Chapter 9

9

Sophie hadn’t set eyes on the diamond for eight years. She’d never seen anyone but herself actually wearing it before, for that matter, or if she had, she’d been too small to remember it afterwards. It was the great treasure of her family, brought to France, so it was said, by Marie de’ Medici when she married King Henri, and passed down by some irresponsible or love-struck descendant of hers – if Sophie had ever known which, she had forgotten it – to the noble lady who was his mistress and Sophie’s ancestor. It had been a possession of her house for more than a hundred years, and it was supposed to be cursed.

It was certainly true that it had not brought her parents any luck. It had been smuggled out of France during their desperate flight in 1792, sewn into her mother’s clothing, and when they had at last acknowledged that they were down to their last few coins, with Sophie’s come-out to pay for, her father had taken the decision, which she knew had been a very difficult one for him, to sell it. There was no point trying to pawn it – they’d never be able to afford to get it back, her mother had argued persuasively. They should let it go – sell it and make a fresh start. Sell it to Lord Wyverne, who made no secret of the fact that he had always coveted it, for a fair price. An enormous price, one which would have kept her whole family in modest comfort for many, many years. But it had not been sold – it had been stolen. And because of that theft, because of the terrible circumstances that had surrounded it, everyone Sophie had ever loved was dead, and she was here. To take it back.

She had been mechanically helping the Dowager to a few morsels from some of the less rich dishes set in front of her, though even they would surely be indigestible for one who was almost an invalid, all the while feeling dazzled and overset by the sight of the Stella Rosa, when a voice too close to her ear drew her attention from her dark thoughts.

Her dinner companion on her other side was claiming her attention now, having presumably assuaged the worst of his hunger, as the stains on his clothing attested. She smiled at him politely, without warmth, as she turned to face him. He wasn’t any more prepossessing than the Dowager’s neighbour further down the table: perhaps fifty, and wearing fully as much rouge and powder as any of the scantily dressed women who surrounded him. The points of his shirt were so high as to make it a labour for him to turn his head, his cravat resembled nothing so much as an enormous bandage, and his padded purple coat was very tight on his corseted frame. Sophie knew he was corseted because he creaked as he moved, edging towards her in a confidential fashion. She discarded her cursory smile, and looked at him stonily. If he intended gallantry – and he had that look in his bloodshot eyes – he had picked the wrong woman, and this of all nights was the wrong night.

He said, ‘We haven’t been introduced.’ He wasn’t looking at Sophie’s face as he said it. This seemed perverse, for Sophie and the Dowager were the only women at the table who hadn’t chosen to display almost all of their embonpoints. There was plenty of ripe flesh on display elsewhere, if your taste lay in that direction.

‘No,’ said Sophie. ‘We haven’t. But my breasts don’t have names. I’m up here.’ It was liberating to realise that she felt no need to be civil to this creature, nor to observe the social conventions.

He laughed loudly. He was, Sophie realised, quite inebriated already. ‘“Don’t have names!” Dashed witty!’ he said, his slack mouth leering wetly. ‘So you are, and very nice too. You’re the old girl’s companion, I hear.’

There was no point giving him a lesson in courtesy; it was clearly far too late for that. ‘I am companion to the Dowager Marchioness,’ she said between gritted teeth.

‘Must be devilish dull, for a young thing like you, cooped up with the old crone for hours on end. I hear you read to her; you could read to me.’ He waggled one painted eyebrow suggestively as he said this.

‘In French?’

‘Oh, yes!’ he smirked. ‘Not that I’d understand every word, can’t claim to be a clever sort of a fellow, but I dare say I’d get the gist, if you know what I mean. And if I didn’t…’ He paused for emphasis, and Sophie had a sense that she knew precisely what he was going to say next. ‘If I didn’t, I dare say you could always show me.’

Sophie felt suddenly very tired, and couldn’t summon the energy for a response.

‘I said,’ he persisted, ‘you could always show me. I’d like that. And I could make it worth your while, you know.’

‘I seriously doubt it.’

It took a little while for the implications of that to sink in, and when they did, as Sophie had expected, his face took on a purple hue, not unlike that of his coat, and lust was joined, as it so often was in her experience, by a simmering anger, and the lurking threat of violence. He reached out across the little space that separated them and put a damp, heavy hand tight about her wrist, hard enough to bruise. ‘Look here, you impudent little hussy, I’ll teach you?—’

She said, ‘If you don’t take your hand off me right now, I’ll take this fork I’m holding and stab you in the leg with it. Hard.’

‘You wouldn’t dare.’ His hand still held her, but his grip had loosened.

‘Yes, I would. And you know what these people sitting around this table would do, when you screamed and swore? They’d laugh. And so would I.’

There was something in her voice or her manner, it seemed, that convinced him she was entirely serious. ‘You fucking insolent little?—’

‘I might just do it anyway,’ she said. ‘For the pure fun of it. And I will, if you don’t let me go this instant.’

He swore again, but released her, almost pushing her away in his eagerness to be free of her, and ostentatiously turned his back on her in a display of such utter petulance that she could not help but laugh. She sat back smiling derisively as the broken meats and the dirty plates were removed and an equal profusion of desserts was placed before them. Would this meal never end?

The Dowager said, startling her, ‘I almost wish you had done it, my dear. It seems that I was wrong when I told you that this dinner would be utterly tedious.’

‘I had not known you were watching, madame,’ she replied, her mirth fading.

‘Of course I was. And so was my grandson. He was about to leap to your defence, possibly by going across the table at that revolting creature and taking him by the throat, but it proved unnecessary. I suppose it is just as well, as enjoyable as it would have been to see.’

Sophie’s eyes leapt up, and she saw that the old lady was right. Lord Drake was looking steadily at her, his face closed and enigmatic, and when she met his gaze he raised his glass, toasting her, and made an ironic little bow in her direction. His stepmother, beside him, tugged impatiently at his sleeve, but he ignored her. The great pink diamond flashed its fire as her bosom rose and fell, and once again she darted a poisonous glance at Sophie.

The two women sat for a little while in silence, ignored once more by their table companions, some of whom were feeding each other with spoons and licking them suggestively. The Dowager seemed to have lost what small appetite she’d had, and did no more than toy absently with a syllabub for several minutes before saying drily, in an obvious effort to distract herself and Sophie from their surroundings, ‘I suppose the annals of legend and history must contain examples of worse social occasions, where the guests hated each other more and behaved even worse, though I confess I cannot call one to mind just at the moment.’

‘Dinner with Diane de Poitiers and Catherine de’ Medici,’ suggested Sophie promptly, in the same spirit, just stopping herself from adding, My illustrious relative. Hastily she went on, ‘A banquet in the House of Atreus. Taking tea with the Empress Livia, or her great-grandson Caligula. Or almost any member of their family, for that matter.’

For some reason her response caused a sudden expression of trepidation to creep across Delphine’s painted countenance. ‘About that…’ she started to say, but at that moment her daughter-in-law stood, indicating that the ladies should leave the gentlemen to their port, even though it was plain that not everyone had had their fill of pudding, and the moment was lost. ‘We will speak of it tomorrow,’ the Dowager said. ‘When we are alone. I must warn you of the danger you face.’