Winston gave an internal sigh. They would be lucky if they got through the evening without an explosion of some sort. He cast a surreptitious glance at Consuelo, who was seated to his left, to see if she had noticed the Duke’s hand on Gladys’s wrist, or Botsy’s reaction to it. But the Duchess was chatting gaily with Sheridan, and seemed to take no notice of what was happening on the other side of the table. For that, at least, Winston was thankful. Perhaps it was time he had a talk with Consuelo about the situation and warned her against taking any ill-considered action. In one way or another, they all lived their lives in the public eye, and none of them could afford any sort of scandal.
And then Winston was distracted by Gladys, who bestowed an enchanting smile on him and asked him whether he had ever visited Rosamund’s Well, on the other side of the lake.
“Of course,” he said. “Used to go there often when I was a boy. Not much to see, though. Just a spring flowing out of a stone wall and into a square, shallow pool. Whatever else was there-Rosamund’s Bower, the famous labyrinth-they’ve all disappeared.”
“Oh, that’s too bad,” Gladys exclaimed with a wistful air. She appealed to the Duke. “Don’t you think, Your Grace, that it would be divinely romantic to build a rustic retreat there, like the house that Henry built for Rosamund? Or perhaps a sort of Gothic ruin, surrounded by a labyrinth, where people could go and pretend to be Rosamund and King Henry, and fall madly in love.” It happened that no one else was speaking at the moment, and her light words seemed to fall like bits of broken crystal in the silence.
“A folly, you mean?” Northcote asked with ironic emphasis. He leaned forward. “Not a romance with a happy end,” he added in a warning tone, his words slurring just slightly. “Rosamund and Henry didn’t get away with it, y’know.”
Gladys’s laugh tinkled up and down a full octave. “Why, of course!” she exclaimed, with a delicate shiver. “Didn’t Eleanor murder poor, sweet Rosamund, to keep Henry for herself? Poison, I’ve always heard. But Eleanor ended her life in prison, poor thing, repenting the whole while.” She seemed to glance toward Consuelo, then leaned toward the Duke and put her hand on his sleeve. “Oh, Sunny, I’ve just thought of the most glorious idea! Let’s all row across the lake tonight after dinner and spy out a place to build the Marlborough Folly. Doesn’t that sound like marvelous fun?”
The Marlborough Folly? Winston thought darkly. The Marlborough Folly was on exhibit before their eyes, at this very table. And God only knew where it would take them. Into disaster, if it went on the way it was going now.
“A folly might be rather nice,” the Duke said with an indulgent smile at Gladys. “In fact, I think that my grandfather had the same idea, and went so far as to commission an architect to draw up plans. But I think we should not go at night, Miss Deacon. If one is planning to build something, it is only prudent to scout out the site by daylight.”
Gladys pushed out her lower lip. “Oh, pooh,” she said in exaggerated disappointment. “And I was trying so hard to coax a little bit of nocturnal fun out of everyone. It’s so dull here.”
Northcote was watching her with a devouring look. “You and I could go, Gladys. We’re not required to be prudent, of course, since we’re not doing the building. We can scout out several sites and report our recommendations to His Grace.”
Carelessly, Gladys tossed her head. “Oh, thank you, Botsy. You’re terribly sweet, but I think the Duke is right. We can all go tomorrow, and take a picnic lunch.” She leaned forward, past Winston, and spoke to the Duchess. “What do you think, Consuelo, dear? Wouldn’t that be great fun?”
The corners of the Duchess’s mouth turned up slightly. But there was no smile in her eyes and her voice was strained as she said, “Why, yes, of course, Gladys. What a delightful plan.”
Charles Sheridan had not been so deeply engaged in his conversation with the Duchess that he failed to observe Marlborough’s possessive touch on Miss Deacon’s wrist, Winston’s uncomfortable expression, and the flush that rose quickly in Botsy Northcote’s face. Charles did not usually take much notice of the romantic affairs of his acquaintances, but this business was too obvious.
And hazardous, too, he thought. Quite apart from the morality of things, Miss Deacon struck him as a reckless young woman who scorned concealment and preferred open indiscretions. And from the bewitching glances she was casting in Winston’s direction, Charles suspected that she was capable of making serious trouble, not only between the Duke and the Duchess, but between Winston and the Duke. And then there was Botsy Northcote, with his flammable temper and combustible jealousies. Botsy had been known to make rather a fool of himself on occasion, especially when he had been drinking.
Charles could see, of course, what interested Marlborough and Northcote and seemed to fascinate Winston. Gladys Deacon was dazzling, both in appearance and in manner, although she was nervous and high-strung to an unusual degree and there was a certain forced and brittle quality in her gaiety. But Marlborough was obviously mesmerized by her, and his caressing touch on her wrist hinted at a physical intimacy between them. Charles was not an expert in such matters-he had never loved a woman before he loved Kate-but he guessed from the look on Northcote’s face that he was no less besotted than the Duke, and was intoxicated, to boot.
Charles turned his head a little to his left and caught his wife’s glance. Kate smiled at him in a way that never failed to warm his heart and make him feel that however inclined others might be to make romantic fools of themselves, their love for one another was unshakable. Exquisite in a green gown that set off the modest emeralds at her throat and ears, she was still the most beautiful woman in the world to him. Just now, Kate was leaning forward to say something to Sunny about the history of Blenheim Park, momentarily distracting him from the girl-intentionally, Charles thought. She, too, had seen the Duke’s hand on Miss Deacon’s wrist.
“And you, Lord Charles?” the Duchess asked, and Charles turned with a start, realizing that he had been neglecting his hostess. “What do you think of Miss Deacon’s plan for taking a picnic to Rosamund’s Well tomorrow, with the idea of planning a folly there?”
“A picnic would be fun,” Charles agreed, “although I’m afraid I have no opinion about the wisdom of follies.” He had been thinking of driving to Oxford to see if he could find Ned Lawrence, Buttersworth’s helper, and take him off to see the Rollright Stones, but that could wait.
“The wisdom of follies,” the Duchess said, tossing her head with a laugh. Diamonds sparkled in her dark hair and in the bodice of her ivory satin gown, and Charles thought that she had an inborn, stylish elegance that Miss Deacon could never hope to achieve. Consuelo could be only four or five years older than the girl, but she carried herself with a dignified grace and cultured stateliness that added years to her age.
But even though the Duchess was smiling, Charles saw that her glance rested on her husband and Gladys Deacon, who seemed once again oblivious to the others at the table. The corners of her lips tightened and Charles thought that her eyes held the deepest sadness he had ever seen.
Or was it only sadness? Charles remembered what Buttersworth had told him about the gemstones that might have come from the famous Marlborough collection, about the appearance of the woman with Sappho’s nose, about the mention of the Duchess’s name. Well, the woman could not have been Consuelo herself, for her nose could never be said to be classical. That was an honor that would have to go to someone like Miss Deacon. But it was possible that the Duchess had decided on some strategem to embarrass her husband, or to exact some sort of revenge for his behavior. Or perhaps-incomprehensible as it might seem, since the Duchess was a Vanderbilt-she needed money, and fearing to pawn her personal jewels and refusing to ask her husband, had chosen something she thought might be sold without raising questions.