Spies in St. Petersburg. Katherine Woodfine
Mayfair, London, England
‘Where will you be travelling this year, my dear?’ asked the lady in pink satin ruffles. ‘The Riviera, as usual?’
‘Yes, and then to St Moritz for winter sports,’ replied her friend in lace frills. ‘What about you?’
‘Oh, Charles is always so tiresome about wanting to attend shooting parties in the autumn,’ sighed the lady in pink. ‘Not at all my idea of fun! But I hope we shall go away in a month or two. I simply long for abroad!’
‘London is so dull once the Season has ended,’ agreed her companion, looking around the room with a disappointed air. ‘Everything interesting seems to happen somewhere else.’
It was true that the summer Season, with its grand entertainments, was over. Yet this quieter autumn gathering was still magnificent by most people’s standards. The long supper table was heaped with tempting delicacies, and silver bowls of fruit punch gleamed in the glittering light of the chandeliers. The ballroom was bathed in rich golden light, and outside the long windows, London was turning gold too. The leaves of the trees flamed yellow and orange, and a hundred little lights twinkled in the distance, as a soft blue twilight fell.
In the ballroom, a string quartet played an elegant waltz, and young ladies in white frocks danced gracefully with upright young gentlemen, whilst their mamas watched approvingly from the sidelines. At the edge of the dance floor, one of the sons of the house was being chivvied forward by his own mama.
‘Good heavens, Rupert! What is the matter with you?’ Lady Grenville pointed her fan in the direction of a young lady across the room. ‘Look – there’s Lady Cynthia, sitting all by herself! Can’t you go and ask her in to supper with you?’
But Rupert shrugged her off. He had no interest in his mother’s social gatherings, which he thought dull and old-fashioned. He didn’t want to dance with the prim debutantes, or to chat with their earnest dancing partners. Most of all, he did not want to sit and have supper with the sneering Lady Cynthia, under the beady eye of her chaperone. Muttering something gruff, he strode off to the refreshment table, helping himself to another cup of punch before retreating to a corner where he stood alone, pulling at his too-tight collar.
From across the room, a girl stood and watched him. Anyone who noticed her would probably think her just the same as the other young ladies present – a pretty girl of eighteen or so, who had no doubt made her ‘debut’ in society that summer. Yet a sharp-eyed observer might have noticed that there was something different about her. It was hard to pinpoint exactly what it was: perhaps her stylish white gown, perhaps her shining dark hair with the vivid spray of crimson roses pinned against it – or perhaps the bright gleam in her eyes, as she glanced around the room, as though she was seeing it more clearly than anyone else.
For a moment more, she watched Rupert fold his arms and sprawl back against the mantelpiece. Then she crossed the room towards him.
‘These balls are so dreadfully dull – don’t you think?’
Rupert turned in surprise. Wrapped up in his boredom, he hadn’t noticed her approaching. Now, she stood just behind him, leaning against the wall as though she was as bored as he was himself. He looked up at her – for she was taller than he was – and his eyes widened. Well-brought-up young ladies did not normally go wandering about the ballroom, starting up conversations with young men to whom they had not been properly introduced.
‘Oh yes . . . er . . . rather,’ he stuttered in reply.
‘I’d much rather go out on the town, wouldn’t you?’ She flipped her ostrich-feather fan open and began fanning herself lazily. ‘Perhaps to the Café Royal. Now that’s quite a place. You never know who is going to be there, or what is going to happen.’
‘Oh rather!’ said Rupert, more enthusiastically this time. He’d never actually been to the Café Royal himself, but he’d heard it was a wild and exciting sort of place – a thousand miles away from his mother’s sedate ballroom.
The girl let out a sigh. ‘If only we could escape! But I suppose we’ll have to put up with all this instead.’ She gestured dismissively towards the waltzing couples.
‘Would you . . . I mean . . . do you think that you might like to . . . ?’ Rupert found himself asking, looking awkwardly from her to the dance floor, and then back again.
‘To dance?’ The girl laughed, as though he’d made a joke. ‘Oh, good heavens, no, Mr Grenville! I don’t care for that kind of dancing. If it was a ragtime tune, now that would be different. But I know – why don’t you show me around the house instead?’ She flashed him a dazzling smile. ‘Perhaps we could find somewhere to sit and talk? That would be much better than a stuffy old waltz, wouldn’t it?’
‘Oh yes, absolutely,’ Rupert replied fervently. He didn’t think he’d ever seen this girl before, and he wanted very much to know her name, but somehow he felt embarrassed to ask the question – especially when she obviously knew who he was. Before he could say anything more, she had placed her hand on his arm, and they were going out of the ballroom and into the long hallway.
‘Your father has a simply wonderful art collection,’ she was saying. ‘I’m tremendously interested in art – aren’t you?’
‘Oh rather!’ said Rupert again, although the truth was he’d never given very much thought to his father’s art collection, besides the fact that it was worth a terrific lot of money. Sir Edwin Grenville was a wealthy merchant banker, and buying art was just one of the things he did as a matter of course – like dining at his club, or playing golf with his business associates.
‘Where does he keep the rest of his paintings? Perhaps you could show me?’
Rupert found himself blushing. Most of the debutantes he met were so polite and demure – it was hard to know how to respond to a girl who started conversations, and asked questions, and looked at him so directly with her large dark eyes. He opened the door to his father’s study, explaining: ‘Most of them are in here.’
The girl glanced quickly around, taking in the panelled walls hung with oil paintings in heavy gold frames. ‘What a lot there are,’ she observed. ‘Where did your father get them all?’
‘Oh, you know. Here and there,’ said Rupert, trying to sound confident – though honestly, he was not entirely sure. ‘Auctions and so on. He’s travelled abroad a lot for his work, and he always seems to come back with something new. Actually, he said he’ll take me with him on his next trip,’ he couldn’t resist adding, feeling a swell of pride at the thought.
‘Oh, really? I’m fond of travelling myself. It’s always thrilling to see new places and have adventures.’
Rupert felt rather surprised. ‘I didn’t think young ladies were allowed to do much of that sort of thing.’
‘Didn’t you?’ She had turned to examine a painting more closely, now she turned back to him. ‘It’s not a bad selection. One or two nice pieces, I suppose,’ she said, flipping her fan open once again.
‘This isn’t all of them, of course,’ Rupert said hurriedly, keen not to disappoint. ‘There are more paintings in the dining room – and some of the very special ones aren’t on display.’
The girl’s eyes brightened. ‘Very special ones? Like what?’ she asked.
‘Well, he’s got some Turner sketches,’ said Rupert, remembering a name he knew.
But the girl wasn’t impressed: ‘Oh – Turner. I mean, they’re wonderful of course, but I’ve seen dozens of them in galleries before.’
‘Or there’s a Benedetto Casselli,’ Rupert added, knowing that, at least, was certain to be impressive. Still, he was unprepared for her awed reaction:
‘A Benedetto Casselli? Not really? Now that’s