Folly Du Jour - Barbara Cleverly [57]
The liveried doorman barely glanced at the card in his extended hand. ‘You are expected, Commander. Will you follow me?’
He passed Joe on, into the care of an aide in evening dress who came hurrying into the vestibule to shake his hand. ‘Sandilands? How do you do? So glad you could come. Harry Quantock. Deputy assistant to the Ambassador. You’ll have to make do with me, I’m afraid, sir. His Excellency sends his greetings – he’s at the moment rather tied up with the string band.’ At the upwards flick of an elegant hand, Joe caught the sounds of a small orchestra essaying a piece of Elgar somewhere above their heads. The deputy assistant grimaced. ‘French band, English tunes . . . not a good mix. I sometimes think they do it on purpose.’
‘Still seeking revenge for Waterloo?’ suggested Joe. ‘Ouch! I’d surrender at once.’
‘We won’t hear them in the red salon, come with me.’ Quantock led him across the impressive space in front of them. Airy, well proportioned and sparely decorated. ‘Le hall d’entrée,’ announced his guide with a perfect accent.
Joe had an impression of cool grey and white marble tiles leading the eye to the graceful curve of a great staircase. The delicate wrought-iron handrail outlining it sparkled with gold and bronze, promising further wonders as it wound upwards.
Quantock leaned to him and confided: ‘Most of the refurbishment was done with impeccable taste by Napoleon’s favourite sister. And there she is – Pauline Borghese.’
Joe nodded in acknowledgement as they passed her portrait. The young princess, slim and lovely in her high-bosomed gown, was as handsome as her house.
‘Pity about the curtains, don’t you think? Red velvet!’ Quantock was shuddering. ‘Too Edwardian for words! And the theme continues through here in le salon rouge.’ He paused by a closed door. ‘Your charge, Lady Somerton, is in here, taking sherry and flirting with the Duke of Wellington. They will do it! His Grace still exerts a certain power over the ladies.’
Joe entered a room richly decorated, in contrast with the restrained hall. In the centre, a gleaming round mahogany table stood precisely in the rosette of a deep red turkey carpet and was overhung by a stunning chandelier. Gilded mirrors applied to each of the red walls reflected the flickering lights of candles in sconces, and in the middle of all this magnificence Joe had to hunt for the figure of Lady Somerton. She was standing at the end of the room, empty sherry glass in hand, still, black-clad, almost a shadow. She was looking up at a portrait. Transfixed, she did not hear them enter.
As they drew near she began to speak: ‘Arthur Wellesley. The Iron Duke. Now there was a man one can admire! So handsome! So competent! I’m just surprised, after what he did to the French, that they allow us to display him, Mr Quantock.’
‘His Grace was himself Ambassador for a year here in 1814, immediately before his victory at Waterloo, your ladyship,’ Quantock reminded her. ‘And therefore takes his rightful place on these walls.’ He performed the introductions. ‘May I refill your glass? And how about you, sir? Would you like some sherry?’ He went to pour the drinks himself from a sideboard, tactfully leaving Joe to continue the conversation.
‘His quality leaps from the canvas, don’t you agree?’ she continued, determined apparently to hear his views.
‘It’s all in the nose, I believe,’ said Joe, annoyed that the widow appeared far more interested in Wellington than in himself.
‘I beg your pardon? The nose, did you say?’
‘Yes. Look at it. An ice-breaker! Apromontory! Your hero could have fought a duel with Cyrano and they would have needed no other weapons.’
At last she smiled. ‘Noses. In the Bois. At dawn. I’d have put my money on the Duke.’
Her attention caught, Joe moved easily into the routine of expressing sorrow for the death of the lady’s husband. His smooth sentiments were graciously received, helped along with sighs and sips of sherry. Quantock politely sought the most recent information on the tragedy and Joe gave him an acceptable and highly edited account.