“Could be worse,” someone drawled in her ear. “Chap in the picture had his head blown off by a cannonball.”
Susan turned. A tall, spare, dark-haired gentleman in his middle thirties, wearing a black tailcoat and white tie, looked at her with an amused glint. “The painting is dreadful enough without adding that detail.”
“Good evening, Sir Lionel.”
He raised her hand to his lips. “Lady Styles.” His smile spread slowly. “The truth … not quite the thing to hang on one’s wall.”
“I would draw the line.”
People called Sir Lionel Dermott “an amusing fellow” who did “something at the Home Office.” Susan wondered if that meant they didn’t know or chose not to disclose his role there.
“When the dancing begins, would you honor me with the first waltz, Lady Styles?”
“Delighted, Sir Lionel.”
He leaned forward. “The lovely Alix is looking your way. I’ll leave you to the evening’s greetings. But promise you won’t forget me.” He bowed and walked away.
A footman announced the guests as they reached the landing. Susan’s job was to prompt Princess Alexandra by repeating the name, speaking clearly and distinctly. Hearing loss plagued Alix, although she was only twenty-three, a problem that had grown worse in the past few months. When the flow of arrivals trickled to an end, Susan followed the prince and princess into the ballroom. Princess Alexandra, aided by a walking stick and her husband’s arm, made her way slowly to a chair. The Prince of Wales bowed and walked away.
Seeking companions more entertaining than a lame, deaf wife,Susan thought. Since the winter, Alix had been ill with a list of strange symptoms; the most persistent and debilitating was a swollen knee that made movement painful and difficult. Bertie’s response was to absent himself from the domestic scene as often as possible.
Lady Styles shivered near a chilly window. The outside world looked black on the moonless, mid-December night. She wondered how many additional soldiers and policemen ringed the residence. Inside, the ballroom blazed, lit by bronze chandeliers and wall torchiers that had turned the rose-and-creamroom golden. Officers in scarlet, Scots in black velvet and tartan, and gentlemen in ebony tailcoats and snowy ties twirled their partners around the room.
After a difficult autumn, Susan was happy to see Princess Louise in better spirits. The queen’s prettiest daughter looked stunning in a silvery, avant-garde “aesthetic” gown. The unfussy lines of the dress suited her. She held the white-gloved hand of a scarlet-coated colonel, leading the company through the opening quadrille.Time away from Her Majesty is better than a tonic,Susan thought. Most of the queen’s children masked their frustration with the queen’s incessant demands and gave in. Louise fought back.
The evening marked Susan’s first ballroom appearance in half-mourning mauve. After two years and more of widowhood, etiquette’s stringent rules finally allowed her to dance. She had enjoyed waltzing and sparring with Sir Lionel Dermott in the past, so she smiled when he claimed her hand for the second set. Susan suspected her partner’s air of arch amusement was a pose.But what does it mask?She wasn’t sure.
For all his languor, Lionel waltzed beautifully. But that evening, her usually chatty companion made only glancing stabs at conversation, spending much of the time scanning the room.
Mildly miffed, Susan asked, “Have you lost something?”
He said without a trace of chagrin, “Unforgivable bad manners, Lady Styles. Let me think … Shall I mention the excellence of the orchestra? What about the weather?”
“If you must.”
“Perhaps a comment about the dancers will do. Princess Louise looks radiant this evening on the arm of her handsome colonel.”
“You never wear your uniform, Sir Lionel. May I ask why?”
His smile faded. “I’m afraid my glory days are behind me. I left them in the Crimea.”
There was an undertone, a hint of something in his voice likea spice one tasted but could not place.Is it bitterness?Susan asked, “What were you searching for over my shoulder?”
“I’m on the lookout for old G-H,” Sir Lionel said, referring to the home secretary.
“Mister Gathorne-Hardy? Why?”
“Tedious business, m’dear. Too sleep-inducing to talk about.”
“It seems oddly energetic of you,” Susan said with a smile. “Mixing work and pleasure.”
“Energetic?” His eyes widened in horror, and he looked left and right. “Don’t letthatrumor get about.” His catlike smile spread. “I aim to keep expectations low. The bottom rail on the fence is all I’ll jump.”
“You’re not a show pony, I know. But eager matrons with eligible daughters long to put you through your paces.” Susan tipped her head. “Look.”
He glanced to his right. “Ah … but one becomes so distracted by the whistling sound.”
“Whistling?”
