A Dangerous Fortune - Ken Follett [189]
Emily’s friends would call at Whitehaven House in the afternoon. Tea was a ritual presided over by the mistress of the house. Emily would smile sweetly and beg Augusta to take charge, but then Augusta would have to be polite to Emily’s friends, which was almost as bad as letting Emily play the role of mistress.
Dinner was worse. Augusta would have to suffer her guests telling her how sweet Lady Whitehaven was to defer to her mother-in-law by letting her sit at the head of the table.
Augusta had been outmaneuvered, a new experience for her. Normally she held over people’s heads the ultimate deterrent of expulsion from the circle of her favor. But expulsion was what Emily wanted, and that made her impossible to frighten.
Augusta became all the more determined never to give in.
People began to invite Edward and Emily to social functions. Emily would go, whether Edward accompanied her or not. People began to notice. When Emily had hidden herself away in Leicestershire, her estrangement from her husband could be overlooked; but with both of them living in town it became embarrassing.
Once upon a time Augusta had been indifferent to the opinion of high society. It was a tradition among commercial people to regard the aristocracy as frivolous if not degenerate, and to ignore their opinions, or at least to pretend to. But Augusta had long ago left behind that simple middle-class pride. She was the dowager countess of Whitehaven and she craved the approval of London’s elite. She could not allow her son churlishly to decline invitations from the very best people. So she forced him to go.
Tonight was a case in point. The marquis of Hocastle was in London for a debate in the House of Lords, and the marchioness was giving a dinner party for such few of her friends as were not in the country hunting and shooting. Edward and Emily were going, and so was Augusta.
But when Augusta came downstairs in her black silk gown she found Micky Miranda in evening dress drinking whisky in the drawing room. Her heart leaped at the sight of him, so dashing in his white waistcoat and high collar. He stood up and kissed her hand. She was glad she had chosen this gown, which had a low bodice that showed off her bosom.
Edward had dropped Micky after finding out the truth about Peter Middleton, but it had only lasted a few days, and they were now closer friends than ever before. Augusta was glad. She could not be angry with Micky. She had always known he was dangerous: it made him even more desirable. She sometimes felt frightened of him, knowing he had killed three people, but her fear was exciting. He was the most immoral person she had ever met, and she wished he would throw her to the floor and ravish her.
Micky was still married. He could probably divorce Rachel if he wanted to—there were persistent rumors about her and Maisie Robinson’s brother Dan, the Radical member of Parliament—but it could not be done while he was the minister.
Augusta sat on the Egyptian sofa, intending that he should sit beside her, but to her disappointment he sat opposite. Feeling spurned, she said: “What are you here for?”
“Edward and I are going to a prizefight.”
“No, you’re not. He’s dining with the marquis of Hocastle.”
“Ah.” Micky hesitated. “I wonder if I made a mistake … or he did.”
Augusta was quite sure Edward was responsible and she doubted whether it was a mistake. He loved to watch prizefighting and he was probably intending to slide out of the dinner engagement. She would soon put a stop to that. “You’d better go on your own,” she said to Micky.
A rebellious look came into his eye, and for a moment she thought he was going to defy her. Was she losing her power over this young man, she wondered? But he stood up, albeit slowly, and said: “I’ll slope off, then, if you’ll explain to Edward.