Palace Circle (4 page)

He couldn't have looked more shocked if she had said that the Dalai Lama was going to present her.

“Sylvia?” he said. “Ivor has asked
Sylvia
to present you?”

“Yes.” Her amazement was fast turning to alarm. “There's nothing wrong with that, is there, Jerome?” And then, assuming his incredulity to be due to the fact that Sylvia was probably still on the French Riviera, she said reassuringly, “Ivor is confident that she will be back in London by the time I am to be presented.”

“Is he, indeed?” His voice sounded almost as grim as Ivor's had been when Ivor had said that it wasn't up to him to tell a man when his wife intended returning to London.

Seeing the consternation in her cat-green eyes he said swiftly, “And Ivor is right, of course. If Sylvia has said she will present you, nothing on earth will prevent her from doing so.”

For a minute or two there was silence between them and then, as they skirted Hyde Park Corner, she said, unusually subdued, “I'm findin' English titles and just who is connected to whom—and how—quite difficult, Jerome. And if I'm findin' it difficult now, what is it goin' to be like when I'm in the company of royalty—as Ivor tells me I often will be?”

“Just remember that King George is addressed as ‘Sir,’ as is the Prince of Wales. Queen Mary is addressed as ‘Ma'am.’ And you never speak to royalty without having been spoken to first. You also never leave any function that royalty are at, until they have left first. And if the King and Queen should visit
Shibden—and they did when Olivia was alive, for Ivor is on very close terms with King George and Sandringham is close to Shibden—then from the moment they enter the house until they leave it, they are regarded as being the owners of it.”

“But what on earth does that mean?” she asked, her alarm spiraling.

He flashed her an amused grin. “Well, for one thing it means that you and Ivor will relinquish your seats at the top and bottom of the table and sit at the side with the rest of your guests. Don't worry about etiquette around royalty. Ivor will see that you don't come to grief. Other things are a bit trickier.”

She groaned and his grin deepened.

“You need to understand that London high society is a complex web of cliques and sets, Delia. Some are intellectual. Some are more rackety and bohemian. Ivor, for instance, belongs to the former and I belong to the latter. And while we are on this subject, there is something I need to warn you about.”

She waited expectantly and he said, suddenly serious, “I'm telling you this because I prefer to tell you myself rather than for someone else to tell you—and once you begin making friends in London you will most certainly be told. I have the reputation of being a philanderer—a rather notorious one, I'm afraid. And before you protest the reputation can't possibly be deserved, I have to tell you that it is.”

“Oh!” She couldn't think of anything else to say, but suddenly a lot of things made sense, for it explained the tension that so clearly existed between Jerome and Ivor, for Ivor, so upright and honorable, would quite obviously find Jerome's reputation one hard to come to terms with.

She knew she should be shocked and outraged by his disclosure, but what she said was: “I
knew
you reminded me of my cousin Beau!”

His crack of laughter was so loud that people walking nearby turned to look at them disapprovingly.

Neither he, nor she, cared.

“Someday,” he said, “you'll have to tell me about Cousin Beau.” He quirked an eyebrow, suddenly serious again. “I don't know about marital fidelity in Virginia, Delia, but marital fidelity among the British aristocracy is not a highly esteemed virtue. It's accepted practice to marry for commonsense reasons and to find love afterward, and that goes for wives—once they've produced an heir—as well as husbands.”

“But that's … that's outrageous.”

“I'm rather glad you think so. However, it happens and everyone knows it happens. At every weekend house party in the country, bedrooms are allocated with a nod to who is presently involved with whom—long walks down corridors in the middle of the night not being popular. There is only one fundamental requirement and it is that though everyone knows about it, one mustn't be caught out.”

“Or the jig will be up?”

He burst into laughter again. “Yes, Delia. Or the jig will be up.”

The frank nature of their conversation prompted her to ask something she'd longed to ask, but had previously thought might be too personal. After all, Ivor had said that Sylvia had no daughters. It was equally possible she had no sons, either, and that the Bazeljettes' marriage was as childless as Ivor's marriage to Olivia had been. “Have you children, Jerome?” she asked. “You haven't said.”

“I thought you were never going to ask. Yes, I do have a child. I have a son, Jack.”

He stopped walking and reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a small snapshot. “He's three. Do you think he looks like me?”

Though small, it was a formal studio portrait. Standing on an Oriental rug by the side of a decorative Chinese pot holding an aspidistra, was a confident-looking little boy. His hair was
dark and curly and, still being worn long, hung in ringlets any girl would envy. His eyes were as dark as his father's and full of bright intelligence. He was wearing a sailor suit and knee-high white socks and shoes.

“Oh, he's a
cracking
little boy!” she said sincerely. “You must be very proud of him.”

A doting expression crossed his face as he said, “I am,” and slid the photograph carefully back into his waistcoat pocket.

They were now at the corner of Cadogan Square and as he walked her to the foot of the steps leading to the Grecian-pillared portico of the Conisborough mansion, she said, “Ivor may be home from the House of Lords by now. Would you like to come in and say hello to him?”

He shook his head. “No. I'll catch up with him this evening at the Digbys’. Goodbye for now, Delia.”

She wished him goodbye, impatient to know if Ivor was home, and when Bellingham opened the door to her with the words “His lordship is in the drawing room, your ladyship,” she dragged off her peacock-feathered hat, sent it spinning onto the first available surface, and ran for the drawing room, eager to have her husband's arms around her once again.

Despite the fact that a maid or a footman was likely to walk in on them at any moment his kiss was deep and passionate and she slid her arms up and around his neck, responding to him ardently and with all her heart.

When at last he raised his head from hers he said, “I have good news, sweetheart. Sylvia arrived back in London an hour or so ago. She'll be at Cuthbert's birthday festivities this evening.”

“Oh, what a wonderful surprise for Jerome!”

“A surprise? Probably not, Delia. He most probably went to meet Sylvia from the boat train.”

Still held in the circle of his arms, she shook her head. “No, he didn't. Gwen and I met up with him unexpectedly while we were having afternoon tea at Fortnum's and then, because Gwen had to leave rather hurriedly for an appointment in South Molton Street, he walked me home.”

Ivor raised his eyebrows, his slate-gray eyes startled. “He walked you home? From Piccadilly? What an extraordinary thing to do. And since when have you and Jerome become on first-name terms with each other?”

“Since he joined Gwen and myself for tea at Fortnum's. I'm not quite sure how it happened, Ivor, but as it's mighty comfortable, please don't be cross about it.”

His arms dropped from her waist, but with relief she saw that though he was exasperated, he wasn't cross. “It's the sort of thing I should have expected from Bazeljette,” he said disparagingly. “He's far too bohemian for truly polite society.”

Suspecting Ivor was referring to Jerome's faithless private life and not wanting her husband to put an immediate end to their burgeoning friendship, she made no response, merely tucking her hand lovingly into the crook of his arm.

His light-colored eyes darkened with desire. “I've told Willoughby I won't be needing him for the next hour or two.” Willoughby was his secretary. “And if you have already had afternoon tea you will not be wanting more. It's a situation I think we can take advantage of, don't you?”

Heat flooded through her. Even though it was only late afternoon he was going to take her to bed. Her response was one of immediate willingness—and amusement. For in making love to her when it was still light, her handsome and oh-so-correct husband was himself behaving in a bohemian fashion.

The mint-green satin evening dress Ellie helped her into a few hours later had not come from a London—or a French—fashion house, but was one that Ivor had bought for her in New York before they had sailed. The three strands of enormous pearls he had bought on the same day were precisely the right length for the daringly décolleté gown. Her soft-flowing skirt was fashionably straight, barely skimming her feet.

Ellie had brushed her Titian-red hair in a center parting then, allowing the deep waves to frame Delia's face, had coiled the rest high into a chignon.

“I don't think I want any jewels in my hair,” Delia said as Ellie reached for a diamond hair ornament. “There is an arrangement of white roses in the drawing room and I think one tucked in my chignon will look far better than jewels.”

It did. When her toilette was complete and Ivor walked into the bedroom dressed in white tie and tails, his stiff-fronted shirt fastened with mother-of-pearl studs, his blond hair shining, his expression at the sight of her was one of deep satisfaction.

“Will I do?” she asked, as she had always asked her father before going to a ball at White Sulphur Springs.

“You will be the center of attention and I shall be the envy of every man there,” he promised as he escorted her out of the bedroom and along the broad corridor to the head of the magnificent, brass-balustraded staircase.

As they began to walk down it she noticed, for the first time, that on a prime position overlooking the stairs there was a faded area where a large painting must have once hung.

Her hand tightened involuntarily on Ivor's arm for she had no doubt at all that the painting had been the portrait of Olivia.

“All right, sweetheart?” he asked, flashing her a quick glance.

She nodded, forcing a swift bright smile, grateful that the portrait had been taken down, knowing how disconcerting she would have found those brilliantly piercing black eyes.

Sir Cuthbert and Lady Digby's house was in Fitzroy Square, a half-hour drive from their own home. “And not as convenient for either Buckingham Palace or the House of Lords,” Ivor said drily as the Conisborough Rolls-Royce crossed Oxford Street in the direction of Regent's Park.

Ivor's chauffeur made a couple of right-hand turns and as they neared Fitzroy Square, Delia could sense Ivor's increasing tension. That he was impatient to show her off thrilled her and her nervousness ebbed into pleasurable anticipation.

Once they had been received by Sir Cuthbert and his elderly wife, she quickly realized that the term “birthday party” had been a complete misnomer, for the “birthday party” was
a full-scale ball. In Virginia, the balls held at White Sulphur Springs were regarded as incredibly grand, but they were nothing in comparison to this gala.

Beneath a sea of glittering chandeliers several members of the royal family had gathered, though not the King and Queen, who she had quickly learned rarely attended private functions in the evening. There was a scattering of foreign royals—she recognized a Montenegrin prince and a Russian grand duke whom she had seen at the unveiling of the Queen Victoria Memorial. The rest of the guests were British aristocrats and politicians. A vast number of men were wearing military decorations—the Montenegrin prince was as heavily festooned as a Christmas tree—and all the women were sumptuously bejeweled.

Across the crowded room she caught sight of Jerome in conversation with the prime minister and was relieved that there was at least one person present whom she knew well enough to be able to have a friendly conversation with.

She waltzed with Ivor. She waltzed with the Montenegrin prince. She waltzed with Lord Curzon. When she wasn't dancing, Ivor introduced her to so many people that her head spun. Just when she thought she might be able to speak with Jerome, Ivor's hand tightened on her arm and he said with a throb in his voice, “Sylvia has arrived. It's finally time for me to introduce you to her, Delia.”

She allowed him to lead her through a throng of people to a dark-haired woman who was seated on a spindly legged gilt chair, one hand languidly holding a fan of ostrich feathers.

She looked like a queen holding court, for though she was seated there was a semicircle of gentlemen around her, all paying her avid attention. Her gleaming hair was drawn to a flat coil on the crown of her head. Her midnight-blue sequined gown was very slim-fitted, very
soignée.
Even before she turned her head at their approach, Delia knew her face would be spectacularly beautiful.

Ivor cleared his throat. “Sylvia … I would like to introduce my wife. Delia, Sylvia, Lady Bazeljette.”

As Sylvia Bazeljette turned, Delia was aware of two things.

The first was that she had been right in her assumption, for Sylvia Bazeljette was the most beautiful woman she had ever seen.

The second was that Ivor had been wrong. Her worries were not now at an end. They were escalating with such speed she could no longer breathe, for the face of the woman now regarding her with mocking amusement was the face in the photograph that had spilled from Ivor's diary.

Jerome's wife was the woman whose photograph Ivor needed to see on a daily basis. Jerome's wife was the woman who had written on the back of the photograph that her love was for him, and him alone.

It was all too bewildering for her to take in.

“How lovely to meet you at last.” Sylvia's husky voice was like cracked ice and the smile on her beautifully curved ruby-red lips was patronizing. “Ivor tells me you are to be my protégeé.”

Delia gasped, bewildered no longer.

With utter certainty she knew that Sylvia Bazeljette had been Ivor's mistress. The knowing expression in those sloe-dark eyes told her so as clearly as words. Ivor's barely suppressed impatience in the Rolls-Royce had not been because he was impatient to show Delia off. It had been because he was impatient to see Sylvia. When Jerome had warned her of the lack of marital fidelity among British aristocracy, he had done so in order to prepare her for this moment.