Scandalous Risks by Susan Howatch

firm jaw with a cleft chin, and deep lines about his strong mouth. These lines, which immediately suggested past suffering, reminded me he had once been a prisoner of war. ‘
    I opened my mouth to remark to Primrose how rare it was to encounter a handsome cleric, but at that moment we were interrupted by James, Aysgarth’s soldier son, and I was obliged to endure a lot of jolly talk about nothing. Nevertheless I kept an eye on the Professor. He was gliding around, displaying a formidable social technique as he talked to everyone in turn. From various syllables which reached my ears I gathered he was even able to talk to Harold’s clothes-horse about fashion.
    Eventually Primrose was unable to resist abandoning me to move to her father’s side, jolly James decided to take a hand in passing around the canapés (our butler Pond was most put out) and I was just pretending to inspect my mother’s somewhat constipated flower arrangement when the future Bishop of Starbridge materialised at my elbow and said with such a polished charm that I even thought for a moment that he was genuinely interested in me: ‘I hear you’ve been visiting Florence. It’s a beautiful city, isn’t it?’
    ‘Possibly,’ I said, determined not to simper at him merely because he was one of the most distinguished churchmen in England, ‘but I don’t like Abroad.’
    ‘In that case I assume you’re glad to be home!’
    ‘Not specially, but don’t let’s waste time talking about me, Professor. I’m not a bit interesting, although it’s very kind of you to pretend that I am. Why don’t you tell me all about you?’
    I had pierced the cast-iron professional charm. ‘Ah, so you’re a listener!’ he exclaimed with a seemingly genuine amusement. ‘How delightful!’
    Mrs Ashworth, slender and sleek in a black dress, chose that moment to interrupt us. My first impression had been that she was much younger than her husband, but now I saw that shewas probably his contemporary; her neck had that crêpe-like look which afflicts women past the menopause, but she was so immaculately made up that one barely noticed the tell-tale signs of age. Her dark hair was swept back from her forehead and drawn into a bun at the nape of her neck. Her rimless spectacles gave her a chaste, schoolmistressy look which was curiously at odds with the wicked little dress which clung to her svelte figure, and at once I decided she was far more interesting than her husband. The Professor seemed a very typical product of the best public schools and universities, but Mrs Ashworth, whom I found impossible to place against any definitive background, didn’t seem typical of anything.
    She was saying lightly to her husband: ‘Vamping young girls again, darling?’
    ‘Indeed I am — I’ve just discovered Miss Flaxton’s a listener.’
    ‘Ah, a femme fatale! ’ said Mrs Ashworth, regarding me with a friendly interest as I mentally reeled at her choice of phrase. ‘How clever of you, Miss Flaxton! Men adore good listeners — they have a great need to pour out their hearts regularly to sympathetic women.’
    ‘I do it all the time myself,’ said the Professor, effortlessly debonair. ‘Apart from golf it’s my favourite hobby.’
    ‘How very intriguing that sounds!’ said Aysgarth, sailing into our midst with his champagne glass clasped tightly in his hand. ‘Am I allowed to ask what this hobby is or should I preserve a discreet silence?’
    There was a small but awkward pause during which I was the only one who laughed — a fact which startled me because although the remark could have been classed as risqué it could hardly have been described as offensive. Yet both Ashworths were as motionless as if Aysgarth had made some error of taste, and Aysgarth himself immediately began to behave as if he had committed a faux pas. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘Bad joke. Silly of me.’
    The Professor made a lightning recovery. ‘No, no!’ he said, smooth as glass. ‘I was