Tasha Alexander - A Fatal Waltz

“I find, Countess, that there are some things more important than blindly following one’s principles. There are situations where the concerns of others ought to take precedence,” I said.

“I couldn’t agree more.” She looked at Colin as she said this. Before I could reply, Ivy steered me through the door.

“I can’t believe he ever cared for her,” she whispered as we left. I did not reply, and instead silently wondered how deep his feelings for her had run.

We entered the great parlor, a room the family used only after dinner and, to my mind, the loveliest in the house. Somehow having escaped Mrs. Reynold-Plympton’s attentions, it had been left in the style of the seventeenth century, curved wood beams crossing the ceiling, and white plaster on the walls at two ends. In the center of the roof was a charming frieze depicting the tragic story of Orpheus and Eurydice. The walls were lined with display cases of beautifully simple blue-and-white china. A soft Oriental carpet covered part of the wide, polished planks of the floor, and chandeliers emitted a soft, flattering light. The only failing was that the room was so cold I wondered if a window had inadvertently been left open. Many country estates are notorious for being drafty, but Beaumont Towers elevated what might have been a failing of architecture to the level of political statement.

An obliging footman had left on a table the stack of books I’d chosen from the library. I selected one of them and sat on a couch tucked into the inglenook, eager to be as close to the small fire as possible. Soon I was fully distracted by the wit of Aristophanes. I’d brought along my copy of Mary Elizabeth Braddon’s The Doctor’s Wife for Ivy. She sat opposite me, engrossed in the story of Isabel Gilbert, who, by marrying too early, missed having for her husband a man sprung from her dreams—dreams that had been fueled by novels. Robert, no fan of popular fiction, would have found both the premise and the execution unconscionable. A quarter of an hour passed in relative silence. Then another. Then, a commotion in the hall: raised voices—one obviously Lord Fortescue, the other more difficult to identify—the sound of someone striking the wall, and a door slamming.

Curious, I darted into the hallway, hoping to see who was the object of our host’s ire, but there was no one there. I went back into the parlor, where I found it increasingly difficult to concentrate on Aristophanes.

Ten minutes later the gentlemen finally joined us. The countess entered with Lord Fortescue, who was all smiles. Apparently not all strong-willed women troubled him; his displeasure was selective. Mr. Harrison stood by himself in a corner; Colin was nowhere to be found.

“Have you settled on a scene?” the countess asked, looking over my shoulder at the book I was holding. The room had lit up around her, her evening gown fashioned from an iridescent silk that clung to the curves of her perfect hips.

“I think something from The Frogs .”

“Greek, of course. You’re like an eager schoolgirl. It’s so sweet. But I think you should choose something more modern.” The emerald choker around her neck drew out the green of her eyes.

“Funny you should suggest that. Do you know the story of The Frogs ? The god Dionysus, the patron of theaters, has grown utterly disgusted with the current crop of tragedies being produced in Athens. He decides there’s no hope for modern plays, and that the only thing to do is to go to Hades and bring back to earth one of the great playwrights from what he considers the golden days.”

“And this is meant to be amusing?” the countess asked, idly twirling one of the dark curls that framed her face. Her hair shone like satin.

“It’s vastly amusing. When he gets to Hades he sets up a competition between Aeschylus, Sophocles, and Euripides. They battle for the title of best tragedian. First—”

“Oh, please don’t tell me, Lady Ashton. It will make it all the more difficult to sit and watch if I already know what is to happen.”

“Watch? I’m counting on you to take part. I’d hoped you’d play Euripides,” I said. Being this near to her, I felt utterly inadequate, washed out in the face of her brightness—too thin where she was curvy, my youth and inexperience paling next to her sophisticated wisdom.

“Is that so?” The corners of her mouth twitched. “Well, perhaps I’ve misjudged you. Even I know that Euripides is the greatest of the tragedians.”

This brought a smile to my face. It was all I could do to resist pointing out that Euripides, in rather spectacular fashion, lost the contest. Feeling more than a little smug, I excused myself from her and crossed the room to Lord Fortescue, ready to embark on the task given to me by Mr. Harrison.

“Lovely dinner, didn’t you think?” I asked. “Your wife has quite a flair for selecting menus. The venison was spectacular.” He did not reply. “I’ve given a great deal of thought to what you said to me about marrying Colin.”

“Have you?” he asked. I stepped towards him, forcing him to back into a corner, blocked from exiting unless I walked away. Mr. Harrison watched us for a moment, then left the room.

“I’ve heard it said that your daughter aspires to being his wife. If that’s your motivation for trying to separate me from Colin, you should come straight out and say it rather than acting as if it’s a matter of state security.”

“You’ll do well to keep out of Clara’s business.”

So Mr. Harrison was telling the truth. I should have known. It was unlikely that he’d conjured up by coincidence the correct name of one of Lord Fortescue’s eight daughters. “And you’d do well to keep out of mine.”

“Have you considered what I could do to Hargreaves if you continue to insist on marrying him?”

“I’ve heard it said that blackmail is your preferred method of controlling people. Colin is not the sort of man whose past is rife with fodder for that.”

“You don’t know him so well as you think. And don’t forget about yourself. Imagine what I might do to you, and what seeing you destroyed would do to him.”

“I know my own past well enough to feel certain that there is nothing you can hold over me.”

“It’s not your past that should concern you, but your present. You’re very easily manipulated. Choosing to release Hargreaves from your engagement will be much less painful than the alternative.”

“Do you mean to frighten me, Lord Fortescue? If so, I must tell you that you’re failing dreadfully.”

A menacing sound lurched from his throat. I only realized it was laughter when I saw the smile on his face. “You should be frightened,” he said. “I can bring irreparable harm to you and those you care about. Your callous disregard for my power is dangerous.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” I said, more glad than ever that I’d agreed to help Mr. Harrison. Still, I stepped back, uneasy at being so close to this loathsome man.

“I don’t like your kind, Lady Ashton,” Lord Fortescue said. “You’re too forward, don’t know your place, and refuse to behave like a decent woman. All the talk of modern women that circulates these days disgusts me, and I will do what I can to ensure that people like you do not get what they want. Furthermore, I won’t have you distracting him from his work.”

“Diplomats’ wives are often as valuable as their husbands. Think of Lady Elgin—”

“Hargreaves is not a diplomat. Have you any idea what he does?”

“Of course I do. Not precise details, but I know that he—”

“You know nothing. His assignments require things of which a wife might not approve. Close relationships with female counterparts, for example.” Fleshy lips pulled taut across his uneven teeth as he smiled.