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By Root 904 0

were few like him in London for a party. When at eight o’clock that evening Lenox went into the rose-colored drawing room (now quite large after the joining-up of the houses, though Jane had done well to create several small sitting areas within it), he saw three long tables piled close with food and drink. On one was the hot food, a nod toward incipient autumn: roast fowl with watercress, jugged hare, steak and oyster sauce. On the next was cold food, appropriate for the summer that was now passing out of existence: cold salmon, dressed crab, and a great bowl of salad. Finally, on the third table were drinks. There was champagne, of course, and a drink made of champagne and cold sherbet, which many of the women liked if the room became overhot. There was wine in plentiful quantities besides, and for the gentlemen spirits. At the center of the table was the party’s true heart, an enormous silver punch bowl filled to the brim with orange (or peach?) colored naval punch.

Footmen stood behind each table, ready to serve. What was considered charming about Jane’s Tuesdays—and even by some inappropriate—was their informality. All around the room were card tables and sideboards where people could set their plates, but beyond that there was no central dining table. It was rather like being with family for breakfast on the morning after a great party; everyone with a bit of something on a plate, milling through the room and chatting. Tonight there would be thirty people or so, half of them who might be deemed friends, the other half who would more properly be called personages.

“You’re home, sir,” said a voice behind Lenox, who was asking for a glass of punch.

“Ah—Graham. I just got back.”

He had just rushed home from Parliament and changed. The immemorial practice of the House was to convene in mid afternoon and go late into the night; on the face of it an impractical schedule, until one remembered that there was a great deal of work done in the morning and early afternoon to prepare for the later assembly. In fact the morning work was perhaps more important, and now that they were just finished debating the Queen’s Speech the House would be only lightly populated for the rest of the evening.

“I wanted to remind you before I retire, sir, to pay special attention to Percy Field, the Prime Minister’s personal secretary.”

“Surely you’ll be coming?” said Lenox. “You’re invited, you know.”

Suddenly there was a pained look on Graham’s face, and Lenox realized that to be a guest where just weeks before he had been a butler would be too awkward, too abrupt—even too painful. “I fear not, sir. At any rate, your attention, or perhaps Lady Lenox’s, would be far more significant than mine.”

There was a ring at the bell, and Graham bowed very slightly, a habit of his former profession that still hadn’t left him, and withdrew.

“Who the hell wants to be first?” muttered Lenox to nobody in particular, setting down his punch to greet whoever it was. He heard Lady Jane’s quick footsteps on the stairs and smiled, imagining her sentiments—similar to his own—on early arrivals to a party.

Presently Kirk came down the hallway with someone who was in fact a welcome guest: Edmund.

“Oh, hurrah,” said Lady Jane. “I worried it was someone I would have to speak to. I’ll be down again shortly.”

“I call that a greeting!” Edmund laughed, and as she went out he said, “Well—if I’m not somebody one must speak to, I’ll sit in the corner and have my punch alone.”

“Thank goodness you’ve come—I don’t want to talk to the Archbishop of Winchester. How are Molly and the boys?”

“Molly sends me letters from the country—from the house—that I don’t mind telling you make me weep with frustration to be in this city all the time. I haven’t been on a horse in two weeks, Charles. Two weeks!”

They had both grown up in Lenox House, Edmund’s seat now, as the baronet, and Charles spent most of his holidays there. “Any word on the Ruxton farm? Is the son taking it over?”

“No, he’s selling out to open a chemist’s shop in town. It’s a relief—both of them, father and son,