landing of the main stair and pull her into the columned recess of a window. “What are you doing?” she whispered.

“I am getting to know the grandson you concealed from me for a quarter of a century.”

“But why so publicly? Can’t you see that half the room is asking who this strange young man could possibly be?”

The Countess smiled coolly. “Of course. That must worry you.’

And then Anne saw the trap she had walked into. Lady Brockenhurst had promised that Charles’s identity would remain a secret, and she was honor bound to keep her word, but she hadn’t the slightest aversion to others guessing the truth. Her son had enjoyed an affair in Brussels before he died. What did that say about him that Society was not bound to forgive? Nothing. He’d had a fling before he was married. There could be few men in these crowded drawing rooms who had not done the same. The illegitimate offspring of a gentleman might not be quite as easily absorbed into Society as they had been a century before, but there was still nothing new to it. And if someone did venture an opinion, Mrs. Trenchard would surely not expect Lady Brockenhurst to lie? She might not volunteer the information, but she could hardly be expected to deny it. “You want them to guess,” said Anne, as the scales fell from her eyes. “You want them to guess, and you wanted us to witness it.”