Silk. PENNY JORDANЧитать онлайн книгу.
truth can sometimes hurt,’ her mother had told her, ‘but deceit causes a far more painful wound.’
Cecil Beaton and his young assistant were discussing some sketches the photographer had submitted to Vogue. From his pocket he withdrew a small sketchpad and a pencil, using it to underline the point he was making.
Amber watched, both fascinated and envious, unaware of how clearly her face revealed her feelings. How fortunate Saville was to have such an apprenticeship.
Amber’s head was beginning to spin slightly, from the air around the table, rich as it was with cigarette smoke, and the headiness of the conversation.
The tables around them were filling up, the sound of laughter growing louder, the tea cups replaced by champagne glasses.
‘Robert, I think perhaps it’s time you returned your protégée to Lady Rutland, before both you and she get into trouble,’ Cecil Beaton warned, tearing a page from his notebook as he spoke.
‘Yes, I must go,’ Amber agreed, suddenly realising the time with an icy feeling of dread. ‘Thank you for my tea and for being so very kind …’ She was scrambling to her feet as she spoke, all too aware of the shortcomings of her appearance amongst so many beautifully dressed and sophisticated people, and the fact that she was going to be horribly late getting back to Lady Rutland’s. Her heart gave a small flurry of anxious beats. What on earth was she going to say to Lady Rutland? She shouldn’t have stayed out so long, she acknowledged guiltily. In fact she shouldn’t have come here at all. But she was glad that she had.
‘Here, child, this is for you – a small memento.’
Her dread disappeared, to be replaced with a mixture of delight and awe as she stared down at the small sketch Cecil had given her. There in front of her they all were – small but oh so accurate caricatures of themselves on paper, seated around the table. Underneath the sketch he had written, ‘Miss Vrontsky takes tea.’
‘Oh, thank you,’ Amber choked, unable to say any more. It seemed impossible that she who had pored over Cecil’s witty society sketches should now possess one that included herself.
The head waiter was summoned and requested to ensure that she was put safely in a hansom cab. The gentlemen stood up and bowed formally over her hand, and then she was being escorted away from the table.
She had just reached the main entrance when Lord Robert came hurrying after her.
‘If there should be any repercussions from Lady Rutland, make sure you refer her to me,’ he told her.
His thoughtfulness after the misery she had felt was almost too much for her. ‘You’re all so kind,’ she told him emotionally,
Lord Robert watched her leave. She had so much to learn. She didn’t even know yet that society was divided into those who did accept and mingle with classes other than their own and those who did not and would not ever.
He, of course, belonged to the former group; his world embraced all those who had wit, and style, and most of all beauty. It was a world that was sophisticated, amusing and moneyed. It was also a world that had its dark underside, since it was the world of the louche, the raffish, the brazen and the fallen – the world of those who preyed on beauty and those who bought and sold it. It was into that world that Amber, with her beauty tethered by her grandmother’s wealth and desire for a title, would be welcomed. Could she survive it or would it destroy her? Poor child, he felt for her. After all, he knew what it was like to have a powerful cruel grandparent. His own grandfather had … but no, he must not allow himself to think of that.
Amber knew she would never forget today. She was filled with a new sense of hope and happiness. Oh, but she still couldn’t help envying Cecil Beaton’s young assistant. How very lucky he was.
Inside the cab, as it carried her back to Cadogan Place, Amber fluctuated between anxious fear of what Lady Rutland was likely to say to her, and a stubborn refusal to wish that she had not gone with Lord Robert.
The happiness the afternoon had brought was worth braving Lady Rutland’s wrath ten times over. She would never forget what a lovely time she had had and how kind everyone had been, but most especially Lord Robert. A pink glow warmed Amber’s face and her heart started to beat a little bit faster. Lord Robert was such fun, and so handsome. She was hardly likely to see him again, of course, but if she did …
It was gone six o’clock by the time Amber got back to Cadogan Place, the lunch Lady Rutland and Louise had attended long over.
A sympathetic-looking maid informed Amber that she was to present herself immediately to Lady Rutland, but before Amber could do so, Louise came into her room without bothering to knock, and looking very smug.
‘Mummy is absolutely furious with you,’ she informed Amber gleefully. ‘She is going to write to your grandmother and tell her that because of your behaviour she can’t possibly present you.’
Amber’s first guilty thought was that someone must have seen her at the Ritz and somehow or other managed to inform Lady Rutland. However, Amber’s fear was put to rest when Louise continued, ‘Mummy says she couldn’t possibly endure the shame of presenting a débutante who can’t curtsy.’
Amber exhaled shakily in relief. Innocent though she was, she was well aware that accepting an invitation from a strange man was a far more damaging social crime than not being able to curtsy. Not that she cared. She wouldn’t have missed her wonderful afternoon for anything.
Lady Rutland was seated in front of the small campaign writing desk, which she had informed Amber and Blanche she had inherited from an ancestor who had fought at Waterloo.
Amber still blushed to remember how her grandmother had responded coolly, ‘Really, it looks more Victorian than Georgian to me.’
Although the footman had announced Amber, Lady Rutland continued to study the letter on the desk in front of her as though Amber simply wasn’t there, so that it was a good five minutes before she finally turned round and announced coldly, ‘One of the things that separates the upper classes from those lower down the social scale, Amber, is an awareness of the importance of certain values. The upper classes do not tell tales. It is simply not done. I have a letter here from your grandmother. In it she expresses concern because, as she puts it, “My granddaughter does not appear to be attending as many pre-presentation social events as I would have expected.”’
Amber was mortified. Jay must have said something to her grandmother. Before she had left Denham she had pleaded with both Greg and Jay to write regularly to her. Greg was an unreliable correspondent, his letters stilted, betraying his desire to be enjoying his life rather than writing about it, but Jay’s letters were informative and interesting, just as though he was actually having a conversation with her, and gradually Amber had found herself writing more and more openly to him about her life here in London.
Even though Jay had written back to her in a very serious manner that since her grandmother was paying Lady Rutland to bring Amber out, she was in effect taking money for something she was not doing, it simply hadn’t occurred to Amber that Jay would say anything to her grandmother.
Now Amber understood why her grandmother’s most recent letter had requested a list of all those social events Amber had attended.
‘You will find that society does not like sneaks, Amber. I had hoped to protect your grandmother from the unpleasant news that her granddaughter has made a laughing stock of herself by not being able to perform a court curtsy, and that several society mothers have declined to invite you to their parties. However, now, thanks to your own foolishness, I have no choice but to inform her of the truth.’
‘I know that Louise is hoping that my grandmother will change her mind and that I shall be sent back home,’ Amber told Lady Rutland bravely, ‘but I shall not mind if she does.’
Lady