A Dangerous Fortune - Ken Follett [13]
Edward’s parents had recently moved into a new house. Kensington Gore, which not so long ago had been a country road leading from Mayfair through the fields to the village of Kensington, was now lined, along its south side, by splendid mansions. On the north side of the street were Hyde Park and the gardens of Kensington Palace. It was the perfect location for the home of a rich commercial family.
Micky was not so sure about the style of architecture.
It was certainly striking. It was of red brick and white stone, with big leaded windows on the first and second floors. Above the first floor was a huge gable, its triangular shape enclosing three rows of windows—six, then four, then two at the apex: bedrooms, presumably, for innumerable relatives, guests and servants. The sides of the gable were stepped, and on the steps were perched stone animals, lions and dragons and monkeys. At the very top was a ship in full sail. Perhaps it represented the slave ship which, according to family legend, was the foundation of the Pilasters’ wealth.
“I’m sure there’s not another house like this in London,” Micky said as he and his father stood outside staring at it.
Papa replied in Spanish. “No doubt that is what the lady intended.”
Micky nodded. Papa had not met Augusta, but he had her measure already.
The house also had a big basement. A bridge crossed the basement area and led to the entrance porch. The door was open, and they went in.
Augusta was having a drum, an afternoon tea party, to show off her house. The oak-paneled hall was jammed with people and servants. Micky and his father handed their hats to a footman then pushed through the crowd to the vast drawing room at the back of the house. The French windows were open, and the party spilled out onto a flagged terrace and a long garden.
Micky had deliberately chosen to introduce his father at a crowded occasion, for Papa’s manners were not always up to London standards, and it was better that the Pilasters should get to know him gradually. Even by Cordovan standards he paid little attention to social niceties, and escorting him around London was like having a lion on a leash. He insisted on carrying his pistol beneath his coat at all times.
Papa did not need Micky to point Augusta out to him.
She stood in the center of the room, draped in a royal-blue silk dress with a low square neckline that revealed the swell of her breasts. As Papa shook her hand she gazed at him with her hypnotic dark eyes and said in a low, velvet voice: “Señor Miranda—what a pleasure to meet you at last.”
Papa was immediately entranced. He bowed low over her hand. “I can never repay your kindness to Miguel,” he said in halting English.
Micky studied her as she cast her spell over his father. She had changed very little since the day he had kissed her in the chapel at Windfield School. The extra line or two around her eyes only made them more fascinating; the touch of silver in her hair enhanced the blackness of the rest; and if she was a little heavier than she had been it made her body more voluptuous.
“Micky has often told me of your splendid ranch,” she was saying to Papa.
Papa lowered his voice. “You must come and visit us one day.”
God forbid, Micky thought. Augusta in Cordova would be as out of place as a flamingo in a coal mine.
“Perhaps I shall,” Augusta said. “How far is it?”
“With the new fast ships, only a month.”
He still had hold of her hand, Micky noticed. And his voice had gone furry. He had fallen for her already. Micky felt a stab of jealousy. If anyone was going to flirt with Augusta it should be Micky, not Papa.
“I hear Cordova is a beautiful