Lady Rutland’s unexpected about-turn confused Amber at first. She had expected to be sent home in disgrace but here she was being told instead that Lady Rutland was planning to take her to the very kind of parties from which she had previously been excluded. It was almost, Amber recognised, as though Lady Rutland were afraid of her grandmother.
‘At last. I have been in a fever of anxiety waiting for you. I telephoned you over an hour ago and told you that I must see you immediately. How cruel you are to me, Greg.’
She had run to him, attempting to fling herself into his arms, but Greg held her off, his fury born of irritation and fear.
‘Caroline, you know we agreed that we would never telephone one another. Fortunately it was only Jay who picked up the receiver, and I managed to spin him some tale about you having a message for me from Lord Fitton Legh.’
She obviously hadn’t liked being pushed away, because now she was pouting in that pseudo-baby way he had once found so adorable but which he now detested. She was twenty-three, for heaven’s sake, not seventeen.
‘Now what the devil was it that was so important you had to take such a risk and drag me over here?’
‘You haven’t said that you love me yet.’ Now she was being coquettish, and he found that equally unappealing.
‘Caroline—’
‘Say it.’
‘Now listen—’
‘Say it, Greg. You must say it otherwise I can’t bear to tell you.’
She was crying now, her voice starting to rise. Greg looked anxiously towards the door to her bedroom.
It was one thing to be in here with her by pre-arrangment when there was little chance of their being disturbed, and their relationship was a secret known only to the two of them, but Cassandra, who had been waiting for him outside on the drive and who had taken him into the house via a side entrance, had plainly known what was going on. And equally plainly did not approve, if the look of angry contempt she had given him had been anything to go by. Well, he wasn’t here by his own wish. In fact, if it was left up to Greg he would be happy never to see Caroline Fitton Legh again. Very happy, in fact.
Dash it all, what exactly did a chap have to do to make it clear that he wasn’t interested any more? Caroline was no ingénue; she knew the rules of the game they had been playing. She had to do, married as she was to a man old enough to be her father, and one who, according to what Caro had told him, wasn’t up to much in the bedroom department.
‘Say it,’ she was insisting.
If there was one thing Greg hated it was having his hand forced. His was an easy-going nature, but with a core of stubbornness. He didn’t love her any more and he was damned if he was going to say he did.
‘I’m not playing games,’ he told her. ‘I’ve got things to do.’ Greg headed for the door.
His hand was on the door knob when Caroline said softly, ‘You were happy enough to play games with me once, Greg, and if those things you are so eager to do include that silly political career, well, you’d better think again. There’s to be a child.’
His hands were clammy now and the door knob slipped in his grasp.
‘I’m honoured that you’ve told me, but surely that’s something between husband and wife,’ he blustered.
‘Or between the mother and the father of the child?’ Caroline suggested.
Greg was panicking now. ‘Look, Caroline, this has gone far enough. What you and I shared together was fun and I shall always remember it, and you, with affection and … and tenderness. But we’ve both always known that all we could ever hope to share was an interlude of mutual pleasure.’
He was sweating profusely now and she wasn’t saying a word, just standing there staring at him in that damnably unnerving way she had.
‘We both knew that it had to end, and all the more reason now that you and Lord Fitton Legh are to have another child.’
‘No! This child is not my husband’s.’
‘For God’s sake,’ Greg protested anxiously, ‘what’s the matter with you, Caroline? You know the child has to be your husband’s. There can’t be any choice. Think of the social disgrace. He would divorce you, and—’
‘And then you’d have to marry me.’ She gave a dismissive shrug. ‘Divorce isn’t so very bad. My father got divorced from my mother so that he could marry his lover.’
‘That may be all very well in America,’ Greg told her, ‘but it’s different here.’ His belly was churning sickly. ‘You don’t really think that my grandmother would countenance me marrying you, do you?’
It was the wrong thing for him to have said, Greg realised too late. She almost flew at him, clawing at his face, her own contorted with rage.
‘Your grandmother! Do you think that I don’t know now that you’re just hiding behind her? Do you think that I haven’t been told about that girl in Macclesfield you’ve been seeing? How could you, Greg? A common little nobody whose father makes his money from pork sausages. But then I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, given your own lack of breeding.’
Her insult stung Greg.
‘You can say what you like,’ he told her. ‘Maisie’s a hell of a lot more fun than you are, and as for breeding, the only breeding you can lay claim to is the kind you get from what’s in your belly.’
He heard the crash of the mirror she had picked up off her dressing table hitting the door behind him as he escaped into the corridor.
‘Lady Rutland wants to see you in her sitting room, miss.’
Amber’s heart sank. Not again. What had she done now?
‘Thank you, Alice.’ She dismissed the maid, ignoring the look Louise was giving her.
This time Lady Rutland wasn’t alone. Two other people were with her, one of whom, a young woman wearing a startling large and ornate hat, Amber thought was puzzlingly familiar in some way. The other, an elderly man hunched over a walking stick, was wearing a black donnish-looking gown over a very hairy tweed suit.
‘Ah, Amber,’ Lady Rutland greeted her. ‘You are fortunate in that your grandmother seems tireless in her efforts on your behalf. Professor Roberts here informs me that Mrs Pickford has instructed him to give you lessons on the history of London’s famous buildings. I have to say that I would have thought that Mrs Pickford might have informed me of this decision, but I dare say she has other and more important things on her mind. Personally, I cannot see what advantage it might be to a débutante to study history but then I dare say that is because when one’s ancestors have played such a predominant role in the history of one’s country there is simply no need. History is one’s family.’
There was an odd choking sound from the professor, and as Amber looked at him anxiously he lifted his head and looked straight at her, giving her a big wink unseen by Lady Rutland.
Lord Robert! What on earth were Lord Robert, and yes, she could see it now, Cecil Beaton’s assistant, Saville, doing here, and dressed up in such a way?
‘Quite so, my dear Lady Rutland,’ the professor was agreeing in a quavery voice. ‘Let me see, it was Sebastopol where your grandfather fell, I believe, and his cousin the marquis was with the Light Brigade, as I recollect. A most distinguished military history, although my own expertise lies more in the field of political history. I seem to think that there was a record somewhere of an argument