In the Lion’s Den. Barbara Taylor Bradford

places, which soothed him.

      Aware of someone beside him, he turned around swiftly. Irina Parkinson stood next to him. He stared at her, seeing her properly for the first time. She was tall and svelte, and her abundant brown hair was swept up into a mass of silky curls on top of her head. Her eyes were remarkable: very dark, framed by thick lashes. While she was not a great beauty in the current fashion, Irina had lovely features, and her dark eyes and high cheekbones gave her an exotic look that he found fascinating. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude … I’m afraid I got caught up with this room. It’s lovely, Miss Parkinson.’

      ‘I’m glad you like it, Mr Falconer, and you weren’t rude, not at all.’

      ‘So many flowers, so many unique objects.’ He glanced at a mahogany table and asked, ‘What are these objects here? I’ve never seen anything like them, not even at the estate sales I used to go to in the country with my father years ago.’

      Irina stepped closer to the table and beckoned to him. ‘They are icons,’ she explained. ‘Pictures of a sacred or sanctified person. They are traditional to the Eastern Christian church, especially the Russian church.’

      ‘They are so beautifully painted, every detail perfect and in such rich colours. As for the frames, they are works of art in themselves,’ James said, peering at the icons. ‘And there are so many. Obviously your aunt collects them,’ he finished, straightening, looking at her.

      ‘No, she doesn’t, actually. These icons belong to me and Natalie. They were given to us by our mother. She uses the name Kat, but she was christened Ekaterina. You see, she is descended from the Shuvalovs, as are we. We are half-Russian through our mother’s side of the family.’

      James nodded. ‘Of course. Now I remember! Your sister did once make a remark to me about being from an old Russian family, but she never told me anything more, nor alluded to it again. It was something said in passing, and it never came up later.’

      He felt a sudden pull to her, wanting to know her better.

      Realizing he was staring at her, he went on quickly. ‘So how did an old Russian family come to live in London?’

      She was silent for a moment or two, gazing at him.

      James said, ‘I do apologize. I must sound very nosy and rude. It’s just that—’

      She interrupted him with a small, quiet laugh and shook her head. ‘No, not in the slightest. I am happy to tell you the whole story. And I’d better make it quick before the other guests arrive.

      ‘It was my great-grandfather, Konstantin Shuvalov, who first came here. He was a courtier in the Romanov court, and was posted here in 1850 as the Russian ambassador to London. My great-grandmother was called Zenia and they had one son, my grandfather, Nicholas Shuvalov. My great-grandfather had been educated at Eton and so he sent his son there too, ensuring he spoke excellent English. Nicholas was the father of my mother Kat and her sister Olga, who now lives in Russia.’

      Irina broke off as she heard voices echoing in the hall and noticed her aunt hurrying across the room.

      ‘Excuse me, Mr Falconer, but I have to go and greet the new arrivals. I’ll tell you more about the Shuvalovs later.’

      ‘I’ll hold you to that!’ James exclaimed.

      Irina turned around and smiled at him. It was a lovely smile that filled her face with radiance.

      James smiled back and felt his heart lifting, something he had not experienced for a few years.

      After the three women went out into the entrance hall, Keller joined James, who had remained standing next to the mahogany table where the icons were displayed. Keller was immediately interested in them. After studying them for a moment, he said, ‘What a splendid collection of icons! Many of them must be very old, I think, and highly valuable.’

      ‘I didn’t even know what they were,’ James admitted, pursing his mouth, shaking his head. ‘You are truly amazing, Keller. Your knowledge is extraordinary.’

      ‘Mrs Lorne must enjoy collecting them,’ Keller answered, as usual low-key.

      ‘Oh, they’re not hers, actually,’ James informed him. ‘I thought the same as you, but Irina told me they belong to her and Natalie. Their mother gave the icons to them. You see, through their mother’s side of the family, they are descended from the Shuvalovs, apparently a well-known and ancient Russian family. Their great-grandfather was the Russian ambassador to London in the 1850s.’

      ‘How interesting – so he was here during the Crimean War. He was probably glad to be well away from the area, just as many Russian intellectuals are now – fleeing the censorship that has been imposed by Alexander III.’

      Impressed by his friend’s knowledge, James fell silent as their hostess returned with her nieces, ushering three other people into the drawing room. Her nephew Sandro, the elder brother of her nieces at twenty-eight, was followed by a good-looking couple. James felt certain they were Aubrey and Rebecca Williamson.

      After greetings and introductions had been made, Francesca Lorne led the Williamsons down to the far end of the room, opening the French doors which revealed the garden. They went outside together.

      James stepped forward to speak to Irina’s brother, greeting Alexander by his surname, as was the custom. ‘I’m delighted to see you, Parkinson. Natalie tells me you’re doing the scenery for a new play.’

      ‘Pleasure to see you here tonight, Falconer,’ Alexander answered. ‘And I haven’t quite made my deal yet. However, I am hoping.’ Glancing at Keller, who was talking to Irina, obviously about the icons, he went on. ‘Your colleague appears to be a nice chap.’ Lowering his voice, he added, ‘I have a feeling Natalie rather likes him, not that she’s admitted that to me. Yet …’ He raised a dark brow. ‘What say you, Falconer?’

      ‘She finds him rather shy, which he is in a way. I like him tremendously. He works hard; he’s a good chap. And most definitely true blue.’ A smile surfaced on James’s face, and he said sotto voce, ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if they hit it off. He’s her type.’

      ‘And what’s that?’ Parkinson asked, his curiosity apparent.

      ‘Serious without being stuffy, highly intelligent, honest as the day is long, and not a bad bone in his body. I appreciate him, and he’s taken a great burden off my back. He’s turned the Wine Division around and managed to bring it up to par in Le Havre, where we’ve had problems.’

      Before Alexander could say anything, Natalie returned to the drawing room and, standing next to her brother and James, told them, ‘Cook is happy. I’d even go so far as to say delirious … because all the guests have arrived. No spoiled dishes ce soir.’

      ‘I hope I’m sitting next to you,’ James said, as he noticed Mrs Lorne bringing the other guests inside.

      ‘You must wait and see,’ Natalie replied, and took hold of her brother’s arm. ‘Let us lead the way, Sandro.’