AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“How original!” she exclaimed. “I shall look forward to dinner.”
Monk already dreaded it.
It turned out to be every bit as testing to his nerves as he had expected. He looked well. He knew that from the glass. As far as he was aware, he had spent much of his professional life in the police force and he had always been personally vain. His wardrobe and his tailor’s, bootmaker’s and shirtmaker’s bills attested to that. He must have spent a great deal of his salary on his appearance. He had no need to borrow in order to present himself at this house respectably attired.
But conducting himself at table was another matter. These people all knew each other and had an entire lifestyle in common, not to mention hundreds of acquaintances. They would know within ten minutes that he was an outsider in every sense. What conceivable excuse could he find, not only to pre
serve his pride, but to fulfill his purpose and save Rathbone’s extraordinarily stupid neck?
There were only nine of them at the dinner table, an extremely small number for a country house party, although it was early September, and therefore still the tail end of the London season, and too early for the great winter house parties where guests frequently stayed for a month or more, coming and going as they pleased.
Monk had been introduced to them all, quite casually, as if one might have expected him to be here and it needed no explanation. Opposite him at the table sat Friedrich’s uncle, Queen Ulrike’s brother, Count Rolf Lansdorff. He was a fairly tall man with military bearing, dark hair smoothed close to his head and receding a little at the front. His face was agreeable, but there was no mistaking the power in the thin, delicate lips or the broad nose. His diction was precise, his voice beautiful. He regarded Monk with only the very mildest interest.
Klaus von Seidlitz was utterly different. He was physically very large, several inches taller than the others, broad shouldered, rather shambling. His thick hair fell forward a little, and he had a habit of pushing it back with his hand. His eyes were blue and rather round, and his brows tilted down at the outer edges. His nose was crooked, as if it had been broken at some time. He seemed very amiable, making frequent jokes, but in repose there was a watchfulness in his face which belied his outward ease. Monk wondered if he might be a great deal cleverer than he pretended.
His wife, the Countess Evelyn, was one of the most charming women Monk had ever seen. He found it difficult not to watch her across the glittering table for longer than was seemly. He could happily have forgotten the rest of the company and simply delighted in speaking to and listening to her. She was slight, although her figure was completely feminine, but it was her face which enchanted. She had large brown eyes which seemed to be filled with laughter and intelligence. Her expression made it seem as if she knew some delightful joke about life which she would willingly share, if only she could find someone who would understand it as she did. Her mouth was always smiling and she behaved as if she wished everyone well. She was quite candid about finding Monk intriguing. The fact that he knew no one she did was a source of fascination, and had it not been unpardonably discourteous, she would have questioned him all evening as to exactly who he was and what he did.
Brigitte—according to Rathbone, the woman Prince Friedrich should have married in order to please their country—sat beside Monk. She spoke very little. She was a handsome woman, broad shouldered, deep bosomed, with exquisite skin, but Monk had the sense that there was a sadness in her for all her wealth and reputed popularity.
The remaining guest was Florent Barberini, a distant cousin to Friedrich, half Italian. He had all the dramatic dark good looks Monk would have expected from such a lineage, as well as an ease of manner and total self-confidence. His thick, wavy hair grew from his brow in a widow’s peak. His eyes were dark, heavily lashed; his mouth full of humor and sensuality. He flirted with all three women as if it were a habit. Monk disliked him.
Their host, Lord Wellborough, sat at the head of the table in the magnificent French blue and rose dining room with its twenty-foot oak table, three oak sideboards, and a blazing fire. He was a man of very average height with fair hair which he wore rather short, springing up from his head as if to give him extra height. He had very good eyes, clear gray-blue, and strong bones, but an almost lipless mouth. In repose his face had a hard, closed look.
The first course was served, a choice of soups, either vermicelli or bisque. Monk took the bisque and found it delicious. It was followed by salmon, smelts or deviled whitebait. He chose the salmon, delicate, pink, falling from the fork. He saw how much was taken away untouched and wondered if the servants would be offered any of it. Every other guest would have come with the proper complement of valets, lady’s maids, and possibly footmen and coachmen as well. Stephan had very smoothly explained Monk’s lack of a manservant by saying that he had been taken unwell. Whatever thoughts might have crossed their minds, no one was impolite enough to ask for further enlightenment.
The fish was followed by entrées of curried eggs, sweetbreads and mushrooms, or quenelles of rabbit.
Evelyn was the center of much attention, and this gave Monk an excuse to look at her himself. She was truly enchanting. She had the wholesomeness and the innocent mischief of a child, and yet the warmth and the wit of a woman of intelligence.
Florent flattered her shamelessly, and she parried it with grace, laughing at him, but not with any displeasure.
If Klaus minded there was no reflection of it in his rather heavy features. He was apparently more interested in discussing certain mutual acquaintances with Wellborough.
The entrée plates were cleared away and the removes were served, which that night were iced asparagus. The table sparkled with crystal, the facets reflecting the myriad candles of the chandeliers. Silver cutlery, condiment sets, goblets and vases gleamed. The flowers from the conservatory scented the air and were piled around with ornamental fruit.
Monk dragged his attention from Evelyn and discreetly studied the other guests in turn. They had all been present when Friedrich fell, during his seeming convalescence, and at the time of his death. What had they seen or heard? What did they believe had happened? How much truth did they want, and at what price? He was not there to eat exquisite food and playact at being a gentleman, subtle anguish as that was, lurching from one social tightrope to another. Zorah’s reputation, her whole manner of life, hung in the balance, and so very possibly did Rathbone’s. In a sense Monk’s honor did too. He had given his word to help. The fact that the cause was almost impossible was irrelevant. There was also the chance that Prince Friedrich had indeed been murdered, probably not by his widow but by one of the people talking and laughing around this splendid table, lifting the wine goblets to their lips, diamonds winking in the candlelight.
They finished the asparagus and the game course was brought, a choice of quails, grouse, partridge or black cocks, and of course more wine. Monk had never seen so much food in his life.
The conversation swirled around him, talk of fashion, of theater, of social functions at which they had seen this person or that, who had been in whose company, possible forthcoming betrothals or marriages. It seemed to Monk as if every major family must be related to every other in ramifications too complex to disentangle. He felt more and more excluded as the evening wore on. Perhaps he should have taken Rathbone’s suggestion, repugnant as it was, and come as Stephan’s valet. It would have galled his pride, but it might in the long run have been less painful than being shown to be a social inferior, pretending to be something he was not, as if being accepted mattered to him so much he would lie! He could feel the rage at such a thought tightening his stomach till he was sitting so rigidly in his carved, silk-covered chair that his back ached.
“I doubt we shall be invited,” Brigitte was saying ruefully to some suggestion Klaus had made.
“Why ever not?” He looked annoyed. “I always go. Been every year since, oh, ’53!”
Evelyn put her fingers up to cover her smile, her eyes wide.
“Oh, dear! Do you really think it makes that much difference? Shall we all be personae non grata now? How perfectly ridiculous. It’s nothing to do with us.”
“It has everything to do with us,” Rolf said flatly. “It’s our royal family, and we specifically were all here when it happened.”
“Nobody believes the damn woman!” Klaus said, his heavy face set in lines of anger. “As usual, she has only spoken out of a desire to draw attention to herself at any price, and possibly from revenge because Friedrich threw her over twelve years ago. The woman’s mad … always was.”
Monk realized with sharpened interest that they were speaking of Zorah and the effect her accusation was having upon their social lives. It was an aspect that had not occurred to him, and it was peculiarly repugnant. But he should not lose the opportunity to make something of it.
/> “Surely it will all be forgotten as soon as the case is heard?” he asked, trying to affect innocence.
“That depends on what the wretched woman says,” Klaus replied sourly. “There’s always someone fool enough to repeat a piece of gossip, however fatuous.”
