Chapter 18

18

Sophie – she wouldn’t think of herself as Clemence; she couldn’t afford to, for she feared it might make her weak – was deeply touched by the Dowager’s warning, and by the old lady’s concern for her. It had been a long time since anyone had worried about her safety in a manner entirely free from selfish calculation.

Nate Smith, of course, had saved her, in a manner of speaking, when she’d been in the very depths of despair, and she must always be grateful to him, but he’d always been open with her about his reasons, in which human compassion figured hardly at all. He’d seen a spark in her when they’d first met, some spirit of defiance and resilience that had made him think that, properly trained, with her aristocratic background she might one day be very useful to him indeed. It was even possible – she knew how cool and sharp his intelligence was, with what lightning speed it functioned to calculate his own advantage – that this whole scheme had sprung fully-formed into his mind the very instant she poured out her story to him in the squalid little lodging where her mother and brother had died. Because Nate Smith, for reasons she couldn’t begin to understand, was quite as determined as she was to destroy and humiliate Lord Wyverne. There must be some history between them – she had never dared to ask. Nate had always been good to her, by his lights, and she’d have been dead on some rubbish heap, or floating in the Thames, if he hadn’t chosen her to be his tool, his weapon. But she was nonetheless a little frightened of him still, all the more because she knew so many of his secrets, though certainly not all.

She could not afford to fail, and the idea of walking away, as Delphine had begged her to do, was quite impossible. Even if she’d felt herself drawn to the idea, which she didn’t, there was Nate to consider. He was waiting, and although he was a patient man, there were limits to his patience. People who disappointed him tended not to prosper. She had no intention of disappointing him.

So, hiding in her room tonight was simply not an option. This party – though that was hardly the correct word – might be her best opportunity, and she intended to seize it. When they had discussed the matter at great length, late at night in Nate’s tavern, making their plans, he had stated what was sufficiently obvious to both of them: Lord Wyverne’s huge jewel collection must ordinarily be kept safe in some strongbox or locked closet in his or his wife’s private chamber. Sophie could pick a lock as well as any man, he’d made sure of that, but it was not enough. There was enormous risk in such a proceeding, and what Nate knew of the Wyvernes’ habits rendered it unnecessary, or so they both hoped. It was well known that Lady Wyverne almost always wore the Stella Rosa in the evenings, and many of her other most valuable jewels besides. Sophie had seen the truth of this herself – had it only been last night? She’d scarcely spared a glance for all the Marchioness’s other adornments, focused as she’d been on the precious, cursed necklace that she hadn’t set eyes on for so long. But she recalled now that Rosanna had been positively dripping with other jewels, with long white diamond earrings, emerald bracelets, sapphire brooches and ruby rings, several on each finger. It had not been a tasteful display, but as an exhibition of extraordinary wealth and excess it had certainly made its point. The woman had glittered so much in the candlelight that it had almost hurt to look at her. If she wore as much tonight, as Delphine had been so sure she would, if after all her exertions she was careless in putting everything away: that would be Sophie’s chance.

The problem was, how would she know when it was all over? She’d have to attend the party, that was plain. But she could not risk being seen and afterwards remembered by some curious guest or watchful servant as someone who was present and yet had no business there. That could be fatal – literally fatal, for she could easily hang for such a daring theft.

She ate a light, early meal with the Dowager that evening, and then promised her she’d go to her chamber and remain there. On some impulse she kissed the old lady’s cheek when she left her, and there was a lump in her throat as she closed the door behind her. She’d been lying, of course, and she had a shrewd idea that Delphine had known as much. But she’d said nothing.

She drifted unobtrusively downstairs to the Marble Saloon, as if carelessly interested in the preparations for the party, and found the great atrium all abustle, with footmen in their shirtsleeves moving furniture under Lord Wyverne’s direction. It was vital that he of all people did not see her here, and so she shrank back into the shadows of one of the doorways and watched. Once again she was struck by how entirely unremarkable he was in appearance, like Nate, and yet how intimidating in his sheer presence. His instructions were given in a low tone so that from her place of concealment she could not hear his words, he did not habitually raise his voice in blustering command nor bark orders at his servitors as so many men of his class did, but when William made some error in the placement of a thronelike chair, the few quiet words the Marquess uttered had the young man stammering apologies and looking so pale and terrified that she feared for a little while that he might actually fall down in a swoon. And William – he was the one who had carried the Dowager down to dinner so carefully last night – was a young giant of well over six feet, like all the other footmen, and could if he wished, if he dared, have picked his employer up without breaking sweat and pitched him down the flight of stone steps that led down to the lawn and gardens. It was also undeniable that a servant who looked as well in livery as he did and performed his duties so diligently and cheerfully would have little trouble finding a position in another noble house, so the hold the Marquess had over him, and most of the other servants, was even harder for an outsider like Sophie to understand.

After a little while Lord Wyverne went away – to change, she presumed – and the maids, looking frightened, clearly in a desperate rush to finish their duties and be gone, began laying out a repast upon long tables that had been set up around the walls of the great chamber. They arranged huge pyramids of fruit from the estate’s forcing houses, and all manner of cold food in great profusion. They laid out costly Venetian glasses, and there was a great quantity of rich red wine, which had been decanted into jugs of silver and crystal. It was, she realised, an attempt to recreate a lavish Roman banquet.

On one table by the entrance sat a pile of what she thought looked like masks, and, once the maids had gone and she was sure she was unobserved, Sophie went over cautiously to examine them. They were made of leather, which had been moulded by some incredibly ingenious craftsman or -woman into uncannily beautiful and cunningly grotesque faces, and then stiffened and gilded so that they would hold their shape. She found what she thought must be Apollo, Venus, Bacchus, and Jove with a great curled beard, and any number of leering satyrs and coyly interchangeable female visages which she presumed to be meant for nymphs. Each one had eyeholes, and the simpler ones left the mouth and chin uncovered. Attached to all of them were golden ribbons that could be tied about the head. This discovery was nothing short of providential for purposes of concealment, and she took the opportunity and stole one of the plainer ones, then sped off to change her gown and make the rest of her preparations. It was nearly time.

Earlier she’d wondered anxiously if the guests would be in fancy dress, which would present a problem for her, but then she’d thought that if they were they’d surely have been commanded to continue the classical theme, and this she could achieve with another of the late Lady Wyverne’s Grecian gowns, this time a simple draped white muslin. She put it on – stays didn’t seem to be a necessity tonight – and skilfully arranged her hair in a more elaborate and fashionable style than she normally favoured, weaving a white ribbon through it and trying on her mask in the cracked and spotted little mirror that hung in one corner of her chamber. She looked at herself, and saw a blank-faced, lovely stranger, some golden figure from myth or legend. The fact that these tales often ended badly, especially for women, was something she refused to contemplate. She was ready, and made her way downstairs.

It was growing dark, and all the lamps and many-branched candelabras were lit. They illuminated an extraordinary scene, and one which she thought she would never forget. Even in daylight and empty, the large oval chamber was one of the most impressive spaces she had ever seen, and it was all the more striking now. Tall columns of purplish marble held up a frieze that ran around the room, ornamented with a continuous plaster relief of gods and goddesses and scenes from Roman life. Above it, a huge coffered dome rose to a large circular oculus that in the day admitted the sunlight, but now showed the diffuse glow of the full moon. Between the columns, niches held statues of deities or huge gilded urns, and the floor was paved in slabs of chilly white Carrara marble. It was, as the Dowager had said, a draughty space with several entrances, and the candle flames guttered wildly, casting flickering shadows across the faces and forms of the guests who laughed and talked, ate, drank and embraced. Some of them must be the people she had dined with last night, though she could not recognise them in their masks; the rest must have come specially for this event, driving here in the moonlight.

Sophie had been correct in her guess – they were for the most part garbed in Roman dress, the women in scandalously flimsy gowns of silk and muslin, many of them with breasts completely bared, and the men in robes or what looked very much like bedsheets, draped in some approximation of togas.

At one side, on the elaborate thronelike chair that William had so painstakingly positioned atop a small dais, sat a man wearing the most elaborate of the masks, the bearded one Sophie had particularly noticed earlier, and his rich crimson robe was heavily embroidered with gold. He was costumed as Jove, the master of the revels, and she could have no doubt as to his identity: Lord Wyverne. Sometimes he spoke to some guest or other who had gone over to pay him homage, but chiefly, Sophie saw, he watched.

On a low platform in the centre two mattresses had been laid side by side and piled with bright silken cushions. One bed was occupied by a naked blonde woman whom Sophie did not know – she wasn’t disguised, and hadn’t been one of the guests at the dinner party last night – and the other by Lady Wyverne. Rosanna was masked as Venus, but quite recognisable, and she too was naked, as far as clothing went, but she could not be described as unadorned. Her beautiful, voluptuous body was glittering with jewels that struck flame from the candles as she writhed and postured. She had bracelets of every possible colour from wrist to elbow, and others about her ankles. Her fingers were covered with rings, as many as could be worn, and chains of gold studded with gems were threaded through her hair. The Stella Rosa, Sophie was extremely relieved to see, sparkled between her breasts.

Sophie hoped she was no hypocrite. Last night she’d been given the chance of a little pleasure, a little comfort, and she’d seized it gladly. She could hardly criticise anyone else for doing the same. But to see a woman thus displayed to the gaze and the touch of others, to strangers, as though she were nothing more than one of the many precious objects Lord Wyverne possessed and gloated over… Even if Rosanna consented to it freely, it must disturb Sophie, although it undoubtedly suited her purposes.

A man was currently pawing at the jewel, and at Rosanna, as he thrust into her. The spectators, both men and women, were cheering him on from beneath their golden masks, and they were eating and drinking heavily all the while, their wet, avid mouths exposed. They clearly found the lurid scene erotic – some of the waiting men were visibly aroused and impatient to take their turn.

Sophie turned away. The scene did not entice her; on the contrary, if she spent long enough in the room, she thought, she’d be tempted to take a vow of lifelong chastity. Setting aside every other consideration, was none of them worried about the possibility – the likelihood, one might say with justice – of catching the pox? ‘I wonder how they are keeping score?’ she murmured to herself distractedly.

A deep voice close by her ear said, ‘A reasonable question. In other circumstances, with less to distract the eye, no doubt you would have noticed the disturbingly tall and realistic representations of the male member that stand by the head of each couch. When each man has done his part, he slips a ring, provided for the purpose, over the end of it – see, one is doing so now, to great applause. They make a little ceremony of it. Lady Wyverne, I am sure you will be fascinated to know, is winning. But then the night is still young.’

Her heart was suddenly pounding harder, her blood beating in her ears. Sophie hadn’t considered for a second the possibility that he of all people would be here tonight; she had assumed he’d be as far away as he could contrive, in his room upstairs, if not miles away in his own home. She didn’t like to think that the man she’d shared those stolen moments with could possibly enjoy this spectacle. In her shock and disbelief she had pivoted to look at him the instant he’d begun to speak and she had recognised his voice. ‘Lord Drake!’

He was not dressed according to the Roman theme, she saw, but wore his ordinary clothes, covered with a black domino. He was masked, though, and a the coldly beautiful face looked back at her impassively, hiding his expression and his thoughts most effectively.

‘I had not thought to see you here,’ she said. Though it was no affair of hers, since he had made no commitment, no promises of any kind to her, nor she to him, she owned herself ridiculously disappointed. She had with shocking swiftness come to believe that he was nothing like the rest of them, nothing like his wicked father, though a few short days ago, she recalled now, she’d thought that he must surely be as bad. Something had changed inside her in the meantime, and now she was dismayed to realise that she must have been cruelly wrong to begin to have a better opinion of him.

He let out a brief, unamused laugh, and drew her aside, out of the nearby door and into the corridor, where they could converse unobserved. ‘Last night I told you, did I not, that Rosanna is not and never has been my mistress? Did you not believe me? If I have resisted her manifold charms for the last fifteen years or so, and I promise you that I have, despite all her best efforts to seduce me, I am hardly likely to succumb to them now, in such a public arena. If I wanted to fuck – I think we can both agree that that is the mot juste here rather than any of the more usual euphemisms – her, or indeed her competitor for that matter, then I would scarcely choose to do so while Lord Wyverne sits and watches. The idea fills me with horror. But actually, Sophie, I don’t have the least interest in either of them. Nor, for that matter, in watching this… I don’t have words for what this is. Except to say I hate it. The ostentatious public display, Lady Wyverne’s involvement, the fact that those present will undoubtedly spread word of every detail of it far and wide…’

She was somehow comforted. It was reassuring to know that she had not been so mistaken in him, but still, he was here, was he not, despite all his fine words? ‘So why are you not miles away, then?’

‘I was looking for you – why else?’ he said, his dark eyes glittering behind the mask. ‘And now I have found you, have I not, Mademoiselle de Montfaucon?’