Dangerous Games. Charlotte MedeЧитать онлайн книгу.
along with generous servings of food and drink to satisfy the most discerning guests.
Tonight, the room heaved with conversation, the latest rebellion in India taking center stage, while off to the wings, breathless discussion percolated about the arrival in London of the Koh-I-Noor, the world’s largest diamond—destined to be presented to Queen Victoria and Prince Albert upon the opening of the Great Exhibition in one month’s time. Conceived by the prince, the historic occasion would be held in Hyde Park in the spectacularly constructed Crystal Palace, designed to showcase England’s and the world’s advances in science and industry.
“Not at all, not at all, my dear Mrs. Hampton,” Seabourne finally replied, clasping his hands behind his back and away from the tap of her ivory fan. “Your questions are diverting as always but never more so than the woman who poses them.”
Lilly inclined her head toward him, raising her low voice slightly to compete with the surging exchanges going on around them. “Well, thank you, sir. But you must hasten to answer my question as the buffet will be served quite soon.”
John Sydons, the former publisher of the Guardian, guffawed, his muttonchops bristling. “And we shouldn’t want that, Seabourne. I just saw a spectacular Nesselrode pudding float by along with a platter of oysters swimming in cream. So let’s move along. Respond to the lady’s query—has the situation settled somewhat this past month?”
Seabourne nodded portentously, the horizontal lines on his forehead deepening. “The political expansion of the British East India Company at the perceived expense of native princes and the Mughal court has aroused Hindu and Muslim animosity alike, a complex situation overall which I do not think will be resolved without a Parliamentary solution.”
“A tinderbox is what it is,” Lilly murmured.
“Indeed,” seconded the man across from her, Lord Falmouth, member of Parliament. Small and wiry, he barely filled out his impeccably tailored waistcoat and jacket. “It didn’t help that our colonial government, in its boundless wisdom, furnished the Indian soldiers with cartridges coated with grease made from the fat of cows and of pigs. Ignorance and incompetence in one fell stroke. Amazing.”
“The first sacred to Hindus and the second anathema to Muslims.” Lilly splayed her fan in barely concealed annoyance. “We have an ineffectual and insensitive governor and of course, a historic series of blunders, beginning with the Kabul Massacre, that slaughter in the mountain passes of Afghanistan. I have heard it said that of the sixteen thousand who set out on retreat, only one man survived to arrive in Jalalabad.”
“It was actually believed that the Afghans let him live so he could tell the grisly story—such a severe blow and bitter humiliation to British pride.” Lord Falmouth jutted out his rather weak chin. “Reports from the Forty-fourth English Regiment are dismal. The troops kept on through the passes but without food, mangled and disoriented; they are reported to have knocked down their officers with the butts of their muskets. St. Martin is one of the few to have survived, if survive is the word one would choose to use.”
“He’s quite the loose cannon, or so one hears from the Foreign Office,” Seabourne added. “Has publicly resigned his post, whatever it was, something to do with statecraft, certainly.”
“You mean spycraft, surely,” Lord Falmouth corrected.
“A shadowy figure one would assume and now one not to be trusted, given his precarious mental state,” Seabourne continued. “The trauma and so on.”
“My goodness. How clandestine and mysterious,” Lilly said, frowning, only vaguely familiar with the St. Martin name. “One never knows what resentments these types of horrific experiences may nurture. I infer from your comments that loyalty is at question for these individuals who find themselves one moment at the service of their country and at the next entirely disengaged or worse. And what of his family? The St. Martins have a seat in the House of Lords, if I’m not mistaken.”
“The parents passed away some years ago and his older brother died of smallpox soon after, if I recall correctly. However, St. Martin has never taken up his place in Parliament, having instead disappeared for years to the farthest reaches of the globe. In Her Majesty’s service, one presumes. Although one can presume no longer with his resignation.” Seabourne looked pained.
“More of a dismissal is what I have gleaned,” Falmouth said cryptically. “And the word traitor has been bandied about. Discreetly, of course.”
The former publisher snorted derisively. “Not entirely surprising. With the Russians to the north and Britain to the south in India, Afghanistan is clearly the unforgiving landscape where empires collide and careers are made and sacrificed.”
“Are you certain only political empires?” Seabourne asked the question as innocently as only a career diplomat could. “Might there be other concerns at stake?”
“Such as commercial enterprises? You are referring to the East India Company,” Lilly said sharply, letting her closed fan dangle from her wrist. “I fear that behemoth has as much to answer for as our own governance structure and overweening imperial ambitions.”
Seabourne narrowed his eyes, pursing his lips as though sucking on a lemon drop. “I find it curious that you mention the subject, my dear. Perhaps you might take up that very issue with your dear friend, Isambard Kingdom Bellamy. As it is, I’m astonished that he’s not here at your side this very moment, given that he has hardly left your presence this entire month.”
Lilly opened her eyes wide in feigned surprise, too experienced to blush or dissemble. “I didn’t realize that you had such a firm grasp of my social schedule, sir. But in case you haven’t apprised yourself as yet, Mr. Bellamy had other, rather urgent plans for this evening,” she said, keeping a lightness in her tone. She turned deliberately to survey the room with its tight clusters of guests in lively debate before continuing pointedly. “And as you can see by the wide array of company I keep, I can’t possibly share in everyone’s political perspectives. Although perhaps I do have an opportunity to shape the occasional opinion.”
“Indeed, so it is, Mrs. Hampton,” Sydons replied, taking two glasses of punch from a tray that appeared at his side and offering one to Lilly with a gallant nod. “Are you perhaps attempting to temper an unruly beast into something more manageable? There are those on Fleet Street who can’t help but gossip, intimating that there may be nuptials on the horizon. What with your dear Mr. Hampton gone over a year now.”
Lilly’s fingers stilled on the stem of her punch cup at the mention of her late husband, Charles. A love match from the beginning, few could forget the steadfast devotion of the one for the other. All the more devastating was the tragic and untimely end of the marriage that had been seemingly made in heaven.
Seabourne cleared his throat to break the awkward pause. He patted her arm with avuncular affection. “Now, now, my dear. You do not strike me the melancholy sort. Charles would never have wanted you to mourn unduly but rather to get on with your life. You’re a young woman with so much to recommend you. And certainly, regarding Bellamy, I say, eligible is not the word. The man is the East India Company. Enough said. And quite the catch.”
“Enough said, indeed.” Shaking her head, Lilly eyed each man in her circle in turn, her gaze finally settling back on Sydons. “You do prattle on, sir, like an old woman.” She took a sip of the punch, wishing it were something stronger. “As if Mr. Bellamy would be interested in a nondescript widow of a certain age when he could have his pick of young, fresh girls on their first season.”
Silencing the gallant denials with a graceful gesture, she motioned toward the buffet. “The food is getting cold, gentlemen, while we speak on of inconsequential subjects such as myself and Mr. Bellamy. In the interim, oyster a la poulette awaits.”
The feint had its desired effect, as immediately Seabourne took her arm and led the group over to the mahogany table bracketed by two heavy silver candelabra. Amid sparkling chafing dishes swimming in cream and butter sat platters of delicious walnut-mayonnaise sandwiches, chicken salad, deviled crackers, and cream cheeses. Punctuating the savories