But on the following evening, at the end of an unusually careful and lengthy toilette, her feelings underwent a slight adjustment as she studied her reflection in the glass. One couldn’t deny that a bit of effort paid dividends and it seemed that Julia had been quite right about the disputed brocade. Dark green and richly glowing, it proved an excellent foil for what Chloë privately considered the undue gaudiness of her hair and seemed to enhance the whiteness of her skin. After long argument, Julia had also had her way on the cut of the gown and, though it still seemed rather revealing, Chloë had to admit that it showed her shoulders to advantage.
The puffed, elbow-length sleeves ended in falls of the same creamy lace that edged the bodice and, gathered into the deep point of the waist, the full skirt whispered slyly as she walked. Chloë’s only lingering reservation was – between tight-lacing and a daring expanse of décolletage – what might happen if she indulged in unwary movement.
After ten minutes of unaccustomed indecision, common sense prevailed and she relinquished any notion of curls. Instead, she created an intricate halo of woven plaits and confined the surplus in a delicate, filigree caul. The result was elegant if rather severe and Chloë was moderately pleased.
If Mr Deveril was impressed by the transformation he made no comment on it, although the pale gaze narrowed a trifle as it rested on her … and if Chloë was disappointed by the omission, she did not show it. At any event the thought, if it existed at all, lasted only a second. After that – and not for the first time – she resigned herself to the fact that some people had a whole battery of unfair advantages.
Although immaculately saturnine in black velvet, with a sapphire order glowing on his breast, Alexander Deveril’s magnificence had little to do with his clothes. It came from the high cheekbones, the sculpted mouth, the ice-blue eyes fringed with thick lashes, the casually elegant posture … and the long, loosely-curling hair, gleaming with the blue-black sheen of a raven’s wing. Chloë sighed and reflected that no amount of time spent in front of her mirror was ever going to compete with that.
Alex smiled with his habitual ambiguity and, taking her cloak, dropped it neatly about her shoulders. Then, tucking her hand through his arm, he said, ‘Relax. It’s a reception – not an execution.’
Chloë was spared the necessity of finding an answer by the advent of Matthew’s head around the door. ‘The carriage is here,’ he said and fixed her with an unwinking stare meant, she thought, to convey encouragement. She smiled weakly at him and he withdrew.
Mr Deveril picked up his hat and said cheerfully, ‘Boot and saddle, my dear. We’re off.’
The air of breezy anticipation clung to him all the way to Temple Bar, manifesting itself in a stream of mostly disrespectful information about Whitehall and its inmates that Chloë might have found funny had she been listening. Swinging left into the Strand, the carriage was briefly lit by the flare of a link-boy’s torch and, taking advantage of it, Alex directed a quizzical glance at his wife’s rigid profile.
‘I hope,’ he said annoyingly, ‘that you’ve brought a clean handkerchief.’
Chloë turned her head and, beneath the smooth rose-gold braids, her face was pale with fright. She said flatly, ‘I wish you wouldn’t be so bright. If you wanted to be helpful, you’d tell me whether any enquiries you may have made about the annulment have caused it to become common knowledge or if it is still a well-kept secret. If I’m likely to be asked any awkward questions, it would be nice to be fore-warned so I can sharpen my tongue and my elbows.’
For a minute, Alex continued to look at her. Then, with a sigh and a shrug, ‘All right. You want to know if I’ve begun attempting to free us both; the answer is yes. You want to know how these attempts are progressing and the answer is that they are going as you would expect – that is to say, slowly. And you want to know if the people you will meet this evening are so far unaware of our intentions- again yes. I hope.’ His mouth curled slightly. ‘Stop worrying. Everything will be fine. Dull, but fine.’
The coach bumped into the brightly-lit yard of Whitehall and Chloë regarded Mr Deveril irritably. ‘I’m glad you think so.’
The blue eyes grew thoughtful.
‘I know what it is,’ said Alex. ‘You haven’t any jewels.’
Some colour came back into her face.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she snapped. ‘I don’t care a fig for such things!’
‘No? What a pity,’ he said regretfully, slipping one hand into his pocket. ‘Then you won’t want this.’ And hanging from the long, shapely fingers was a golden, topaz-studded chain, whose centre supported a delicate, tawny flower cunningly wrought. A marigold.
Chloë stared at it and felt her breath leak away. That was the trouble with Mr Deveril, she thought. One minute he was being thoroughly aggravating and the next he did something … something like this. Very slowly, she looked into his eyes, her breathing still erratic and her wits scrambled.
Mercifully, he did not appear to expect an answer. As the coach drew to a halt, he untied the strings of her cloak and fastened the pretty thing around her neck with a gesture entirely prosaic.
‘Not, of course, that you required further adornment,’ he said placidly, ‘but it is a matter of confidence. There.’ He leaned back to inspect his handiwork. ‘The perfect finishing touch. Don’t forget to avoid lonely antechambers. Shall we go?’
It was astonishing that, for the first time ever, something in his voice calmed and encouraged her. Chloë’s heart resumed its usual rhythm and she allowed him to hand her down from the coach.
‘I don’t know what to say – except thank you, of course,’ she said shyly. ‘I’m not sure I deserve it. It’s very beautiful.’
Mr Deveril removed his hat and swept a flourishing bow.
‘Then you undoubtedly do,’ he replied with an indulgent gallantry clearly not meant to be taken seriously.
Inside was a blaze of lights and a bewildering press of people, not all of them of the haut monde. Whitehall, once the property of Cardinal Wolsey and now, thanks to the addition of Inigo Jones’ banqueting-hall, the largest palace in Europe, covered twenty-three acres and comprised a maze of galleries, courtyards and some two thousand rooms. Anyone with the right of entry could walk in to watch the King at dinner or catch the eye of some influential personage in the Stone Gallery; and, since many took advantage of this privilege, the Palace was inevitably crowded.
Having separated her from her cloak, Alex conducted her through a complicated route of corridors and stairs, greeting people as he went but stopping for none. Crossing the second gallery and answering Chloë’s unspoken thought, he said, ‘They should supply maps. It’s a warren built for rabbits by rabbits … but here we are. It’s a pity that Parliament chose to send the late King to his execution from the Banqueting Hall for it means that, not unnaturally, the present King has a dislike for the room. But possibly you consider this one well enough?’
Wordlessly, Chloë nodded. The creative genius responsible for the great painted ceiling might not have been Rubens but it was masterly enough to endow its vivid, cloud-borne figures with vigorous majesty, while the huge tapestries that covered the walls depicted scenes of equal grandeur and triumph. The splendour of Solomon, the might of Samson and the patience of Moses looked down with lofty eminence in the dazzling light of several hundred candles; and below and between, the glittering flower of English nobility eddied and swayed amidst the crystal and gilt, linked by rank and wealth and fashion.
Chloë stared, blinked and stared again. Then, swallowing resolutely, she looked up at her husband.
He said cheerfully, ‘Cosy, isn’t it? Like a bushel of pretty sugared almonds jostling for position in the same exquisite dish. Only much of the sugar is actually arsenic and most of the kernels are rotten. But fear not – for here are Giles and Danny. Bread-crumbs amongst the marchpane.’
There was a faint question in the straight line of Chloë’s brows but she turned to meet Danny’s open-mouthed
gaze.
‘My God!’ he said. ‘I’d hardly have known you. What have you done to your hair?’
She frowned. ‘I’d ask you the same question if I were not on my best behaviour.’
He grinned. ‘Sorry. I meant to say that you look wonderful. What do you think, Giles?’
Mr Beckwith thought a number of things he could not possibly say; such as the fact that the severely upswept hair revealed an unsuspectedly pure line of cheek and jaw … and that simplicity suited her in a way that made every other woman in the room look tawdry. He smiled and bowed gracefully over her hand.
‘I think you look charming,’ he said lightly. And to Alex, ‘You’ll present her?’
Mr Deveril’s expression was seraphic. ‘What else?’
‘That,’ said Giles, ‘was what I was wondering.’
‘Oh ye of little faith!’ came the reproving reply. And, drawing Chloë with him, continued unhurriedly across the room before coming to a sudden halt.
Chloë glanced sharply in the direction of his gaze. It appeared to be focussed on the couple approaching them. A couple widely dissimilar; the lady young and ethereally fair and a gentleman whose face, below his modish wig, bore the look of ill-health.
‘Why Mr Deveril – what a charming surprise! We’d begun to wonder if you hadn’t done something dreadful and been forced into horrid seclusion.’
The lovely creature was speaking and the significance of her words was not lost on Chloë in whom suspicion became certainty. She glanced fleetingly at the gentleman and then her attention was claimed by Alex, his bow just a fraction too low and his voice a little too mellow.
‘Lady Marsden – your most humble servant. Sir Graham – allow me to offer my felicitations. My warmest felicitations.’
Sir Graham bowed and smiled gently at Chloë. ‘I thank you. But it seems I should return them – for I understand we are in like case.’
‘Are we?’ The silver-blue gaze expressed mild alarm, transferred itself to Sarah and on to Chloë. Then, delicately, ‘I don’t think so.’
‘What Graham means,’ sighed Sarah, ‘is that, like us, you are recently married.’
‘Oh. I see. And you have been longing to meet my wife. Quite.’ He performed a belated introduction and then turned again to Sir Graham. ‘You must forgive me. My acquaintance with your bride is of such a … long-standing nature … that I had forgotten that mine is a stranger to you.’
The older man’s smile retained its kindly unconcern as he kissed Chloë’s hand and asked if it were her first visit to Court.
‘Indeed, it is. She is a country girl – a rose freshly-plucked.’ Alex smiled beneficently at Sarah and, as she opened her mouth to speak, addressed himself once more to Sir Graham. ‘I daresay you would recall my wife’s step-father – Ralph Ashton?’
‘Yes, indeed. Her mother also,’ nodded Sir Graham. ‘She was very charming.’
Sarah looked avidly at Chloë. ‘Your marriage was such a surprise – we are all quite curious. Did Alex woo you with poetry and sweep you off your feet?’
‘Not quite,’ said Chloë, finally managing to get a word in. ‘He took care of the poetry and I did the rest.’
‘Oh. How … original.’ The cornflower gaze widened, drifted briefly to Alex and then back again. ‘One hears such stories … of card games, for instance.’
‘Rumours always lie. It was dice, actually … followed by a midnight wedding. Chloë, you see, was so eager that she didn’t even wait to ask if I could support her. Impractical … but winsome, don’t you think?’
Chloë thought that it was time someone gave Mr Deveril a dose of his own medicine. She looked into his eyes and with a languishing sigh, said, ‘But it isn’t always possible to be practical. You were so strong and romantic and ardent. And so very, very dr—‘
‘Determined,’ supplied Alex with faultless timing. His apparently affectionate arm gripped her waist like a steel band. ‘And you were unable to resist me. There’s no need to be coy.’
Lady Sarah smiled maliciously.
‘Indeed, no. I assure you that I understand perfectly – and am all admiration for your fortitude. The singularity of your position must be most trying. One can only hope,’ she finished sweetly, ‘that Alex has not proved a disappointment.’
Chloë was getting tired of her ladyship’s little innuendos. Opening her eyes very wide, she said, ‘Goodness me, no! How could he?’ And felt the arm around her quiver as if Mr Deveril, damn him, was trying not to laugh.
‘How indeed?’ replied Sarah, as though she could have named a few things. And then, smiling full into Alex’s eyes, ‘And how fortunate you are, my friend, in acquiring so devoted and … innocent a wife.’
‘Am I not?’ came the bland response. ‘Undoubtedly a pearl amongst women. And talking of pearls – I’ve been admiring yours. A wedding gift, perhaps?’
Sarah flushed and her fingers stole to her throat.
‘No – or not from me,’ said Sir Graham. ‘But perhaps from your first husband, my dear…?’ He looked at her fondly.
‘Yes.’ It was said with a sort of curt defiance. ‘David gave them to me.’
A slow smile lit Mr Deveril’s face. ‘Yes? He obviously had excellent taste. I doubt if even Lady Gresham has anything finer.’
One glance at her ladyship’s face was enough to inform Chloë that this seemingly harmless observation was more in the nature of a Parthian shot. Fortunately, however, Sir Graham plainly understood it no more than she did herself. He took his wife’s hand and prepared to move on saying, ‘I think you almost as fortunate as I am myself, Deveril – and I hope you will be as happy.’
‘Or even,’ said Sarah, with a glittering glance between her lashes, ‘half as happy.’
From the edge of the room, Mr Fawsley watched them and then made his way across to Chloë and Alex. They did not appear to notice him. Alex’s eyes were cool as glass and Chloë’s held a furious glint as she said, ‘If you ever do that again, don’t count on my support. Sir Graham is a nice man who’s done you no harm – and, with a wife like that, he doesn’t need extra troubles of your making.’
‘I knew it,’ said Alex. ‘You want to take him home and brew him a posset.’
‘Stop trying to turn the tables,’ snapped his wife. ‘Since you plainly know where she got those pearls, it was presumably from you.’
Too shocked to keep his mouth shut, Danny said, ‘God, Alex – you didn’t, did you? I thought you had more sense!’
Irritation flared in the light eyes and Mr Deveril said blightingly, ‘Firstly, Daniel, it’s no business of yours. And secondly, I’d be grateful if you would both stop jumping to conclusions.’
Chloë swallowed and said, ‘Oh. Well … even if it wasn’t you, you were still wrong to bring it up just then. And in future don’t use me to score points.’
‘I wasn’t aware that I had. But tell me … how may I ‘use’ you?’ The dark brows lifted slowly. ‘There must be something that isn’t prey to that tediously restricting moral code of yours – else why did I marry you? And why – more interesting still – did you marry me? I’m sure you have a useful, practical reason that I haven’t been privileged to hear yet.’
He waited, the bright gaze resting scathingly on her face. Chloë stared back unflinchingly but said nothing. Alex laughed.
‘My point, I think.’ He turned to go, then stopped. ‘And you needn’t concern yourself over Sir Graham. When a gentleman marries a whore he expects these little inconveniences. And, though I’ve plenty of faults, hypocrisy isn’t one of them.’ And he walked away.
Uncomfortably and in silence, Danny offered Chloë his arm. Then, clearing his throat, ‘Chloë, you know – he doesn’t mean half of what he says.’
She turned her head, her eyes focussing slowly on his face.
‘No. And he doesn’t say half of what he means.’
Only partly understanding, Danny felt a sudden spurt of anger.
‘Perhaps not. But it’s no excuse fo
r what he said about your marriage. I was there and if anyone was at fault, it was Alex. He’s got no right to blame you.’
Chloë smiled and shook her head.
‘That isn’t what he was doing. But if he had, it would have been true. He was drunk – I wasn’t. As it is, he was saying something quite different and he may be right about that as well. That’s the trouble.’
Feeling distinctly out of his depth, Danny tried to think of something to say and failed. Fortunately, he was spared the need. The room fell silent as the royal party came in.
Like the Red Sea before Moses, people fell back leaving a passageway down the centre of the chamber and, hastily copying those around her, Chloë spread her skirts in a deep curtsy. It seemed to last a long time. Her muscles tensed with strain and began to ache and the sight of the tiled floor, which was all she could see, became monotonous. Cautiously, she raised her head. After all, if the King could invite her out of curiosity, surely she was entitled to a little of her own. So she looked up and, between the shoulders of the lady and gentleman directly in front of her, saw the unmistakable figure of Charles Stuart.
She remembered him more clearly than she had expected - though, of course, no man she had ever seen was quite so tall. And he had really changed very little save in his dress, which was naturally finer than that of the beggar-King he had been six years ago in Paris. Chloë watched him critically and did not immediately observe that the dark, heavy-lidded eyes had turned in her direction and were dwelling on her with lurking amusement. When she did observe it, she was too surprised to react properly and before she realised it, had grinned, blushed and suddenly seen what it was about him that was considered so attractive.
Then the talk broke out afresh and, helping her to rise, Danny said ruefully, ‘Oh hell. Look who Alex is with now!’
Chloë looked and perceived a slightly-built gentleman of moderate height whose wig and apparel represented the zenith of fashion. His shoes were high-heeled and beribboned, his breeches edged with lace and his braided coat a wonderful confection of yellow shag-silk. Chloë stifled a grin and raised tolerant eyes to his face. Fine-boned and set with grey-blue eyes, it was not unpleasing save for its faint effeminacy and expression of languid boredom. There was also, she thought, something vaguely familiar about it.
Marigold Chain Page 11