Sophia blurts out: “They’re all parties!”
Sophia is starting to make me nervous. Besides, it’s her fault that I’m here, so I decide to cut in and shut her up. “Do you feel morally obliged to comment on every single word said, Sophia?”
It’s clear that I caught her off guard. “I just wanted to—”
“I’m not asking because I’m interested,” I say, then I turn towards Jemma, who looks at me with her eyes wide open. “Please Jemma, go on with what you were saying.”
“What events are left on the calendar?” She asks, strangely compliant.
“Let’s see, the Gregorian Choir concert seems a little complicated…” my mother says, while going through the list with Lady Venetia. “The twentieth anniversary dinner has a complex structure…” they say, as concentrated as two surgeons in front of an open heart.
“Of course!” Exclaims Lady Venetia. “The charity fashion show is perfect.”
“Are you sure?” Asks my mother, sceptically.
“Absolutely! It has the same schedule every year! Jemma will just have to sort out the clothes that will be donated and decide upon their order on the catwalk.”
My mother sighs. “Do you think you can do it?”
Jemma shrugs. “Why not? It’s a fashion show, not a bomb to be defused!”
“So be it,” accepts my mother reluctantly, writing Jemma’s name on her list.
After the meeting, Jemma and I leave the tea room. “Hey, Ashford. Have you just defended me publicly or was it my imagination?”
“As irritating and annoying as you may be, you’re still my wife and those who disrespect you, disrespect me. Then, it was Sophia’s fault that I missed today’s Roland-Garros matches: having me at the meeting was her idea. The idiot deserved to be punished.”
“Defending me is the least you can do, since you dragged me into this new farce.”
“I have no excuse,” I admit.
“Absolutely. I should take away your pocket money for this.”
Lance comes towards us. “The mail,” he says, and starts sorting the envelopes on the tray. “These are for the duke,” he adds, handing me a rather voluminous pile, “and this for the duchess,” and he gives Jemma an envelope.
It’s a nice, elegant envelope made of parchment paper with a coat of arms on it, so it can’t be anyone from London. “Who’s writing to you?”
Jemma takes the envelope away. “Would you mind your own business?”
“Nope,” I reply.
Jemma hides in a corner, turning her back to me so that I can’t see. Yet I’m right behind her and as I’m taller than she is, I don’t struggle to see what’s on the card.
The handwriting is elegant and slanted. Fast but precise. It was written with a fountain pen and onyx-black Chinese ink.
At the polo match, I told you to call me. What the hell happened to you? Did you lose my business card? I’d love to have tea with you, how about joining me at Olstrom House on Friday afternoon? I won’t take a no for an answer. I’ll be waiting for you.
Cécile Loxley
“Cécile Loxley?” I ask aloud, in a mix of amazement and disapproval.
“I can’t believe it! You read it! It’s a violation of my privacy!”
“Calm down. She didn’t reveal the third secret of Fatima!”
Jemma looks at me defiantly, putting her hands on her hips. “Yes, it’s Cécile Loxley. Why?”
Yes, why? “Because it’s Cécile Loxley!”
