The Serpent and the Scorpion (14 page)

“Something like that,” Ursula answered.

 
What had once been a Georgian town house had been converted by Dobbs over the last year into a house befitting a wealthy bachelor eager to impress society. From the rich wallpaper to the maritime paintings, everything was deliberately planned to evoke the image of Dobbs as a man who had helped make the British Empire what it was today. None of this impressed Ursula, for her tastes were far less ornate, but nonetheless she recognized and respected the power that Dobbs was trying to convey.

Framed against the Moorish fretwork of Dobbs’s ornate entrance hall, Ursula, in her draped gown by Doucet, could have stepped out of the French magazine
Gazette du Bon Ton—
from the soft folds of her diaphanous dress to her satin coat edged with silver fox and the black ostrich feather in her hair, every inch the model of Parisian haute couture. Christopher Dobbs, in a sleek black tuxedo, stood by the doorway to his opulent ballroom, welcoming his guests. His eyes narrowed as he threw her an appraising glance, but Ursula refused to lose her composure.

“Ursula!” Christopher held out his hand to clasp hers. “You look positively ravishing! It seems only yesterday you were running around Gray House in your pinafore and pigtails.”

Ursula ignored his condescending tone. Instead she smiled charmingly and replied pleasantly, “The new place looks splendid. You’ve achieved so much since I’ve been in Egypt.” If, she thought to herself, achievement means converting a decent Georgian town house into a monstrosity of lavish and vulgar tastes.

Dobbs’s butler, Jeffries, moved forward to take Ursula’s coat. It slid off easily with a shrug of her shoulders to reveal the neoclassical lines of her oyster gray dress. The delicate citrine and peridot necklace about her throat shimmered in the electric light.

Christopher Dobbs tightened his smile, clearly not deceived by Ursula’s disingenuous compliment. His attention quickly moved on to his other guests as Ursula entered the ballroom scanning the crowded room to see who had been invited. There were Gerard and Elizabeth Anderson, of course, standing next to one of Christopher’s latest acquisitions, a painting of Nelson’s ship
Victory
at Trafalgar. Daniel Abbott was here without his wife, and judging from the awkwardness of his gait, Ursula surmised he had already been drinking for some time. In addition to her late father’s erstwhile associates, there was a multitude of London’s most successful businessmen and their wives or mistresses. Christopher Dobbs also loved to be surrounded by the music-hall set—he found the gaiety girls a particularly successful enticement for the aristocrats and military men with whom he wished to become better acquainted. With the thick cigar and cigarette smoke, glasses of champagne and whiskey, and a pianist playing ragtime, the room had the atmosphere of a private men’s club rather than a cocktail party.

Ursula made her way into the ballroom and spent the next hour mingling and chatting with those she knew. She felt the disapproving stares of many of the guests: her status of female businesswoman and suffragette was sufficient cause for raised eyebrows in much of London society, but here she also felt the pall of a different kind of condemnation among Dobbs’s guests—the denunciation of an “educated” woman. As a result, Ursula felt detached and uneasy. She cradled her glass of champagne in one hand and carefully mounted the stairs that led to the balcony overlooking the ballroom. She needed a place that would allow some circumspection as well as relief from the tedium of conversation with the likes of Brigadier Galbraith and his “lady friend,” Doris Arkwright (known as Dolly Starbright every Saturday night at the Trocadero). Ursula leaned against the marble balustrade and closed her eyes for a moment.

“A penny for them . . . ,” Hugh Carmichael said coming up behind her.

Ursula turned her head in astonishment. “Hugh, what on earth are you doing here?”

Hugh joined her and, with a gesture to the masses below, said, “I’ve come for the spectacle of it all.”

Ursula raised her eyebrows. “I thought you would be at home by now.”

Hugh’s face clouded over. “I wish I were. But Dobbs here,” he continued with a pointed look at Christopher Dobbs, “has just made an offer for one of my shipyards.”

Ursula frowned. “I didn’t think your shipyards were for sale.”

“They’re not,” Hugh replied curtly. “But the bankers are closing in, and Dobbs knows it. My manager sent word of his offer as soon as I arrived . . . which is why I’m here.”

“You’re not telling me you’re actually thinking of accepting him!”

“Never.” Hugh’s response was grim. “But I thought I had better see what I was up against.”

Ursula looked at Hugh with concern. “What does Dobbs want with a Newcastle shipyard?”

“Dreadnoughts, it would seem. Rumor has it he’s angling for a contract to build ’em. Taking advantage of the naval buildup against the German threat and all that.”

Ursula let her mind tick over the import of his words.

“Iris would have insisted that I reject his offer in the strongest terms possible,” Hugh continued.

Of course, Ursula remembered, Iris had been a pacifist. She would never have countenanced the use of her family’s shipyards to build a warship.

“I understand. Please let me know if there’s anything . . .” Ursula’s voice trailed off as she saw him enter the ballroom below. It had been over three months, but the physical impact of his presence was as potent as ever. Hugh Carmichael’s gaze followed hers to the tall, aristocratic man in immaculate evening clothes.

“Lord Wrotham, I presume.”

Ursula roused herself and nodded. Hugh patted her shoulder. “It’s time I went and met my enemy face to face. Looks like you are preparing to do the same.”

Ursula drained her champagne glass and gave him a weary smile. “Something like that,” she admitted. Hugh took his leave and started walking back down the staircase.

Ursula’s hands gripped the balustrade. Her throat grew tight, so constricted that she could hardly breathe. She had to will herself to defy the panic that rose within her, to vanquish the surge of desire he aroused. But she hadn’t expected him to be here, and she could not stem the breach. He looked up and caught sight of her. The ambush was complete.

Ursula quickly stepped back and retreated into the dim recesses of the book-lined mezzanine. Christopher Dobbs had purchased the entire library of an earl he had forced into bankruptcy. Although Ursula despised him for it, she could not help but admire the wealth of the collection. Now, surrounded on all sides by books, she found momentary sanctuary. She inhaled and exhaled slowly. She needed to recover her self-possession quickly; the last thing she wanted was to generate any more gossip.

Ursula returned to the balcony and then descended the wide staircase into the ballroom. The staircase was filled with people. She caught snippets of conversations, fragments of images. Champagne glasses, cigarettes, feathers—the flash of fine jewelry. By the time she reached the foot of the staircase, she had regained at least the appearance of equanimity. Lord Wrotham, standing by the wide marble fireplace, started to approach her. With a calm, determined stride she joined him, noting out of the corner of her eye that Christopher Dobbs was watching them closely. I will not be intimidated by these men, she admonished herself, and bid Lord Wrotham a serene good evening.

His countenance, as always, was impassive.

“I was not aware that you had returned from Egypt.” Wrotham paused with quiet deliberation, but the unspoken censure was evident in his tone.

Ursula flushed. “I only returned only a couple of days ago, and went straight up north.”

“I see.”

“Mr. Carmichael kindly allowed me to accompany him across the Channel in his airplane. He’s a pilot, you know. . . . Julia is still en route from Egypt with the rest of my things. When I got your message about the accident in Oldham, I knew I had to return as quickly as possible.”

“You came by plane—”

“Across the Channel, yes.” Ursula waited for his disapproval, but his expression remained neutral.

She couldn’t bear it—the strain of their conversation, the chill in his tone. It was as if they were strangers.

“Why, Miss Marlow!” The shrill, unmistakable voice of Mrs. Eudora Pomfrey-Smith interrupted her thoughts.

Ursula thought she saw Lord Wrotham wince. In the last few years before Ursula’s father’s death, Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith had been his mistress. She now regarded herself as Ursula’s personal confidante and adviser on all things related to “polite society.”

Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith tucked her arm through Ursula’s with a conspiratorial smile. “I’ve been talking to Mr. Carmichael. My dear, you have been having some adventures. Returning from Egypt and crossing the Channel in an airplane, of all things! Why, it will be the talk of the town!”

Ursula barely suppressed a groan. She should, of course, have guessed that her trip would soon generate quite a sensation. “Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith, I didn’t expect to see you here.” She thought it was best to ignore the subject of her arrival.

“Oh, Topper has been so good to me. After your father died.” Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. Ursula found it irritating that she should make such a display of herself in public. “I was totally at a loss, but Topper’s return from India has given me quite the new lease on life. I am determined to find him a suitable match. You know”—she leaned in with a sly smile—“you really must come to my salons more often.” Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith shot Lord Wrotham a sly look. “As trustee for your father’s estate, I’m sure Lord Wrotham would agree on the necessity of you marrying well.”

“Indubitably,” Lord Wrotham responded drily, and Ursula flushed again.

“Your concern for my marital well-being is most commendable,” Ursula said, “but I’m sure I am quite capable of taking care of that particular matter on my own.”

“Really?” Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith replied, her tone sharpening. “Doesn’t seem that way to me.”

Ursula fell silent, feeling the weight of Lord Wrotham’s stare upon her. His eyes, watchful and guarded, never left her face. She wanted to pull him aside and confide in him all her concerns over Katya’s death and the events in Oldham, but she knew she had to deal with these on her own. Under his scrutiny she felt her self-assurance falter, but she endeavored to maintain the appearance of calm despite the irritating presence of Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith.

Thankfully, Mrs. Pomfrey-Smith spied an old acquaintance from her days in India, providing both Lord Wrotham and Ursula the opportunity to extricate themselves from her and each other’s company. Ursula found refuge beside one of the tall French windows that led out onto the garden terrace. She grabbed another glass of champagne from the tray proffered by one of the footmen and took a swift gulp. As she did so, she could hear Christopher Dobbs on the terrace, holding forth on his favorite topic—the possibility of a war with Germany.

“We all know war is coming; we may as well be helping England build her military power and resources to meet the German threat now. There’s money to be made, yes, but there’s also the real chance that Germany could act sooner than we think. England needs to be prepared. I’m just seeking the opportunity to be of help in that.”

Ursula felt slightly sick. He sounded so dispassionate, so calculating—as if war should not be measured in people’s lives but in armaments and machines.

“I mean, I don’t deceive myself that I can compete with the likes of Vickers, but with war coming, there’s plenty of work to be done.”

“There’s no disputin’ that,” came the emphatic voice of Brigadier Galbraith.

“And naval power will be critical. It’ll be the dreadnoughts that win us this war, mark my words.”

“Undoubtedly—so when are we likely to see the new shipyard up and running?”

“Just as soon as I can persuade Hugh Carmichael to hand over the papers.”

“Is that really likely?”

“Well, he may have no choice. He’s already defaulted on his loan. I’ve made him a fair offer. Unless another buyer comes forward, which is highly unlikely, I don’t see what else he can do.”

“And if he refuses?”

“My solicitor has it all in hand. We’ve even retained the services of one of the most eminent lawyers in the country. If we have to, we’ll go to court and force the issue, but I really don’t think it will come to that. Hugh Carmichael is a sensible man—I’m sure we can make him see reason.”

Ursula bit her lip. She would have to warn Hugh Carmichael about Dobbs.

“Good thing his wife ain’t around anymore—Quaker, don’t you know. Bloody pacifists—if they had their way, England would soon be at the mercy of the Hun!”

Ursula sighed. Clearly Dobbs had surrounded himself with like-minded men. She would have to tread carefully. Trying to shake off her fears, she returned to the party and for the next two hours found herself engaged in a strange kind of dance. She and Lord Wrotham circled each other; the more she tried to avoid him, the more she found her gaze locking on his. They made no move to speak with each other again, but it was as if the room became ever smaller—drawing them closer and closer to each other in an ever-narrowing spiral.

Ursula felt lightheaded. Too much champagne, no doubt. But with this came a giddy recklessness that took all her strength to restrain. Each of her senses pricked. If she closed her eyes she could feel his warmth, she could smell his cologne, she could taste his kiss. The heat, the chatter, and the smoke whirled around her. She knew she had to leave.

Ursula walked swiftly to the entrance hall. Out of the corner of her eye she spied Christopher Dobbs mounting the staircase up to the balcony.

“I wouldn’t bother waiting for him to say your good-byes.” A drunken figure stumbled past her, and Ursula turned to see Daniel Abbott lurch toward the billiards room. He hadn’t been the same since his daughter Cecilia’s death. “Brought back a little something to keep him company—from India, don’t y’know,” he said, tapping a finger on his nose. “Name’s Lilliani or some such thing.”