She reflects his adoration, the two of them sharing a smile that has nothing to do with this room, or these people. Even so, glasses are raised, reciprocal thanks washing back along the table.
Michael waits for the commotion to die down, then continues. ‘She’ll soon be embarking on a brand-new adventure, and...’ he pauses, eyes on the table, ‘Well, she’s going to be married to Lord Cecil Ravencourt.’
Silence engulfs us, all eyes turning in my direction. Shock becomes confusion, then disgust; their faces a perfect reflection of my own feelings. There must be thirty years and a thousand meals between Ravencourt and Evelyn, whose hostility this morning is now explained. If Lord and Lady Hardcastle really do blame their daughter for Thomas’s death, their punishment is exquisite. They plan to steal all the years from her that were stolen from Thomas.
I look over at Evelyn, but she’s fidgeting with a napkin and biting her lip, her former humour having fled. A bead of sweat is rolling down Michael’s forehead, the wine shaking in his glass. He can’t even look at his sister, and she can’t look anywhere else. Never has a man found a tablecloth so engrossing as I do now.
‘Lord Ravencourt’s an old friend of the family,’ says Michael mechanically, soldiering on into the silence. ‘I can’t think of anybody who’d take better care of my sister.’
Finally, he looks at Evelyn, meeting her glistening eyes.
‘Evie, I think you wanted to say something.’
She nods, the napkin strangled in her hands.
All eyes are fixed on her, nobody moving. Even the servants are staring, standing by the walls, holding dirty plates and fresh bottles of wine. Finally, Evelyn looks up from her lap, meeting the expectant faces arranged before her. Her eyes are wild, like an animal caught in a trap. Whatever words she prepared, they desert her immediately, replaced with a wretched sob that drives her from the room, Michael chasing after her.
Among the rustle of bodies turning in my direction, I seek out Daniel. The amusement of earlier has passed, his gaze now fixed on the window. I wonder how many times he’s watched the slow blush rise up my cheeks; if he even remembers how this shame felt. Is that why he can’t look at me now? Will I do any better, when my time comes?
Abandoned at the end of the table, my instinct is to flee with Michael and Evelyn, but I might as well wish for the moon to reach down and pluck me from this chair. Silence swirls until Clifford Herrington gets to his feet, candlelight glinting off his naval medals as he raises his glass.
‘To many happy years,’ he says, seemingly without irony.
One by one, every glass is raised and the toast repeated in a hollow chant.
At the end of the table, Daniel winks at me.
20
The dining hall has long emptied of guests, the servants having finally cleared away the last of the platters when Cunningham comes to collect me. He’s been standing outside for over an hour, but every time he’s tried to enter, I’ve waved him back. After the humiliation of dinner, having anybody see my valet help me from my seat would be an indignity too far. When he does stroll in, there’s a smirk on his face. No doubt word of my shaming has run laps around the house: fat old Ravencourt and his runaway bride.
‘Why didn’t you tell me about Ravencourt’s marriage to Evelyn?’ I demand, stopping him in his tracks.
‘To humiliate you,’ he says.
I stiffen, my cheeks reddening, as he meets my gaze.
His eyes are green, the pupils uneven, like splashed ink. I see conviction enough to raise armies and burn churches. God help Ravencourt should this boy ever decide to stop being his footstool.
‘Ravencourt is a vain man, easy to embarrass,’ continues Cunningham in a level voice. ‘I noticed you’d inherited this quality and I made sport of it.’
‘Why?’ I ask, stunned by his honesty.
‘You blackmailed me,’ he says, shrugging. ‘You didn’t think I’d take that lying down, did you?’
I blink at him for a few seconds before laughter erupts out of me. It’s a belly laugh, the rolls of my flesh shaking in appreciation at his audacity. I humiliated him and he handed back an equal weight of that misery, using nothing more than patience. What man wouldn’t be charmed by such a feat?
Cunningham frowns at me, his eyebrows knitting together.
‘You’re not angry?’ he asks.
‘I suspect my anger is of little concern to you,’ I say, wiping a tear from my eye. ‘Regardless, I threw the first stone. I can’t complain if a boulder comes back at me.’
My mirth prompts an echoing smile in my companion.
‘It appears there are some differences between yourself and Lord Ravencourt, after all,’ he says, measuring each word.
‘Not least a name,’ I say, holding out my hand. ‘Mine is Aiden Bishop.’
He shakes it firmly, his smile deepening.
‘Very good to make your acquaintance, Aiden, I’m Charles.’
‘Well, I have no intention of telling anybody your secret, Charles, and I apologise for threatening it. I wish only to save Evelyn Hardcastle’s life and escape Blackheath, and I don’t have a lot of time to do either. I’ll need a friend.’
‘Probably more than one,’ he says, cleaning his glasses on his sleeve. ‘In all honesty, this tale’s so peculiar I’m not sure I could walk away now, even if I wished to.’
‘Shall we go then,’ I say. ‘By Daniel’s reckoning, Evelyn will be murdered at the party at 11 p.m. If we’re to save her, that’s where we have to be.’
The ballroom is on the other side of the entrance hall, Cunningham supporting me at the elbow as we walk there. Carriages are arriving from the village, queuing up on the gravel outside. Horses nicker, footmen opening the doors for costumed guests, who flutter like canaries released from their cages.
‘Why is Evelyn being compelled to marry Ravencourt?’ I whisper to Cunningham.
‘Money,’ he says. ‘Lord Hardcastle’s got an eye for a bad investment, and not nearly enough intelligence to learn from his mistakes. Rumour suggests he’s driving the family towards bankruptcy. In return for Evelyn’s hand, Lord and Lady Hardcastle will receive a rather generous dowry and Ravencourt’s promise to buy Blackheath in a couple of years for a tidy sum.’
‘So that’s it,’ I say. ‘The Hardcastles are hard up and they’re pawning their daughter off like old jewellery.’
My thoughts flock back to this morning’s chess game, the smile on Evelyn’s face as I winced out of the Sun Room. Ravencourt isn’t buying a bride, he’s buying a bottomless well of spite. I wonder if the old fool understands what he’s getting into.
‘And what of Sebastian Bell?’ I say, remembering the task I set him. ‘Did you speak with him?’
‘Afraid not, the poor fellow was passed out on the floor of his room when I arrived,’ he says, genuine pity in his voice. ‘I saw the dead rabbit; seems your footman has a twisted sense of humour. I called for the doctor and left them to it. Your experiment will have to wait another day.’
My disappointment is drowned out by the music beating at the ballroom’s closed doors, the sound tumbling into the hall when a servant sweeps them open for us. There must be at least fifty people inside, whirling through a soft puddle of light cast by a chandelier wreathed in candles. An orchestra is playing with bravado on a stage pressed against the far wall, but the majority of the room has been given over to the dance floor where Harlequins in full livery court Egyptian queens and grinning devils. Jesters leap and mock, dislodging powdered wigs and gold masks held up on long sticks. Dresses, capes and cowls swoop and swish across the floor, the crush of bodies disorientating. The only space to be found surrounds Michael Hardcastle in his dazzling sun mask, its pointed rays extending such a distance from his face that it’s unsafe to venture anywhere near him.
We’re viewing all this from a mezzanine, a small staircase leading down to the dance floor. My fingers are rapping the banister, keeping time with the music. Some part of me, the part that’s still Ravencourt, knows this song and is enjoying it. He yearns to pick up an instrument and play.