Читать книгу Dangerous Games - Charlotte Mede - Страница 7

“And what is your estimation of the situation in India at the moment, Mr. Seabourne?” Surrounded by six men, Lilly Clarence Hampton directed her question to the most senior of the gentlemen at her side. Having just returned from Lahore, Seabourne was a direct relation to the current governor general of India, Charles John Canning.

He eyed her speculatively before answering. “You do realize, my dear, that your interest in all things political and cultural is simultaneously refreshing and unseemly in a woman.”

Lilly smiled, the evening candlelight bouncing off the jet beads of her black mourning dress. “Indeed. As though the behavior of a middle-aged widow indulging her harmless interests could be of concern to anyone.” She tapped him on the elbow with her fan, pressing him further. “Or are you simply endeavoring to evade answering my questions, dear sir?”

The men chuckled heartily at her rejoinder. The Thursday-evening salons hosted by Mrs. Hampton had become one of the most coveted invitations in London society, each guest scrutinized by the hostess herself to ensure lively, engaging, and informed debate on the most compelling issues of the day. And while her town house in Mayfair was a modest affair, the company was always of the highest order, along with generous servings of food and drink to satisfy the most discerning guests.

Tonight, the room heaved with conversation, the latest rebellion in India taking center stage, while off to the wings, breathless discussion percolated about the arrival in London of the Koh-I-Noor, the world’s largest diamond—destined to be presented to Queen Victoria and Prince Albert upon the opening of the Great Exhibition in one month’s time. Conceived by the prince, the historic occasion would be held in Hyde Park in the spectacularly constructed Crystal Palace, designed to showcase England’s and the world’s advances in science and industry.

“Not at all, not at all, my dear Mrs. Hampton,” Seabourne finally replied, clasping his hands behind his back and away from the tap of her ivory fan. “Your questions are diverting as always but never more so than the woman who poses them.”

Lilly inclined her head toward him, raising her low voice slightly to compete with the surging exchanges going on around them. “Well, thank you, sir. But you must hasten to answer my question as the buffet will be served quite soon.”

John Sydons, the former publisher of the Guardian, guffawed, his muttonchops bristling. “And we shouldn’t want that, Seabourne. I just saw a spectacular Nesselrode pudding float by along with a platter of oysters swimming in cream. So let’s move along. Respond to the lady’s query—has the situation settled somewhat this past month?”

Seabourne nodded portentously, the horizontal lines on his forehead deepening. “The political expansion of the British East India Company at the perceived expense of native princes and the Mughal court has aroused Hindu and Muslim animosity alike, a complex situation overall which I do not think will be resolved without a Parliamentary solution.”

“A tinderbox is what it is,” Lilly murmured.

“Indeed,” seconded the man across from her, Lord Falmouth, member of Parliament. Small and wiry, he barely filled out his impeccably tailored waistcoat and jacket. “It didn’t help that our colonial government, in its boundless wisdom, furnished the Indian soldiers with cartridges coated with grease made from the fat of cows and of pigs. Ignorance and incompetence in one fell stroke. Amazing.”

“The first sacred to Hindus and the second anathema to Muslims.” Lilly splayed her fan in barely concealed annoyance. “We have an ineffectual and insensitive governor and of course, a historic series of blunders, beginning with the Kabul Massacre, that slaughter in the mountain passes of Afghanistan. I have heard it said that of the sixteen thousand who set out on retreat, only one man survived to arrive in Jalalabad.”

“It was actually believed that the Afghans let him live so he could tell the grisly story—such a severe blow and bitter humiliation to British pride.” Lord Falmouth jutted out his rather weak chin. “Reports from the Forty-fourth English Regiment are dismal. The troops kept on through the passes but without food, mangled and disoriented; they are reported to have knocked down their officers with the butts of their muskets. St. Martin is one of the few to have survived, if survive is the word one would choose to use.”

“He’s quite the loose cannon, or so one hears from the Foreign Office,” Seabourne added. “Has publicly resigned his post, whatever it was, something to do with statecraft, certainly.”

“You mean spycraft, surely,” Lord Falmouth corrected.

“A shadowy figure one would assume and now one not to be trusted, given his precarious mental state,” Seabourne continued. “The trauma and so on.”

“My goodness. How clandestine and mysterious,” Lilly said, frowning, only vaguely familiar with the St. Martin name. “One never knows what resentments these types of horrific experiences may nurture. I infer from your comments that loyalty is at question for these individuals who find themselves one moment at the service of their country and at the next entirely disengaged or worse. And what of his family? The St. Martins have a seat in the House of Lords, if I’m not mistaken.”

“The parents passed away some years ago and his older brother died of smallpox soon after, if I recall correctly. However, St. Martin has never taken up his place in Parliament, having instead disappeared for years to the farthest reaches of the globe. In Her Majesty’s service, one presumes. Although one can presume no longer with his resignation.” Seabourne looked pained.

“More of a dismissal is what I have gleaned,” Falmouth said cryptically. “And the word traitor has been bandied about. Discreetly, of course.”

The former publisher snorted derisively. “Not entirely surprising. With the Russians to the north and Britain to the south in India, Afghanistan is clearly the unforgiving landscape where empires collide and careers are made and sacrificed.”

“Are you certain only political empires?” Seabourne asked the question as innocently as only a career diplomat could. “Might there be other concerns at stake?”

“Such as commercial enterprises? You are referring to the East India Company,” Lilly said sharply, letting her closed fan dangle from her wrist. “I fear that behemoth has as much to answer for as our own governance structure and overweening imperial ambitions.”

Seabourne narrowed his eyes, pursing his lips as though sucking on a lemon drop. “I find it curious that you mention the subject, my dear. Perhaps you might take up that very issue with your dear friend, Isambard Kingdom Bellamy. As it is, I’m astonished that he’s not here at your side this very moment, given that he has hardly left your presence this entire month.”

Lilly opened her eyes wide in feigned surprise, too experienced to blush or dissemble. “I didn’t realize that you had such a firm grasp of my social schedule, sir. But in case you haven’t apprised yourself as yet, Mr. Bellamy had other, rather urgent plans for this evening,” she said, keeping a lightness in her tone. She turned deliberately to survey the room with its tight clusters of guests in lively debate before continuing pointedly. “And as you can see by the wide array of company I keep, I can’t possibly share in everyone’s political perspectives. Although perhaps I do have an opportunity to shape the occasional opinion.”

“Indeed, so it is, Mrs. Hampton,” Sydons replied, taking two glasses of punch from a tray that appeared at his side and offering one to Lilly with a gallant nod. “Are you perhaps attempting to temper an unruly beast into something more manageable? There are those on Fleet Street who can’t help but gossip, intimating that there may be nuptials on the horizon. What with your dear Mr. Hampton gone over a year now.”

Lilly’s fingers stilled on the stem of her punch cup at the mention of her late husband, Charles. A love match from the beginning, few could forget the steadfast devotion of the one for the other. All the more devastating was the tragic and untimely end of the marriage that had been seemingly made in heaven.

Seabourne cleared his throat to break the awkward pause. He patted her arm with avuncular affection. “Now, now, my dear. You do not strike me the melancholy sort. Charles would never have wanted you to mourn unduly but rather to get on with your life. You’re a young woman with so much to recommend you. And certainly, regarding Bellamy, I say, eligible is not the word. The man is the East India Company. Enough said. And quite the catch.”

“Enough said, indeed.” Shaking her head, Lilly eyed each man in her circle in turn, her gaze finally settling back on Sydons. “You do prattle on, sir, like an old woman.” She took a sip of the punch, wishing it were something stronger. “As if Mr. Bellamy would be interested in a nondescript widow of a certain age when he could have his pick of young, fresh girls on their first season.”

Silencing the gallant denials with a graceful gesture, she motioned toward the buffet. “The food is getting cold, gentlemen, while we speak on of inconsequential subjects such as myself and Mr. Bellamy. In the interim, oyster a la poulette awaits.”

The feint had its desired effect, as immediately Seabourne took her arm and led the group over to the mahogany table bracketed by two heavy silver candelabra. Amid sparkling chafing dishes swimming in cream and butter sat platters of delicious walnut-mayonnaise sandwiches, chicken salad, deviled crackers, and cream cheeses. Punctuating the savories was the Nesselrode pudding and a dessert of ice-cold coffee jelly smothered in whipped cream.

All of which was a feast designed to draw forth excellent stories and clever conversation, and, more important, create the most pleasant diversion, a nod to normalcy. Casting an experienced glance around the dining room, Lilly allowed herself to relax for the first time that evening, the tightness in her shoulders easing fractionally. Aware of Seabourne still at her side, his plate piled high with confections, she took a final sip of her punch, nodding to the various guests who made their way to and from the buffet.

Seabourne patted his lips with the heavy linen napkin. “Are you certain you will not have anything to eat, my dear?” he asked, the sharpness of his gaze belying the concern in his voice. He was a valued diplomat for a reason, his discerning eyes and ears absorbing the most subtle leitmotifs like a sponge.

Lily smoothed the rich bombazine of her bodice, the jet beads biting into her palms. She smiled brightly. “I had my tea earlier, realizing full well how time-consuming the preparations for the evening usually are,” she said. “But thank you for your concern.”

“I am concerned for you, Mrs. Hampton. Upon my return from India I was expecting you to be, if not fully recovered from the tragedy, at least somewhat more distant from it. But there are still deep shadows in your eyes, if you’ll permit me to say so. I realize how much you cared for Mr. Hampton, but sometime the grieving must end.”

“Again, your distress is not warranted, Mr. Seabourne, I am all but fully recovered, I assure you.” She delicately relinquished her empty cup to the sideboard.

Seabourne could not be stopped. “A tragedy truly. And a crime, to which we have still to find a resolution. If you were to finally uncover the truth and apprehend the felons, I am certain that so much of your anxieties could be laid to rest.” He raised a gray brow. “And then perhaps your burgeoning relationship with Mr. Bellamy might be allowed to flourish, free from the constraints of the past. And of course, Charles would want it so—to see his wife taken care of by one of his most ardent benefactors.”

Lilly endeavored to look embarrassed. “Truly, sir, this conversation has become far too personal and at the expense of my guests. Now I must truly excuse myself and see to my duties as a hostess. And, as a matter of fact, I may see to having an early evening. The exertions of the preparations…you do understand.”

Seabourne set aside his plate and napkin to lightly grasp her elbow before she could move away. “Absolutely understandable, my dear, but one last question, if I might be so bold.” His voice hardened imperceptibly along with the hand on her arm.

Lilly gathered her skirts and turned to face him directly, her face smoothed of expression. “Of course. One last question and then you must promise to permit me to see to the welfare of my guests,” she repeated her true emotions masked with a forced smile.

He spoke the words flatly. “It’s about your late husband, Charles,” he paused, and this time he gave the impression that the question was not of a personal nature. “And I hope it’s not too indelicate for me to inquire whether you have chosen another architect to complete his final plans.”

“For the Crystal Palace, you mean? And not at all, your question is not an imposition,” she said evenly. “As you know, the major building has all but been completed. As for several remaining interior spaces for which very particular designs are still wanting, I have yet to make a decision…it is too painful, as you suggest. And yet I realize the urgency of the situation, what with the Koh-I-Noor.”

He examined her closely, looking for the smallest fissure in her smooth façade. Then he nodded slowly as though suddenly understanding the meaning of an hitherto indecipherable text. “Surely I of all people don’t have to tell you of the political implications of the diamond and its presentation to the queen.” He grimaced at his own understatement. “Particularly given the unrest within the Raj at the moment. Security is of the utmost importance. I’m surprised the Royal Commission has not appointed someone to the project.”

A rhetorical question, one she mercifully needn’t answer. It was understood that the Crystal Palace would hold some one hundred thousand exhibits spanning the globe and representing nearly fourteen thousand exhibitors. It was the British Empire hosting the world in a huge iron goliath with more than one million feet of glass, a building both grandiose and innovative. “With the opening and presentation but a month away, they may well be pursuing the matter,” she murmured, unthinking and incautious. Smoothly relinquishing her forearm from his grip, she looked down at the fan dangling from her wrist, choosing her next words more carefully. “I have had much else to think about these past months.” They both knew to what she was referring. “The constabulary and their insistent questioning regarding Charles’s death has been both painful and tiresome.”

“Surely, they have given up making their ridiculous accusations, my dear.”

“Let us hope so,” she said abruptly.

“I heard that Bellamy came to your aid the other evening at Covent Gardens. I can’t imagine that an inspector would have the effrontery to accost you in a public venue about a matter so indelicate. And with Bellamy as your escort.”

Lilly was silent for a moment, but her downturned gaze indicated agreement. “Yes, if it had not been for Mr. Bellamy’s astute management of the situation,” she said finally, “I’m certain the gossipmongers would have gone to town with the incident. It’s nasty enough as is. They so adore pursuing a juicy tidbit of rumor.”

Seabourne harrumphed in sympathy, angling his head toward her benevolently. “Your continuing these evenings is very brave, my dear girl, in memory of your departed husband, if nothing else. He so loved society and debate and, of course, the opportunity to demonstrate his talents in the architectural arena.”

“Indeed, he did,” she murmured. “And I thank you for your sympathetic ear, sir.” She summoned a smile. “As soon as the plans are completed, you will be the first to know. I shall apprise you instantly! And now back to my duties as hostess.” Under the pretext of summoning the servants to begin clearing the sideboard, Lilly strode confidently to the adjacent clutch of guests, her head held high.

Hours later after the last of the guests had departed, she dismissed her housekeeper for the night and delved into the cherry wood wardrobe at the back of the narrow entrance hall for a thick cashmere shawl. From the mullioned window of her front door, she could see the first delicate snowflakes begin to descend from the dark and fathomless early April sky. It was nearly spring, the weather as unpredictable as her own fate, her life no longer arranged in neat geometric patterns with lines and angles colliding tidily. A decision made on a horrific night almost one year ago had consigned her to a purgatory without end. A decision, she thought with brutal honesty, that was hers alone.

She drew herself up sharply, burying her dark thoughts. It was likely close to one in the morning but the summons had been unequivocal, if not entirely unexpected.

Isambard Kingdom Bellamy and the Koh-I-Noor diamond waited—for her. Anxiety, trepidation, guilt—there were far greater issues at stake than her ragged emotions. Perhaps she was condemned to hearing forever the ringing echoes of the gunshots on the night of Charles’s death, shots that, she thought numbly, should have been aimed at her own heart.