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Alessia glances around the room, taking in its opulence and antiquity. It’s comfortable yet imposing. A marble fireplace with impressive columns dominates the room, and there are several overstuffed red-patterned couches. There are paintings of landscapes and still-lifes but also photographs of Caroline and her husband, several of an older man who Alessia recognizes from the portrait in Cornwall as Maxim’s father, and a few of Maxim, Kit, and Maryanne as children.
“May I look at the photographs?”
“Of course, Alessia,” Caroline responds. “Please, be my guest.”
There’s a brisk knock at the door, and Blake enters, making his way over to a silver bar cart that’s laden with bottles of alcohol, sparkling crystal glasses, and a cocktail shaker.
“That dress does suit you,” Caroline says. “Do you approve, Maxim?”
“I do. Very much.” Maxim’s expression heats as he stares at Alessia.
Alessia smiles. “Thank you,” she whispers, warmed by his gaze. She turns, flushing a little, to examine one of the family photographs. Maxim must be nine or ten, handsome even as a child, his father’s hand cupping his shoulder. Maryanne stands between Maxim and his brother—who’s taller with a mass of blond curls—while Rowena stands behind Kit, her arm draped around her eldest son. There’s a steely glaze in her eyes as if she’s daring the photographer to reveal the truth.
What truth?
“I have those items of Kit’s,” Caroline says to Maxim and gestures to an elegant wooden box on the coffee table.
“Oh.” Maxim eyes the box, eyes suddenly wide with doubt. “Um…”
“Now might not be the right time,” she adds quietly.
The atmosphere in the room cools, only to be revived by the loud rattle of a cocktail shaker. All eyes turn to Blake, who holds the silver shaker aloft with a flourish. He smirks, enjoying himself. Maxim grins while Caroline laughs and joins Blake at the drinks tray. “Let me help.”
Deftly Blake pours alcohol into three cocktail glasses, and Caroline adds a slice of fresh orange zest to each. “There we go,” she says, handing a glass to Alessia then Maxim. “This is a cosmopolitan. Or, as we say, a cosmo.”
“Cosmo,” Alessia repeats.
“Cheers,” Caroline says, smiling at Maxim.
“Gëzuar,” Alessia and Maxim say in unison, and Caroline laughs in response. Alessia takes a sip. The tangy, sharp taste is delicious. “Mmm… what is in this?”
“Vodka, a dash of Cointreau, lime juice, cranberry,” Maxim responds, his voice husky as his eyes meet Alessia’s.
“Oh, for God’s sake, get a room, you two!” Caroline says. Maxim winks at Alessia, and Caroline continues, “I thought a vodka-based cocktail might set us up for Dimitri’s.”
Maxim nods. “Yes. The vodka will be flowing this evening. Let’s drink up and make a move.”
* * *
Dimitri lives in a newly renovated pile in Mayfair. The house is redbrick, squat, and furnished by the interior designer du jour. I’ve been a couple of times. The décor, the furnishings, and the art are on point and utterly soulless. I’ve never felt fully comfortable in his company—not that I’ve met him often—but his is the place to be seen, and if I’m going to out Alessia as my wife, there’s no better way to go public. We’ll be plastered over all the tabloids in the morning.
“Are you ready for this?” I ask Alessia as our cab stops close to his house. She nods, her eyes dark and shimmering from the streetlight. “Caro?”
“Yes. Time to get back on the horse,” Caroline says.
“Okay. Let’s go. Don’t answer any questions.”
As we climb out of the taxi, I see there’s a steady stream of the well-heeled already entering the property. The paparazzi step forward with shouts and cameras poised.
Lord Trevethick!
Maxim!
Look this way!
I wrap my arm around Alessia and grab Caroline’s hand, and we walk through a sea of flashing cameras and shouted questions. It feels like forever, but it’s probably seconds later that we’re through the shining black door and into the relative safety of the courtyard.
Though it’s still early, the place is already heaving.
An attractive young woman with slicked-back hair, dressed entirely in black, takes our coats, and we head into the courtyard proper. As we do, we’re given a shot of vodka each from a waitress who looks the spit of the cloakroom attendant.
“Thank you.” Alessia looks dubiously at the concoction.
“Welcome to Dimitri’s,” I mutter in as reassuring a voice as I can manage and down the shot. I’ll say one thing for him—he does good vodka. Alessia downs hers as does Caroline.
“Uau! Ah! That’s strong!” Alessia splutters.
“Yeah… maybe not too much, eh? Let’s find Joe and Tom. They should be here.”
“Trevethick!” The booming voice of Dimitri Egonov interrupts us. “I am so glad you could make it. And who is this beautiful young lady?” His accent is faint, but it’s there. Could he sound any more oily? And he’s wearing a white dinner jacket like he’s Gatsby or Bogart.
