Black Gold by Charles O'Brien Page B

first, he smiled wanly, then gazed at her. “You’re beautiful, just like a princess,” he said, his eyes wide with a child’s wonder.
    â€œThank you, Charlie.” She was deeply touched by his remark. “I’m going to the party downstairs. I’ll look in on you later.” How lonely he must feel, she thought, no companionship with children his own age, no affection from his family. Delicate, as well. Little wonder that he should look and act like a boy of nine rather than eleven. She waved to him from the door.
    At the stairway she met Paul, dressed for the evening in a well-tailored buff suit with a fawn vest. His eyes shone when he saw her.
    â€œYou look lovely, Anne.” He bowed and kissed her hand. “This is for you, from Paris.” He handed her a small spyglass encased in mother-of-pearl. “A clever little invention. The lens points forward or diagonally. I bought a little telescope for myself.”
    â€œThank you, Paul. I’ll try it now.” She stood at a right angle to the bust of a Roman emperor in a nearby niche and looked straight ahead. Then she turned the lens to the diagonal position, lifted the spyglass to her eye and focused on the sculpture. “What an evil-looking man!”
    â€œThat’s Nero,” Paul remarked. “Mean crafty eyes, fleshy features, malign twist of the lips.”
    â€œReminds me of Jack Roach.” She slipped the glass into her purse. “Barnstaple says the rogue’s in Bath. A Bow Street officer is coming to investigate him.”
    Paul looked at Anne with concern. “Georges and I shall be on guard.”
    â€œRoach be damned!” She took his arm. “Let’s join the party.”
    They descended the stairs together to find the first floor rooms already filled with a lively, fashionable crowd. Lady Margaret was standing in the entrance hall, as her husband had said, easily the most beautiful woman in the room and well aware of it. She had chosen a high-waisted, low-cut dark green silk gown to accent her creamy white skin. A golden silk ribbon embroidered with pearls crowned her lustrous auburn hair.
    Sir Harry was at her side smiling easily, belying the rumors of a rift between them. Anne marveled that his lightly patterned cream colored suit subtly matched her complexion. He greeted newcomers with characteristic affable charm, passing them along to his wife. Nearby in crimson livery stood Jeffery, the tall black footman, at their beck and call. Anne found herself momentarily gaping at the three of them, an extraordinarily attractive group on display.
    Sir Harry presented Paul to Lady Margaret. “I’ve heard from my husband about you, Colonel,” she said, her green eyes gaining brilliance as they studied him. “He told me you speak English and have a taste for sport. But I sense you are also gallant. You must grant me the pleasure of a dance later in the evening.”
    â€œYour wish is my command, Lady Margaret.” Paul bowed, then stepped back to allow an arriving guest to approach her.
    Anne and Paul left the hall. “What was that light I saw in her eyes?” she whispered in his ear.
    â€œArdent desire,” he whispered back with a teasing smile. “If she has an ulterior motive, I don’t know what it is. Like Sir Harry, she probably knows who I am and why I’m here. Would she also want Fitzroy packed off to France?”
    Anne shrugged. “She may be more cunning than we give her credit for.”
    They reached the drawing room which had been converted into a gambling den and was doing a brisk business. “Isn’t faro illegal in England?” Paul asked Anne, tilting his head toward a table at the far side of the room. A banker sat there selling chips and dealing cards.
    â€œIndeed, it is,” replied Anne. “But the magistrates prefer not to enforce the law in great private houses like Combe Park.” She pointed to a tall,