Gilded Cage (Dark Gifts #1)(55)
She was glad that it was finally dark by the time the car pulled up at the house, and under the black sky Grendelsham shone brightly from within. Bouda wove through the thronging Equals, dispensing and receiving greetings and kisses as she went to find her allotted room. Grendelsham’s bedrooms and bathrooms were also glass-walled (although, thankfully, curtained). The Second Debate was notorious for the indiscretions and intrigue it provoked. Bouda reminded herself to secure her door that night, in case Gavar Jardine was inspired by the house’s reputation.
She summoned a slave to help her into a dress that was slashed to the small of her back. It was so narrow that Bouda had no idea how to put it on – couture brought from Paris by DiDi that she hadn’t had the heart to refuse. She needn’t have worried. It fell from her shoulders to the floor in a glittering spill of silver, an effect so pleasing that Bouda didn’t even chastise the slave who piped up unbidden to voice her admiration.
She enjoyed the turn of heads as she went back to the reception downstairs and plunged into the press of dinner jackets and evening gowns. Her father and Rix were enjoying snifters on an uncomfortable-looking chrome-and-leather sofa. Daddy was already several sheets to the wind, while her godfather cackled over her account of the latest events in Millmoor.
‘A runaway slave, eh?’ Rix said, fragrant smoke from his cigar pluming down his nostrils. ‘Can’t we set the dogs on his trail? Hypatia’s one, maybe.’
Bouda pulled a face. Hypatia’s hound would have to be securely kennelled during the Third Debate and her own nuptials – or even better, not be at Kyneston at all. Crovan had done his work well and the thing was an eyesore. DiDi would be bound to make a fuss.
She sat between the two men at dinner, then afterwards detached herself unobtrusively and began to work the room. Her favourite part of the evening.
Word of the Millmoor debacle had spread and her Equals were keen to know more. She was coy – it would all be in a little speech she had to give tomorrow, as Secretary of the Justice Council. But here and there she dropped a detail, a small seed to be watered by gossip and speculation. Along with the information went a touch of regret, of exasperation – of doubt, even. What had the Chancellor been thinking, with his irresponsible Proposal, one so open to misinterpretation? And she heard the murmurs of agreement before she moved on.
What fruit might those small seeds eventually bear?
As it grew late the press of people began to thin. However, the volume of noise hadn’t decreased proportionately, as those guests remaining were now rather drunk. Stonier ground for her little seeds. Time to turn in and read through her speech one final time. Perhaps a breath of fresh air first, to clear her head.
Weaving between laughing, flirting groups of Equals and the occasional Observer of Parliament, she noted any who stood particularly close together. This hour of night might not be ideal for sharing information, but knowledge could still be usefully gathered. Bouda was making for Grendelsham’s massive bronze-edged door. She was close enough to see the moon-slicked beach when she was yanked backwards so hard it pulled the breath from her throat.
She spun, furious, ready to lay into Gavar, having seen the red hair as she turned – and found herself face to face with her future father-in-law. His grip squeezed her arm to the bone as he hauled her close. Unbalanced on high heels, Bouda stumbled and fell against his chest, and his other arm went round her. The cut-glass tumbler in his hand dug into the exposed small of her back.
She smelled the whisky he’d been drinking. His face was so close that when he spoke it was as if he breathed the words right into her, like a god animating a manikin of clay.
‘You are a spectacle, in this dress.’
For emphasis, Whittam dragged the glass the length of her naked spine. He stopped at Bouda’s neck and brushed his thumb against her throat. She tipped her head back to avoid the touch, but it only left her feeling more exposed. There was a surging in her ears that could have been her pumping blood, or the sea beyond. But they were surrounded by people. She couldn’t make a scene.
‘It is not appropriate’ – his breath tickled her collarbone, the thumb dug in a little harder – ‘for a member of my family.’
The slippery silver dress was treacherously insubstantial. She felt every shift of his body against hers.
When a wave of cold swept over her she wondered if she had fainted, or if Whittam had committed the ultimate outrage of working Skill upon her to stop her struggles. But she opened her eyes – when had she closed them? – and saw that the great glass door had swung open. A dark shape stood there, a shadow pricked by a tiny hot point of light. A cigarette, she realized, as the smoke drifted towards her. Whittam’s hands fell away and Bouda took a small step back.
‘Is everything okay in here?’
A man’s voice. Polite. Unfamiliar.
‘I was merely having a word with my daughter,’ Whittam said easily, raising his glass to take another swig of whisky. Some of it had spilled down Bouda’s back, and she felt it drying there, sticky.
‘Of course, Lord Jardine. I do hope I’m not interrupting. I simply saw Miss Matravers stumble and wondered if she might benefit from a breath of air. Though when I say “breath of air”’ – the speaker paused thoughtfully – ‘of course I mean “howling clifftop gale”. The effect is quite bracing. Miss Matravers?’
The stranger pushed the door fully open, standing in the entryway as if to invite her outside, and so placing himself between Bouda and her father-in-law.