Sovay frowned. ‘Forgotten what?’
‘Oh, come now.’ Lady Bingham’s tone became uncomfortably intimate and cajoling. ‘It would be uppermost in the minds of most young ladies.’
Sovay shook her head. ‘I’m sorry Lady Bingham; you have me at a loss.’
Lady Bingham sighed, and spoke slowly, as though talking to an idiot. ‘Yesterday, I paid a visit to a certain dressmaker of Mayfair, a Madame Chantal. She was most anxious that I see a certain dress that she had been making. Since you were not at home to take delivery, she asked me to bring it to you. Your girl has it.’
‘Lydia? I thought she’d –’
‘She’s downstairs with my maid, Emily. I’ll send her to you. Wait until you see it! Madame has excelled herself. It makes all other gowns seem positively dowdy. It is a work of art, Sovay. A work of art!’
‘Well, I thank you for bringing it to me, Lady Bingham.’
‘The reception is in the Mirror Drawing Room at six-thirty this evening. Make sure you are ready by then. Have you seen the Mirror Room?’
Sovay shook her head again. She had not.
‘Truly astonishing. It is said that he copied the Glass Drawing Room at Northumberland House. I’ve seen both and, to my mind, Sir Robert’s room is the more magnificent. Plate glass from France, painters brought from Italy . . .’
‘Thursley must have been so very costly.’ Sovay shook her head in wonder. ‘How can any man afford it?’
‘Sir Robert is very, very wealthy.’ Lady Bingham’s voice took on the note of deep seriousness she reserved for matters pertaining to land or money. ‘One of the wealthiest men in England. He could spend his days in idle self-indulgence, yet he is tireless in the service of the King.’
‘Tell me, Lady Bingham, I have often wondered, what does Sir Robert do, exactly?’ Sovay asked, as artless as before.
‘There are many ways in which a gentleman can be useful to his country,’ Lady Bingham replied, telling her nothing. ‘Sir Robert gives vital service, you may rest assured. It is such a shame that he has no one to whom he can leave all this.’
‘He has never married?’
‘No, my dear, and he is the most eligible bachelor in England, outside the royal family. I had hopes for Charlotte but it was not to be.’ Her face brightened. ‘There is always Isabel. It’s said he favours youthfulness.’
Lady Bingham’s younger daughter was a sallow-faced child of eleven or twelve. What could the woman be thinking? Sovay looked away appalled.
‘Don’t be cast down!’ Lady Bingham misinterpreted Sovay’s expression and patted her hand in sympathy. ‘Not everyone can be as blessed as my two darling girls. You’ll find someone eventually, I’m sure.’
Sovay swallowed back the biting remarks that ached to be said and managed to smile as sweetly as she could. She was relieved to hear a knock at her door.
‘Sovay? Are you in there?’
‘Hugh!’ Sovay went to let him in. ‘I have a visitor,’ she added before he could say anything more. ‘Lady Bingham has been kind enough to call.’
‘Lady Bingham.’ Hugh strode forward and bowed. ‘What an unexpected pleasure.’
‘Mr Middleton.’ Lady Bingham returned his bow. ‘It is good to see you safely returned from Paris.’ He had exchanged his pantaloons for breeches but she surveyed his cropped hair with barely disguised distaste. ‘Is that the latest fashion there? How very unusual.’
‘It is,’ Hugh replied, his eyes sparking with humour, and he touched the knot of tricolour ribbon in his buttonhole. ‘And it is my greatest hope that it will soon be the fashion everywhere.’ He ran a hand over his shorn locks. ‘So much more manly and hygienic, don’t you think?’
‘Perhaps you are right, although I don’t find it very becoming. Well, I must go. There is much to do before tonight. I’ll see you both later.’ She turned to Sovay. ‘I’ll send Lydia up with your dress, my dear.’
‘What dress?’ Hugh asked when they were alone.
‘One she ordered from a Mayfair dressmaker,’ Sovay replied. ‘It is of no importance. I have things to tell you.’
She quickly went through what had happened, what she had discovered in the tower and the dungeons beneath it. Hugh listened without interruption.
‘I did not realise that you cared so much for this highwayman,’ he said with a smile.
‘I do not!’ Sovay objected, a little too vehemently. ‘It is Toby and – and his friends.’
‘If it is any comfort, Dysart will hold off doing anything to him until after tonight’s proceedings. Why waste such a spectacular entertainment? He will reserve that spectacle for his very special guests.’
‘What about Gabriel? Will he be back in time?’
‘Of course he will! I trust him like my own brother.’ Hugh stood up and went to the window. ‘He is more to me than a brother. I would trust him with my life.’
CHAPTER 26
Sovay looked into the cheval glass with an intense dissatisfaction that brought her near to tears.
‘What’s wrong, miss?’ Lydia could not understand why she should be so discontented. ‘You look lovely.’
‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ Sovay said, staring at her reflection in the mirror. ‘But thank you for helping me, Lydia. You’ve done all you can. Now you must go.’
Lydia sat down on the bed. She didn’t want to desert Sovay but neither did she want to cross her, not in this kind of a mood. And she was slightly awed by her mistress. In that dress, she looked like a different person, older and, well, even more beautiful.
‘I can’t say I’ll be sorry,’ she said. ‘Summat queer’s going on, that’s for certain. All the servants are leaving. They are all terrified, won’t say a word. None of them live here, ’cept for that creepy little butler and a couple of footmen and the men they call guards. What does he need with guards? And who’s that woman in the frightful wig?’
‘Never mind about her.’ Sovay turned to face Lydia. ‘If the servants are leaving, that’s good. You can go with them and not attract attention. When you get to the gate, wait there for Gabriel and stay with him, no matter what happens. You must stay with him. D’you understand?’ Lydia nodded and began collecting her things together. ‘Good girl.’ Sovay gave Lydia a quick kiss on the cheek. ‘Now off you go.’
When Sovay was alone, she turned back to the mirror, perhaps expecting to see something different, but the reflection was the same. Not exactly displeasing, but not a self that she recognised. Her hair was piled high, caught up in a black bandeau set with pearls. Lydia had worked with painstaking care, winding and teasing the long, dark ringlets until they fell in perfect curling tendrils down to Sovay’s neck and shoulders. Sovay had never worn anything as low cut, anything that exposed so much flesh before. And never anything this colour. Light hues suited her best, because of her dark colouring, and she had assumed that Madame Chantal would make something in primrose perhaps, or pale green, or blue, but this? This was scarlet. The colour became her, certainly, the effect augmented by Lydia’s discreet application of rouge and the blush that was presently washing Sovay’s cheeks. The gown was high-waisted and she could wear little by way of stays and petticoats underneath it, just an inner linen bodice. When she moved, the thin silk clung to her almost as if she was walking naked. Sovay’s blush deepened. What with that and the colour and the fabric, how could she possibly wear it?
She had been bested, she had to admit it. In this little contest between them, Lady Bingham had won; there could be no doubt.
Her anguished scrutiny was interrupted by a knock at the door.
‘Are you decent?’
‘It depends what you mean by decent.’
‘Oh, I say!’ Hugh exclaimed as he came into the room.
‘There!’ His reaction drove Sovay back to near despair. ‘I can’t possibly wear it. It’s scarlet! I look like a whore!’’
‘Oh, I don’t know . . .’ Hugh adopted an expression of judicious scrutiny. ‘More crimson, I’d say.’
He laughed. ‘As for the other, you’d have to be a very high-class one to wear such a gown. Steady on, now.’ He dodged the hairbrush that came flying towards him. ‘Don’t lose your temper. I was only teasing.’
‘You know I don’t like to be teased.’ Sovay sat down, her anger dissipating. ‘What am I going to do? It has shocked even you.’
‘I’m not shocked as such. Just surprised. I’ve never seen you looking like this before.’
‘But what shall I do? I have nothing else suitable.’
‘Wear it, of course. You’ll be a sensation. Dressed in the height of fashion.’
‘I don’t want to be a sensation and I’ve never even seen a dress like this, so how can that be?’
‘Not here. Not in London. I meant in Paris.’
‘The dressmaker’s French.’
‘There you have it. She must still maintain her contacts there. That dress is very à la mode, believe me.’
‘I should not have put my faith in Madame Chantal. Lady Bingham knew I’d have to wear it, that I’d have nothing else remotely suitable. She’s beaten me.’
‘Sovay!’ Hugh turned her from the horrified contemplation of her own reflection. ‘Look at me. You are not beaten unless you let yourself be. She wants you to be miserable, she wants you to feel uncomfortable. Don’t hang back, embarrassed. Show her that she hasn’t won, that you have not been defeated. That’s a beautiful dress; you are a beautiful girl. Wear it as Madame Chantal meant it to be worn. Now, if you can bear to think of someone else for a moment, what about me? Will I do?’
Sovay tore her attention away from herself to look at her brother. He turned around to show off his coat of pale turquoise, leopardskin-spotted velvet, throwing back the facing to show the ivory embroidered waistcoat and dove-grey breeches.
‘You look very fine,’ she said, although his formal attire was rather at odds with his short blond hair. The curls along his forehead and the clusters at his temples made him look very boyish.
‘Very well then, if I pass muster, Miss Sovay, may I have the pleasure of escorting you to this evening’s reception?’
He bowed and held her wrap. His large blue eyes under quirking brows seemed incapable of gravitas and when he smiled at her, she found that, despite her misgivings about the dress, she had to smile back. He took her arm, proud but at the same time somewhat apprehensive. She seemed entirely unaware of how very beautiful she was.
A pair of footmen opened the doors and the butler marched forward into the room, announcing their arrival in a loud sonorous voice entirely at odds with his diminutive size. Heads turned and conversations faltered. Sir Robert Dysart detached himself from one of the casually formed groups and came to welcome them. He was dressed in glossy black silk, with mere wisps of white lace at his neck and cuffs. His coat was faced with beads of jet, which glittered in the light from the candelabra. The effect was imposing and somewhat sinister; he more than ever resembled the glossy black birds that perched on his battlements and roosted in his tower.
He was at his most charming and most apologetic that other business had kept him away from the house and their company until now. He was lying to them, but if he realised that they knew it, he didn’t show it, or perhaps he didn’t care. Lady Bingham accompanied him. She clapped her hands in triumph when she saw Sovay, claiming for herself the girl’s beauty and elegance. Hugh went off for an urgent word with someone before she could claim him, too. Just as Lady Bingham was about to put a hand on her protégée’s arm and steer her away with a proprietorial air, Sir Robert Dysart stepped in between them.
‘A word before you do, Lady Bingham. A word before you do.’ He took Sovay’s arm himself and led her away from the older woman. ‘I’d like to show our guest something of the splendours of my Glass Drawing Room. Some call it the Mirror Room and I think you can see why.’
He conducted her through the knots of men scattered through the enormous room. Sovay was surprised at how few people there were. Thirteen in all, she counted, not including herself and Lady Bingham. They were the only women. Sir Robert took a glass of champagne for her from a servant who stood so still that he might have been carved from ebony, all the while talking of plate glass from France, cut glass from Ireland, marble from Italy. The walls, made entirely of glass, glittered and dazzled with the light reflected from branched candles held in silver sconces and the magnificent candelabra that hung from the ceiling. At intervals along the room huge mirrors, had been placed in opposition one to another and gave a disquieting illusion of the room reflected to infinity.
‘I got the idea from the interiors of the villas of Nero and Caligula that I saw as a young man in Italy. There, of course, the walls were of porphyry, but the coloured glass does very well . . .’ He indicated to the fluted pilasters, each one aglitter with gilt and copper, and the red glass panels that ran from floor to ceiling between the mirrors. ‘The tiny flecks of foil held within catch the light and make them glisten. A remarkable effect, do you not think?’
Sovay nodded her agreement, although they looked to her like freshly spilt blood.
‘I’m so pleased to be able to welcome you to Thursley. Hugh as well. I’m so sorry your father could not come, too. He has many friends here. We would like to welcome him to our circle. This is very much a meeting of minds. His contribution will be missed. I have read his writings on many subjects, most particularly science, with very great interest. I have ambitions in that direction myself. He is still in Paris? I am surprised that Hugh left him there.’
‘My father was unwell . . .’ Sovay faltered. Dysart already knew that.
‘I wish him a speedy recovery and that he can get away soon. You must be worried. I know how difficult it is to send or receive word now. The road to Dover is so plagued by highwaymen. I will do what I can. I have sent an agent. He waits at Dover. My instruction will be relayed to him by messenger. So much safer than relying on the mail.’ There was a warning in his words; he looked sideways to see if Sovay had heard it. ‘I don’t know what you have been told about this evening?’
‘Very little,’ she replied.
‘After this reception, we will have supper, and then there will be a short ceremony.’
‘What kind of ceremony?’
‘Harmless, really. Think of it as acting in a charade. It is a way for us to demonstrate our belief in enlightenment, reason, man’s perfectibility. Women’s, too. You believe in those things, don’t you, Sovay?’
Sovay inclined her head. They were hard to deny.
‘Good, good.’ He patted her arm. ‘You hardly have to do anything, anything at all. When it is over, we can think about getting your father back to you.’
‘And if I refuse?’
‘Why would you refuse?’ Dysart feigned astonishment. ‘I told you, it is nothing. To refuse such a small request would not be seen as a friendly act.’ He drew closer and his voice dropped the pretence of carrying anything but menace. ‘I think we spoke of this before. A pity you do not seem able to heed my warnings. Let me speak more plainly. If you are not our friend, then you are our enemy, and for any Englishman, let alone a sick one, France is a very dangerous place to be.’
Sovay looked past him to the mirror on the opposite wall and saw their images reflected there. The scarlet and the black, locked together, stretching off to infinity.
As soon as he left her side, she was uncomfortably aware of the attention she was attracting. The dress was exactly the same shade as the panels on the wall. She was sure she’d heard the words silk and scarlet and whore, but she did not care what they were thinking, after the first shock she rather liked it. She braved the hostile, appraising glances, searching the faces turned away too quickly, looking for someone she knew. In a distant corner, she saw Virgil Barrett talking to Mr Oldfield. The American was looking over the other man’s shoulder, staring right at her, but with a strange expression on his face, as if he had never seen her before. Sovay started across the room towards him, only to find Lady Bingham bearing do
wn on her.
‘Supper is just about to be announced,’ she said, taking Sovay by the arm and guiding her in the opposite direction.
The guests moved into a room hardly less magnificent than the drawing room to find a series of sumptuous dishes laid out along a lengthy sideboard. They grazed up and down, helping themselves, and Lady Bingham was soon intent on filling her plate before the choicest morsels disappeared. Sovay took advantage of the freedom thus afforded to go off in search of Virgil or Hugh.
‘Mr Barrett,’ she said as she accosted him. ‘Have you seen my brother?’
‘I believe he has stepped outside.’ The American smiled. ‘The view from the battlements is very fine, so they say.’
‘Is it indeed?’ Sovay raised an eyebrow. She wanted to know what Hugh might be doing up there, but knew enough not to inquire. ‘Am I to think that you have been avoiding me?’ she asked, steering them back to safe ground.
‘Certainly not,’ he replied. ‘On my life!’
‘It seems so to me.’
‘How am I to get near to you when you are as closely chaperoned as a girl at her first ball?’
‘There is no one with me now.’
‘No.’ Virgil looked around. ‘No, indeed.’
‘Yet you still look askance.’
‘I do not mean to,’ he answered. ‘It’s just that you are . . .’ He stopped. ‘You look . . .’ He could not meet her eye and glanced about him, thoroughly discomforted. ‘Damn me if I can find the words for it.’
‘You think I look like a whore,’ Sovay supplied, her ire rising. ‘Don’t you?’
‘No, never!’ he exclaimed with some indignation, his fresh complexion colouring. He dropped his voice, aware that he had raised it. ‘Nothing was further from my mind, I do assure you!’
‘What is it then?’
‘It’s just, it’s just that –’ He shook his head. She certainly looked nothing like the vision of Flora that he had first seen coming in from the garden at Compton. ‘It does not signify what I think. There is something else of much greater importance.’ His voice took on an increased urgency. ‘Despite what you say, I have been trying to get near you all evening. There’s something you must know –’