Strangely, it was true. Leona had previously thought one could scarcely go wrong with beautiful flowers but obviously there were many routes to getting things right. There was definitely an art to mixing colours. Tonight, tall glass cylinder vases wrapped in ivy, equally spaced down the table, held an exquisite mix of yellow and cream roses and buttercup-coloured day lilies. No doubt the flowers had been chosen to complement the cream damask cloth, the gold and white plates and the gold napkin rings. It all looked very lovely.
The first course was served. Superb large white scallops on an Asian risotto cake with fresh pesto and lime slices. That went down well. Sipping at her crisp white wine, which had a tang of citrus to it, Leona caught Boyd’s eye. Instantly she experienced an electric touch to her mind, heart and body. How easy it was to become lost in that profoundly blue gaze.
Peter was saying something to her, but she barely heard.
“Are you listening to me?” Peter tapped the knuckles of her hand for attention.
“Of course I am.” She had to gather herself. “You were talking about your trip to Antarctica. How it changed you for ever.”
Peter smiled, pleased she had been paying attention. The whole family knew he had a real thing for Leona. It was as though he couldn’t get past her. “It’s an amazing place. A world of blinding white ice. It might sound strange, but there’s only one other place in the world where I’ve been so overwhelmed.”
“Our Outback,” Leona guessed. “The vastness, the mystical quality, the extraordinary isolation?”
“Very good.” Peter tapped her hand again. “Both places have had a powerful effect on me. Sometimes I think I would have liked to be an adventurer,” he confided, giving her his endearing smile.
“Instead you’re inordinately clever at handling a great deal of money, Peter.”
“Well, there’s something in that. Can’t wait for the polo match tomorrow afternoon. That’s what I need, a damned good gallop. You’re going to be on the sidelines cheering me on?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she said, smiling.
The main course arrived. Nothing too complicated, more a classic. Racks of spring lamb with a buttery, crisp green herb crust served with a medley of vegetables including freshly baked young courgettes stuffed with peas and spring onions.
Conversation around the table flourished. These country weekends had become something of a ritual. Down the opposite end of the table, their hostess, Jinty, kept talking to Boyd, obviously captivated by his conversation. It was obvious to them all that she was fascinated by her stepson and oblivious to the building tension in her sister, Tonya. Looking at Tonya’s strained, impatient face, Leona could feel the turbulent current from where she was sitting. Robbie, across the table, kept catching her eye, his dark eyes glistening with malicious humour. She could read what he was telling her. What did Rupe think about his wife paying so much attention to his son? Rupert, as sharp as they came, would have been observing what was going on. An intolerant man at the best of times, Rupert might have a few words to say to Jinty when the evening was over. He would know Boyd was simply being Boyd, a brilliant conversationalist who, without any effort on his part, became the object of women’s fantasies.
Desserts arrived. A choice between a bitter chocolate mousse tart and Rupert’s great favourite, a richly flavoured deep-dish apple pie served with double cream.
“I hope Rupert doesn’t make a habit of ordering up that apple pie,” Peter murmured. “There has to be an incredible number of calories in it and just look at how much extra cream he’s putting on!”
“Don’t worry, Rupert will live for ever,” Leona murmured back, thinking mournfully that only the good died young.
After a lingering coffee and liqueurs everyone adjourned to the drawing room, where Jinty was to entertain them. Jinty was quite an accomplished chanteuse, using her mellow mezzo to sing everlasting blues favourites made famous by the likes of Ella Fitzgerald and Peggy Lee. To top it off, she accompanied herself on the big Steinway concert grand.
“Don’t clap too much,” Peter, who wasn’t a music lover, warned Leona in a quick aside, “or we might be here until four in the morning.”
As it was, Jinty knew the perfect moment to stop. The entertainment had gone on for the best part of an hour. Now a genuine round of applause broke out when she rose, tall and voluptuous from the piano seat, her somewhat haughty face softened by such appreciation. She gave a little bow, the lights from the four matching giltwood chandeliers as nothing compared to the dazzling white flashes given off by the “Blanchard Diamonds”.
“I’d give my soul for the earrings alone,” one of the Blanchard wives was heard to whisper to her husband, perhaps as an incentive for him to work harder.
Leona felt she knew better than that. The soul was sacred. Bad enough to give your heart away.
Boyd was much in demand. So much so it was difficult to get near him. Even Tonya’s all out efforts at seduction were being sabotaged. One of the great-uncles, a distinguished High Court judge had detained Peter who, though desperate to get back to Leona’s side, was compelled to pay his respects.
It was a beautiful evening, the great coffered dome of the sky awesome with stars. Some of the guests had begun to step outside for a breath of garden-fragrant air and to cool the overflow of emotions induced by Jinty’s scintillating performance. Turning her head, Leona just chanced to see Jinty quietly remove her diamond pendant earrings—which must have been quite heavy—and slip them into a Limoges ormolu mounted covered bowl, one of a collection on a small circular table that was supported by two gilded swans, their long elegant necks bent.
Now that was careless. Reckless, even. It would be a disaster if any part of the suite went missing. Clearly Jinty trusted everyone, guests and servants alike. Not that Leona didn’t, but still … She couldn’t in a million years have done it, was amazed that Jinty had. She couldn’t begin to imagine Rupert’s wrath if the earrings disappeared. Not that anyone foolish enough to attempt such a criminal act could hope to sell them on the open market. In their own way, the “Blanchard Diamonds” were famous.
Right away she headed towards Jinty to what … remonstrate with her hostess … issue a warning? Jinty wouldn’t take kindly to that; married to Rupert Blanchard, she was queen of all she surveyed. Nonetheless Leona was halfway across the room, chiffon skirt flowing, a springtime nymph in flight, when a black-jacketed arm reached for her.
“What’s the hurry?”
Excitement surged. She spun to face him. “I was just going to … going to …”
“Get it out, Flower Face,” he urged.
What could she possibly say? Jinty has taken off the diamond earrings and left them in a Limoges porcelain bowl back there. Surely an unsafe place? It struck her forcibly that Jinty wouldn’t want Boyd to know that. The diamond suite, after all, would one day be handed down to Boyd’s wife.
“I was just going for a breath of air,” she managed, realising that Jinty needed protection.
“You mean you were going into hiding from Peter,” Boyd suggested dryly. “You really should put poor old Pete out of his misery.”
“I’ve never put him in his misery,” she said sharply. “I can’t help it if Peter’s got a bit of a crush on me.”
“Bit old for a crush, isn’t he?” Boyd offered in a sardonic tone of voice. “Peter must be twenty-eight.”
“So?” She stared defiantly into his brilliant eyes. “Haven’t you heard of men having crushes in their eighties? There was Goethe for one. Tolstoy, I’m sure. Great-Uncle William fell for that twenty-year-old ballet dancer, remember? People in their nineties find their one true love in nursing homes. There must be plenty