Checkmate - Dorothy Dunnett [221]
The wax lights in the gallery were already snuffed when he re-entered the house, but the wall sconces had been left alight on the staircase and up the further flight to the next floor where his rooms lay, and those of Madame la Maréchale, and of young Austin, and of Catherine.
Someone had put Jerott to bed and Adam had volunteered to stay until morning to look after him. None of his principal guests would have cause to be sorry for themselves on rising—the results of thorough planning practised, of necessity, in Russia. But this evening had had an importance much beyond the entertaining Güzel had done for him at Vorobiovo.
Or that he had done for Güzel. Compared with that, Catherine, grande dame de maison though she might be, was formless clay. Some of her gifts he now knew, and some he would have to find and foster. He had done it often enough, but never before for himself that he remembered.
That tonight should see the start of the process was by Catherine’s decision, not his. He had laid down for himself the rules to follow, and he had obeyed them. The theme of the music tonight had been so arranged not for her sake, but to make as deep an impression as possible. He had wanted the young Queen to remember it. The young Queen who had not been invited, but whose curiosity had been excited by so many innocent means that he knew she could not resist it. What happened now remained to be seen.
What happened now …
To Adam Blacklock, at his door with Jerott snoring behind him, it was like a nightmare recurrence of tragedy: of the time when he stood thus in a Dumbarton tavern, and watched Lymond come walking like this to his chamber, though not with the sash of St Michael on his pearled doublet, and his eyes darkened, smoky blue in his pale, brilliant face. Adam stepped forward. ‘Francis?’
‘Yes?’ He was slow in turning and reluctant, Adam knew, to be stopped. Then he said, ‘Adam? How is Jerott?’
‘Asleep. Francis … There is someone in your room.’
A valet de chambre, with an extra stick of candles, came out of a doorway and, when Lymond glanced at him, said, ‘When my lord count is ready.’
‘I shan’t need you. Go to bed,’ Lymond said. And as an afterthought, ‘Where is Mr Abernethy?’
‘In bed, my lord. You said …’
‘Yes, I know. Adam, you should follow his example. Thank you for warning me, but I have been held up, that’s all.’
The servant was barely out of earshot. ‘I brought her some wine,’ Adam said. ‘You took your time coming up. She’s probably asleep.’
‘How very indiscreet of everybody,’ Lymond said. ‘But thank you for advising me. Did you think I would scream?’
‘What are you doing here?’ he had said to the naked child in his rooms, that night in Dumbarton. And going in, had induced her to serve him all that night as his desires inclined, crude as old Cranmer’s vase de necessité.
The eyes of both men met. Then, as Adam said nothing, Lymond walked past and entering, closed behind him the door to his chambers.
Inside, waiting for him, was Philippa Somerville.
Chapter 2
Le grand credit, d’or d’argent l’abondance
Areuglera par libide l’honneur.
He stopped as if he had walked into glass; thus affording Philippa much satisfaction.
She sat in her russet gown on his bed, her ankles crossed and Adam’s empty wine glass in her hands, and said, ‘Catherine is still waiting for you, in a blue velvet robe de nuit with clasps on it. She put on a white one at first, but her mother made her change it. You can go to her when I have finished with you.’
‘Thank you,’ said Lymond. He came several steps into the room and stood looking at her guardedly. ‘At least she isn’t sitting on my bed.’
‘No,’ said Philippa. ‘It isn’t that kind of conversation. In fact, after tonight, it won’t be that kind of conversation again. A great many inferior people, Mr Crawford, have helped you over the years in your well-publicized career of adversity, but you mustn’t be surprised if the circle begins to diminish. To go by what happened this evening, the man who has finally emerged from it all isn’t worth helping.