always there, along with the piles of invitations, the clamouring obligations. When all he really wanted right now was to stand for ever on a windswept tower with Clio Chase. How very strange was that ?
Chapter Ten
L ady Riverton’s palazzo was lit up like a Chinese lantern, glowing a hot orange in the dusty-black Sicilian night. Clio gazed up at the windows as she stepped from the carriage, watching as figures already inside strolled past the glass like puppets in a pantomime. They talked and laughed, silent behind the panes, raising glasses of wine, examining proffered trays of delicacies. A liveried footman held the door open for the Chases as they made their way through the manicured courtyard.
How terribly civilised it all was, Clio thought, stepping into that light and noise. As if it were a million miles from the windswept medieval tower, the grey stones that whispered of battles and death and old, old gods.
She remembered what Edward had told her when he had first appeared at her farmhouse, that there was danger here. Well, at this house danger surely dared not show its face. The only real peril was in possibly finding oneself cornered and talked at by Lady Riverton’s voluble friend, Ronald Frobisher. All in all, Clio preferred curses and spirits.
She surrendered her cloak to another footman, examiningherself in one of the gilt-framed mirrors hung on the marble foyer walls. She had left off her brown-and-grey work dresses for a gown in jade-green silk, trimmed on the bodice and cap sleeves with finely spun gold lace. Her hair was smoothed and pinned up, bound by a scarf of more gold lace. She wore a pair of antique Mycenaean gold bracelets over her gloves, pieces that had once been part of her mother’s vast jewellery collection. The silk and lace, the gold, it was all an armour of sorts, a disguise carefully constructed to make her appear a fashionable lady, a part of this glittering throng, while her true thoughts were always hidden.
Thalia hurried into the drawing room, her blue eyes glowing with purpose, her pink-and-white muslin skirts whispering softly around her. In her gloved hands she held her rolled Antigone script. Clio followed slowly, staying to the back of the room until she had gauged the lay of the land.
Lady Riverton held court by the ornate plaster fireplace, clad in eye-catching red-and-bronze brocade, an elaborate plumed turban atop her curls. Next to her stood Ronald Frobisher, her ‘special friend’—or lapdog, as Clio sometimes thought him—a man of delicately slender stature, lovely brown eyes and soft, dark curls. He claimed to be descended from the great Elizabethan mariner, but his life seemed to consist of naught but fetching and fawning. The two of them chatted happily away as they greeted guests, but Lady Riverton kept a sharp eye on the trays of wineglasses and lobster tarts, the new arrivals at the door.
And a great many arrivals there were. Clio slid into a corner near the stage, behind a pair of large comedy/tragedy statues. All the English families were there, the Darbys and Elliotts, the young Manning-Smythes, and also the noble Sicilian families who had not yet decamped to Naples. Theystayed mostly in their own tribal clusters at the other end of the room, deigning to grace the foreign proceedings with their dignified presence.
Did they come for the food, then, as her father did? Clio watched as one black-silk-clad matron slid a tart into her reticule. Or perhaps they came to keep an eye on their local antiquities.
Well, whatever their reasons, they certainly added an ancien régime dignity to Lady Riverton’s proceedings, and filled out her vast rooms quite nicely.
Thalia was making her own progress around the drawing room, trailed by the puppyishly devoted Peter Elliott. She seemed not to notice him, but he now carried her script for her. No doubt he would bear her shawl and reticule, too, if she would let him. Clio’s father had found Lady Rushworth, and they
Chapter Ten
L ady Riverton’s palazzo was lit up like a Chinese lantern, glowing a hot orange in the dusty-black Sicilian night. Clio gazed up at the windows as she stepped from the carriage, watching as figures already inside strolled past the glass like puppets in a pantomime. They talked and laughed, silent behind the panes, raising glasses of wine, examining proffered trays of delicacies. A liveried footman held the door open for the Chases as they made their way through the manicured courtyard.
How terribly civilised it all was, Clio thought, stepping into that light and noise. As if it were a million miles from the windswept medieval tower, the grey stones that whispered of battles and death and old, old gods.
She remembered what Edward had told her when he had first appeared at her farmhouse, that there was danger here. Well, at this house danger surely dared not show its face. The only real peril was in possibly finding oneself cornered and talked at by Lady Riverton’s voluble friend, Ronald Frobisher. All in all, Clio preferred curses and spirits.
She surrendered her cloak to another footman, examiningherself in one of the gilt-framed mirrors hung on the marble foyer walls. She had left off her brown-and-grey work dresses for a gown in jade-green silk, trimmed on the bodice and cap sleeves with finely spun gold lace. Her hair was smoothed and pinned up, bound by a scarf of more gold lace. She wore a pair of antique Mycenaean gold bracelets over her gloves, pieces that had once been part of her mother’s vast jewellery collection. The silk and lace, the gold, it was all an armour of sorts, a disguise carefully constructed to make her appear a fashionable lady, a part of this glittering throng, while her true thoughts were always hidden.
Thalia hurried into the drawing room, her blue eyes glowing with purpose, her pink-and-white muslin skirts whispering softly around her. In her gloved hands she held her rolled Antigone script. Clio followed slowly, staying to the back of the room until she had gauged the lay of the land.
Lady Riverton held court by the ornate plaster fireplace, clad in eye-catching red-and-bronze brocade, an elaborate plumed turban atop her curls. Next to her stood Ronald Frobisher, her ‘special friend’—or lapdog, as Clio sometimes thought him—a man of delicately slender stature, lovely brown eyes and soft, dark curls. He claimed to be descended from the great Elizabethan mariner, but his life seemed to consist of naught but fetching and fawning. The two of them chatted happily away as they greeted guests, but Lady Riverton kept a sharp eye on the trays of wineglasses and lobster tarts, the new arrivals at the door.
And a great many arrivals there were. Clio slid into a corner near the stage, behind a pair of large comedy/tragedy statues. All the English families were there, the Darbys and Elliotts, the young Manning-Smythes, and also the noble Sicilian families who had not yet decamped to Naples. Theystayed mostly in their own tribal clusters at the other end of the room, deigning to grace the foreign proceedings with their dignified presence.
Did they come for the food, then, as her father did? Clio watched as one black-silk-clad matron slid a tart into her reticule. Or perhaps they came to keep an eye on their local antiquities.
Well, whatever their reasons, they certainly added an ancien régime dignity to Lady Riverton’s proceedings, and filled out her vast rooms quite nicely.
Thalia was making her own progress around the drawing room, trailed by the puppyishly devoted Peter Elliott. She seemed not to notice him, but he now carried her script for her. No doubt he would bear her shawl and reticule, too, if she would let him. Clio’s father had found Lady Rushworth, and they
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