Chapter 8

8

Sophie had so far not met Lord Wyverne, her host, the man above all others in the world whom she hated the most. She’d had him pointed out to her when riding in Hyde Park, centuries ago in her previous life, and her father had known him socially, of course, to her whole family’s ruin, but he hadn’t been in Brook Street when his wife had interviewed her, and he’d been absent from Wyverne Hall since her arrival. But now he was back, with a few guests, and holding a dinner party. The household had been in turmoil for days before his arrival, the servants frantically cleaning and polishing rooms that had already appeared immaculate to Sophie, dusting the statues and the pictures with anxious care; clearly, the Marquess was an exacting master.

The Dowager, summoning her to her side one afternoon, was perturbed; Sophie knew her well enough by now to be aware of this. Her distress, if that was not too strong a word, showed not in her voice, her face or her words, but in a certain restless motion of her frail hands, twisting involuntarily on the bright shawl that covered her lap, playing with the fringe of it, plaiting and unplaiting. She said, ‘My dear child, I have something unpleasant to tell you. This morning I received a note from my son, demanding my attendance at dinner this evening. He does this to me occasionally. I could plead illness, of course, but… in my experience that would be unwise.’

Sophie had not realised that they were estranged, though living in the same house. It struck her now that Lady Wyverne had never mentioned her son in her hearing before, and now that she did, the emotion that coloured her voice seemed to be nothing less than fear. ‘I am sorry for it, if you should dislike it, madame,’ she said. She was indeed sorry, but to show her sympathy too plainly could hardly be pleasant for the old lady, proud as she was.

‘I do dislike it, to speak frankly. Setting aside Wyverne’s company and whether it pleases me or not, the nature of the people with whom he surrounds himself cannot be… that is why he insists upon my presence, of course: because he knows how much I hate being obliged to meet them, and how much more I loathe to see them with free run of this house. Prostitutes, scoundrels, degenerates, men and women of the worst possible character!’ Her voice was fierce with anger and for a moment she sounded much younger, stronger, and then the brief moment of passion faded and she added almost in a whisper, sounding frail again, ‘But that’s not why I speak of it. On these occasions he also insists that my companion accompanies me, to help me, so he says.’

Sophie made some involuntary noise or movement, she knew not what, and the Dowager said, ‘I am sorry, my dear. I believe in the past he has gained amusement from the great discomfort some of my previous companions have felt in the company of his… friends. The ladies were not harmed – I may be a weak, useless old woman, but I would not stand for that – but there was mockery. It was most displeasant, and drove one or two of them away, which I expect amused him. I am not sure, in point of fact, if his wife has spoken of you to him, and told him that you are young and attractive. From what I know of her, I would imagine that she has not done so; she is a viciously jealous woman, and I am positive she would not have hired you if there had been any alternative. No doubt they have not discussed you, and he may not even know I have a new companion, because in general he takes little interest in me. But in any case, I must beg that you attend. I am afraid we have no choice in the matter. It is quite possible that he will pay scant attention to you, but if you were to refuse to come… that would be the surest way to attract his notice. And you do not want that. Believe me, child, you do not.’

Sophie could easily accept the truth of this statement. She’d prefer Lord Wyverne never set eyes on her, at any rate not until her mission was accomplished and the jewels safely hidden away. The last thing she wanted was to spend several hours in dangerous proximity to him now, even if it was indeed true that he would likely barely speak to her. The only thing that could make the prospect of such a nightmare evening worse was…

‘There is just one consolation,’ the Dowager said, in what seemed to Sophie to be a conscious effort to raise both their spirits. ‘When he heard of the plan, and realised that Wyverne demanded my attendance and yours, Drake reassured me that he would come also. This is most unusual, I assure you, since in general he takes great care to avoid his father’s company, and he is even less enamoured of his so-called friends than I am. But there has been no open breach between them, or at least not recently, just an enormous coldness, so if he wishes to attend, he is able to do so. Again, to see Rafe’s disgust at the nature of the other guests – my son enjoys that. He knows Drake must be thinking, My God, if I were master here, such creatures would not so much as enter the gates, let alone sit at table. But he is not master yet, and Wyverne merely raises his glass and smiles, that smile of his that chills the blood.’

Her companion could not control a slightly fevered snort of laughter. ‘It sounds as though it will not be a dull evening, at least!’ she said.

‘Oh, yes, but it will,’ the old lady sighed. ‘Perhaps you have not had the occasion to observe, but people who are highly conscious of how terribly wicked they are, what notable sinners, are the dullest people who ever walked the earth. It is because they have no characters to speak of, outside their bad behaviour. Ask any one of them if she or he has ever read a book and see how they answer.’

Sophie laughed again, this time with genuine amusement. ‘I’m sure you’re right, madame. Most of all, I suppose, if there are persons present who are not so famously bad, and therefore they, the wicked ones, must exert themselves to be especially shocking.’

‘Indeed,’ the Dowager sighed. ‘So very tedious. It will be you who must be shocked – not me, perhaps, for they might be aware that I have a past, but then I am impossibly old, so they may have forgotten it. They will not want to imagine me young, for that must mean that they too will grow old, if they live so long, which probably they shall not. No, I promise you, you will be stifling yawns. And it is not as though you or I shall have Drake sitting beside us to entertain us, for Wyverne will not wish me to have his support, and madame la marquise will want him near her, you can be sure of it, and very far from you. Oh, how vulgar one becomes when one is forced into contact with vulgar persons! It is contagious. Let us speak of something else, dear child, or we shall soon be as bad as they are.’

‘Willingly,’ said Sophie, happy to cease discussing who was wicked and who was innocent. ‘But madame, I do not know what I am to wear at such an event. I have an evening gown of sorts, but I scarcely think… I suppose I am there simply to be mocked, though, so my shabbiness does not signify.’

‘Nonsense!’ said the Dowager with some robustness. ‘Of course I had thought of that. There is no time to obtain anything new, but I sent Marchand to see if she could find my daughter-in-law’s gowns that were put away in lavender when she died – the previous Lady Wyverne, you understand, my son’s second wife, poor sad creature that she was. I think you are of much the same height and build, and though they will be sadly outmoded they will at least not be shabby or tawdry. We shall see, in any event. If any rapid alteration is needed, Marchand will do it, for she is very skilled.’

Sophie could only murmur her thanks. ‘As for me,’ the old lady went on, ‘I shall be en grande tenue , as if the foolish Austrian queen were not in her grave these many years. And though his guests may find me ridiculous, my son at least might feel some slight pang of shame, if he has indeed any speck of it left, that he obliges me, whose father was a friend and companion of the Sun King himself, to consort with this batterie de canaille under his own roof.’

There didn’t seem to be anything that Sophie could usefully add to such a bravely sweeping statement, and so she did not make any attempt to reply, but turned the subject and awaited Marchand’s appearance with the gowns. She had no illusions that she would be choosing one herself: Delphine would pick, and she did not grudge her this small illusion of control, when in reality she was so very helpless at this final stage of her life, except for her indomitable spirit.

She had little time to untangle the roiling mix of emotions that assailed her, and perhaps that was fortunate, for it was a great deal to cope with. There was dread at confronting Lord Wyverne at last; concern that she would not keep her wits about her when finally she saw him; worry that she did not attract too much attention from him or anyone else, including his wife; and underlying everything else a strange, uneasy mixture of apprehension and hectic anticipation which she traced to its source in the prospect of spending time, even among others, with Lord Drake. She knew it was foolish, and probably dangerous, to entertain the idea, but she could not help herself. A dinner party; it was eight years since she had attended anything resembling a dinner party.

She wasted no time worrying about the dubious company which she had been warned against. That, at least, she was used to. They might mock her, in their ignorance, but they could not hurt her. Let them try, and they would see who came off worst.

Many of the old gowns were found to be quite unsuitable, but a few of them held some promise. The second Lady Wyverne had favoured the Grecian style, it seemed, which in its austere simplicity had the advantage of not dating too terribly, and at length Delphine decided upon a gown made up in that fashion. It consisted of draping layers of fine black muslin, a mourning dress, and its shape was undeniably not quite in the latest mode, but it had a pleasing line to it, with loose sleeves that covered the shoulders and the upper arms, and a hem and neck – low, but not excessively so – beautifully embroidered in silver in the Greek key pattern. Marchand found long black gloves to match it, and Sophie had slippers of her own that would do well enough.

The gown was found to fit her tolerably well, needing no alteration, and as the dinner hour drew near Marchand, expressionless as ever, came up to the stuffy little attic chamber and helped Sophie into it, dressing her hair for her also. Her impassive facade cracked a fraction as, wielding a hairbrush, she said abruptly, ‘You will help madame la marquise, I trust, mademoiselle, as far as you are able? Protect her, even, if it should be necessary? You have not been in this house long, I know, but it must be evident to you – I perceive that your eyes are of sufficient sharpness – how much she dreads this evening, and the toll such disgraceful events take on her?’

Sophie, seated on her one chair as the older woman moved around her, said with all the reassurance she could manage, ‘I will, of course, if she should need me. I will not let my vigilance lapse. And Lord Drake will be there too, don’t forget.’

‘That’s true,’ the abigail said, though Sophie could not tell if the thought gave her any comfort. ‘I am done. Let us go down, mademoiselle, for it is almost time and madame will be anxious.’

Sophie was as ready as she would ever be, and thanked Marchand for her help with some warmth, though the woman had retreated behind her barriers again and showed little reaction. In silence they hurried down the stairs to the Dowager’s chamber, and as Marchand stood by watchfully she helped the old lady to her feet, highly conscious of her birdlike frailty, and complimented her sincerely on the court gown of silver brocade and costly lace and on the elaborate powdered wig she wore. Now the Dowager was painted in the fashion of her youth; all of it was armour, Sophie realised, and despite it the old lady’s slight frame was shaking with tension. She had not imagined, before she came here, that she had it in her heart to feel the least sliver of sympathy for any member of this family, but she now knew that she had been wrong. It had not taken Marchand’s words to set all her senses on high alert for what might occur tonight.

A tall, expressionless liveried footman had been waiting, and now picked the Dowager up and carried her gently and carefully, as if she weighed nothing, which was no doubt almost true, along the corridor and down the grand staircase towards one of the larger dining rooms, Sophie following in his wake. A low chuckle floated back to her over his broad shoulder, and after it a whispered comment that made her smile: ‘Seventy years ago, my handsome young man, this little excursion might have ended very differently, I assure you!’ The footman, William, was wise enough to make no answer, but Sophie thought she heard him stifle an appreciative snort of laughter as the back of his neck grew red. The woman was incorrigible.

They were the last to arrive, and a dozen expectant faces, most of them unknown to her, turned to watch them as they entered. Sophie did not return their stares, concentrating on helping the Dowager to her chair. It was not until she was seated by her side that she had the chance to look about her.

Her eyes refused to be drawn to Lord Drake, darkly handsome in his evening black, sitting on the other side of the long table, not directly opposite her but at the right hand of his stepmother. His mistress. She could never afford to forget that, nor to be drawn into wondering if his father knew the scandalous fact. Surely he must, since all of the rest of the world certainly did. And could his grandmother really be ignorant of the gossip? Surely she must know and disapprove greatly, despite her obvious love for him. But none of this was Sophie’s concern. She had other matters to worry about. She must push his seductive kiss from her mind, and remember instead the blatant threat that had coloured his words to her: he sensed somehow that she was not who she pretended to be, and that distrust, even if it never grew into knowledge, must always be a grave peril to her.

She dragged her eyes away from him – it was all the harder because she was aware that he was looking intently at her, a little frown between his strong dark brows – and focused her gaze first on his father, some distance away at the head of the table. The Dowager Marchioness should by all rules of precedence and simple courtesy be in some place of honour, probably at her son’s right hand, but she was not; she was halfway down the table, with Sophie at one side to help her, and on her other side a man of raddled and disreputable appearance who presumably had been selected, if Delphine was correct in her assessment of her son’s motives, for his outstandingly disagreeable qualities as a dinner companion. But he was currently fully absorbed in flirting outrageously with the woman on his right – he had just taken snuff from her bare wrist – so the Dowager seemed safe for now.

It was odd, Sophie thought, how insignificant-seeming the Marquess was. She’d known it already, but she hadn’t seen him for eight long years, and perhaps inevitably she’d built him up into a nightmare monster that loomed large in her imagination. He must be seventy or so now, and he was a monster, but an observer could see little of it in his countenance or his manner at table. He was a man of medium height and spare build – his son was much taller and broader – and though his face should by rights be lined with deep grooves of dissipation, it rather disappointingly wasn’t. His eyes were blue-grey, like Lord Drake’s, their only point of similarity, and the rest of his features were entirely unmemorable. He could easily pass unnoticed in a crowd, and the person of Sophie’s acquaintance whom he most resembled was, with a biting irony she was well able to appreciate, Nate Smith, that equally unremarkable-looking master of thieves and of the London underworld. In the highly unlikely event that they ever encountered each other, they’d be obliged, if they were honest, to remark upon the undeniable likeness. And Nate, like this man, was far more formidable and dangerous than he appeared. Monsters, she thought, should advertise their qualities upon their faces for all to see, not masquerade, as this one did, as normal men.

And then he smiled at her, obviously conscious of her regard, and she revised all her earlier facile opinions. It was, as his own mother had said, a smile that chilled the blood. His dark eyes, so like his son’s in other respects, were dead and cold and merciless. She struggled to repress a shudder, and looked hastily away.

A simple white soup was served first, which she and the Dowager ate in silence, but once it was removed a huge variety of different dishes were laid out by the footmen in the old-fashioned style, à la francaise. The table was soon covered with platter after platter of different types of meat, fish and vegetables in enormous profusion, many of the dishes smothered in rich and elaborate sauces. It was a deliberate display of wealth and abundance, of excess, and in her present mood Sophie found it sickening.

Her uneasiness was not lessened when she realised that other eyes were upon her. She didn’t seem to be attracting any attention from the other diners, who were helping themselves from the plates close by to them with great enthusiasm, but Lady Wyverne, in her place at the opposite end of the table from her husband, was watching her. Sophie smiled, and bowed her head politely – she had seen almost nothing of the woman since her arrival at Wyverne Hall – and Rosanna shot her a glance that said very plainly, I have my eyes on you. She was magnificent in gold lace; her gown was cut very low across the chest, and her splendid bosom was on full display. Many of her female guests were similarly attired, but only she was wearing one of the world’s largest diamonds nestled between her breasts, striking pale fire with every small movement she made, every exhalation and drawing in of breath.

Like all notable jewels, it had a name: because it was pink and had originally been crafted in Italy, it was called the Stella Rosa, and it belonged to Sophie.