Julia laughed. “Some more than others. Emma, see that group by the fire?”
They wore tailcoats. Their cheeks were gammon pink with wine. They had the laughs of people who’d never worried about how loud they were.
The Society.The thought was instant.
It was the aura of power around them. They almost glowed with it, those boys by the fire. They stood apart, careless, while the eyes of the party absorbed their every move. Emma was almost certain she was right. But she said nothing to Julia, remembering that flash of fear in Imogen’s eyes. Some secrets weren’t meant to be spoken aloud.
Julia leaned in, her voice low. “There’s your future prime minister right there. Perhaps more than one. Not Francis—the one who looks like Napoleon—or Hugo here. They’re bound for family businesses and Labradors.” Julia grinned at Hugo. “No. You’ll want to keep an eye on that tall, dark one. Keeps his nose clean—in public, at least—and a shoo-in for the Union election. The one that looks like a Victorian schoolmaster, next to him? Philip, also a contender. Then Piers—well, I don’t think he’ll ever be top man. That weaselly sort never are. Minister, more likely.
“Richard was here a minute ago. I’m not sure where—” Julia’s voice softened as she peered over the crowd. “Well, you might meet him later.” She recovered her detachment and snorted. “Ed isstill convinced he’s going to be a grime artist. His family will stick him in a pretend job at a merchant bank until it wears off. Atticus Tremaine—the nervy, beautiful one? Very serious thesp. Film agents already swarming around those cheekbones. Then Guy’s father is something big in property, so there he’ll go too.”
“And what about the famous Jasper?” asked Emma. “Which one is he?”
“He’s not here,” Julia said. “Nobody’s seen him all night.”
“At his own party?” Emma resisted the urge to roll her eyes.
“Jasper’s funny that way. He likes to… surprise. It’s part of what makes his parties so fun. You never know what will happen.”
Hugo chuckled. “That one time, with the plane? Nobody knew, but he’d gone ahead and chartered a flight to Paris. Said nothing to anyone, let it sit on the tarmac all night. Then one of the girls happened to say she was hungry. And just like that, he flew us all to Paris for breakfast.”
Julia sighed. “Because ‘the only breakfast worth having is made by the pastry chef at Le Meurice, Julia.’ I still dream about that breakfast. Oh, and there was the swimming pool in London for Piers’ birthday—”
“Filled it with naked ladies,” Hugo said solemnly. “Just filled it. Everywhere you looked, naked ladies. Well, they had little bits over their… ahem. Well. Point is, he’s beyond me. I’m lucky if I remember what day I’m throwing a party.”
Julia leaned forward. “Oh, what about that time he—”
They fell into a patter of unfamiliar names and places, and Emma felt more like an outsider than ever. So she slipped off, cross at the part of herself that wanted to stay and hear more. Her mind had no business wondering about the kind of person that mightstay up plotting magical surprises for his friends. Or imagining the crunch of fresh pastry in a Paris sunrise, butter dissolving on her tongue.
A clock struck ten. She waited for the nagging ache to return to Gabriel Tower to strike with it. But there was a strange, empty space where the longing for her own room usually lay in wait. And how much more of a triumph would it be, she wondered, to return to Nat with something to show for the evening?You need more friends than just me, Emma.
Well,she would say casually, leaning against his door,I’ve actually already made some.
Unaware that her jaw was set and her face radiating determination, Emma forged her way into the crowd.
Behind her, a group had gathered by the window. Julia was holding court on a sofa. Next to her, Venetia Kent amused herself by freezing passing boys like rabbits with her cobra gaze, then releasing them with a slow smile. A sprawl of young notables lay at their feet, passing bottles of Bollinger.
There was only one topic of conversation.
“So now that Jasper’s back, is he really going to be president of—you-know-what?”
“What, because he’s changed his mind about ‘finding himself’ on a beach in Fiji?”
“Hugo, surely you’ve heard something.”
Hugo shifted uncomfortably. “I can’t say—”
The conversation cut over him. “But who else would it be?”
“Richard Wellesley-Jones was up for it.”
“Bit of an odd choice. Quiet, isn’t he?”
Julia’s face softened. “Poor Richard. It was his year, really.”
“I can’t see him minding,” Hugo volunteered, in his shy, slow voice. “It’s not really his thing, all that being-in-charge business. Much happier with a book or a bottle, I’d say.”
Julia threw him a warm smile, and Hugo blushed up to his ears.
