City of Jasmine. Deanna Raybourn

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СКАЧАТЬ bubbling wine, I began to wonder if I were making a tremendous fool of myself. The war was over. And on that glittering night, it became quite apparent that the world had moved on. Why couldn’t I?

      Mr. Halliday was charming company. He was an expert storyteller, and his anecdotes about the expats and officials in Damascus ranged from the highly amusing to the mildly salacious. But he’d chosen his audience well. Aunt Dove loved nothing better than a good gossip, and much of our meal was spent chatting about her travels in the South Pacific, an area Mr. Halliday longed to see.

      “Oh, you must go!” Aunt Dove instructed. “If nothing else, it’s a lovely place to die.”

      Mr. Halliday burst out laughing then sobered as he looked from Aunt Dove to me. “She is serious?”

      “Entirely,” I admitted. “Auntie won’t travel anywhere she thinks would be unpleasant to die.”

      “That’s why I don’t go to Scandinavia,” she said darkly. “It’s far too cold and bodies linger too long. I’d much rather die in a nice warm climate where things decompose quickly. No point in hanging around when I am well and gone.”

      Mr. Halliday looked at me again and I shrugged. “Ask her about her shroud.”

      “Shroud?” His handsome brow furrowed.

      Aunt Dove smiled broadly. “Yes, a lovely tivaevae I picked up last time I was in the South Pacific.”

      “Tivaevae?”

      “A quilt from the Cook Islands,” I explained. “Auntie travels with it in case she dies unexpectedly. She wanted something nice for her cremation.”

      “You ought to come up and see it,” she told him, leering only a little. “It’s quite the loveliest example of South Pacific needlework—all reds and aquas and a green so bright it matches Arthur perfectly.”

      “Arthur?” Mr. Halliday looked well and truly lost.

      “My parrot, Arthur Wellesley,” she replied.

      She beckoned the waiter over for another bottle of champagne, and Mr. Halliday threw me a rather desperate look. “I wonder if I might prevail upon you for a dance, Mrs. Starke? Lady Lavinia, if you will excuse us, of course.”

      Aunt Dove waved us off and I rose and moved into his arms for a waltz. He was a graceful dancer, but not perfect, and it was those little missteps that made me like him even more. He apologised the second time he trod on my feet, pulling a rueful face.

      “I am sorry. I don’t seem to be able to concentrate very well this evening.” But his eyes were warm and did not leave my face.

      “All is forgiven, Mr. Halliday,” I said.

      “John,” he said automatically. “Your aunt is an entirely original lady,” he said. “Like something out of mythology.”

      “She can be,” I agreed. “By the way, if you haven’t any interest in sleeping with her, you ought to know what she means when she asks you to come up and look at her shroud.”

      He tripped then, and it took him a full measure of the waltz to recover.

      “Mrs. Starke—Evie. Really, I would never presume to believe that I would behave in so ungentlemanly—”

      I cut him off. “Mr. Halliday, it’s none of my business what you get up to. I just wanted to offer a word of warning in case her intentions came as a surprise. They often do.”

      “Often?” His voice was strangled.

      “She is affectionate by nature,” I explained. “Demonstrably so. And while many gentlemen are receptive, it can be a trifle unnerving when some poor soul goes to her rooms actually expecting to see her shroud or examine her stamp collection.”

      He smiled, almost against his will, it seemed. “Does she have a very fine stamp collection?”

      “She doesn’t have one at all.”

      “Oh,” he said faintly.

      “Sometimes gentlemen misunderstand her intentions,” I explained. “It occasionally results in unfortunate events. I shouldn’t like to see a repeat of the Aegean.”

      “The Aegean?”

      “There was a young man who thought she was actually kidnapping him. It was all a tempest in a teapot, I assure you, but he happened to be the son of the local magistrate, and things got rather out of hand. That was when I took up drinking as a hobby.”

      He smiled deeply, and I saw he had the suggestion of dimples. It wasn’t fair, really, to compare them to Gabriel’s. His had been so deep a girl could drown in them when he smiled. In repose, Gabriel’s face had been decidedly handsome, but when his mouth curved into a cheerful grin and his dimples flashed, the effect had been purely devastating.

      Something of Halliday reminded me of him, a trick of the light, the curve of a high cheekbone, perhaps. But Halliday’s eyes were a mild grey where Gabriel’s had been such a startling blue I had sometimes looked into them and completely lost my train of thought. There was something similar to Gabriel’s lazy grace in Halliday’s gestures, his economy of movement, but the effect was of a serviceable copy instead of the glamour of the real thing.

      Of course, that wasn’t Halliday’s fault at all, so I smiled back and he tightened his hold. We danced on until the end of the song. When it finished I started to step back, but he did not let me go. “One more?”

      I went willingly into his arms. It was a delicious feeling after so many years without Gabriel, and I found myself thinking an unmaidenly thought or two as we moved. The song came to an end, but he made no move to stop dancing and neither did I.

      Just as the conductor raised his baton for the next number, the maître d’ thrust his head behind the palms to speak to him. The conductor shrugged and something changed hands—money, no doubt—for the conductor leaned forward and murmured something to his musicians.

      They fumbled with their sheet music, casting aside the next song on their list, and launched into a pretty little prelude. Mr. Halliday and I began to dance again, and just as he swung me into a graceful turn, I felt a shiver run down my spine.

      “Evie?” His eyes were full of concern, his arm tight about my waist.

      “‘Salut d’Amour,’” I said.

      “Beg pardon? Oh, yes, I think it is. Pretty little piece, isn’t it? Shame I’ve such a wretched memory for music. Never can remember who wrote it.”

      “Elgar,” I said stiffly. “It’s Elgar.”

      His expression brightened. “Of course it is. Now, Evie—Mrs. Starke? You’ve gone quite pale? Are you feeling all right?”

      I forced a smile. “Quite, but suddenly the room seems beastly hot. Forgive me. I must excuse myself for just a moment.”

      He held onto my hand, patting it solicitously. “Anything you like. May I take you back to the table?”

      “The ladies’ cloakroom, I think.”

      He СКАЧАТЬ