company of Mr Martin Frobisher. From the practiced way with which Charlotte looped her arm through her friend’s and gradually eased her away, he gathered that this was not the first time that particular manoeuvre had been effected. ‘You’ll have to acquaint me with the other leaping lords. I’m afraid I’ve been abroad a very long time.’
‘Have you been on the Continent?’ Medmenham enquired, his eyes roaming idly over the rest of the party. In the shifting light of the torches, Charlotte was shepherding her friend away across the clearing, towards a very large young man in a cravat patterned with pink carnations, who appeared to be attempting to cut down a tree with the blunt side of his saw. ‘I hear there are still bits of Italy that are habitable, despite Bonaparte’s best efforts.’
‘No,’ said Robert shortly. ‘I was in India.’
‘Ah.’ Medmenham looked him full in the face. ‘You must know Freddy, then. Lord Frederick Staines,’ he clarified.
Robert plastered on his best expression of worldly ennui. ‘I’m afraid I know him only by reputation.’
‘I needn’t ask what that is,’ said Medmenham, with casual scorn. ‘Freddy always was too dim to know which tit to nurse from.’
Robert raised an urbane eyebrow. ‘So you’re friends, then.’
Medmenham’s lips quirked in appreciation. ‘Old Freddy has his redeeming points.’
‘Such as?’
‘A talent for collecting … interesting people.’ A red ring glinted on Medmenham’s gloved hand as he lifted his handkerchief delicately to his nose. It looked, thought Robert, uncommonly like the ring he had noticed on Frobisher’s hand as well. ‘And a perpetually open purse.’
‘A useful person to know.’ What had seemed like mere scratches on Frobisher’s ring were more deeply etched on Medmenham’s. The incised lines took up the entire surface of the stone, curving in a series of overlapping curlicues. When seen right side up, the whole came together as a stylized flower that Robert recognised from thousands of temple carvings. One could scarcely go anywhere in India without seeing the representation of a lotus.
It was not, however, a flower generally favoured for pictorial purposes in England, at least not that he could ever recall. The only recollection he had of the lotus flower prior to India was classical in origin, the island of the Lotus Eaters in Homer’s Odyssey , where the inhabitants dreamt their days chewing on the opiate leaves of the lotus.
‘I shouldn’t think you would be wanting for blunt.’ Medmenham ran an appraising eye over the huge urns that towered along the roofline of the jutting wings of Girdings. ‘How many tenants do you have?’
Robert supposed he must have tenants, but it wasn’t an item with which he had acquainted himself. He had made a point of never taking any income from the estates that accident had tossed his way. They were not, as far as he was concerned, really his. But that certainly wasn’t something he was going to share with Medmenham.
Instead, he shrugged, like any other bored young man of the world. ‘Who keeps count?’
It was obviously the right answer. The lotus ring glinted in another lazy pass through the air. ‘Who, indeed. Leave that to the estate agents. That’s what they’re there for. Why drudge away when there are so many other pleasures to be had?’
‘Why, indeed,’ echoed Rob as the hazy outlines of a plan began to take shape. It couldn’t be coincidence that both Frobisher and Medmenham bore the same ring, or that Staines was reputed to collect ‘interesting people.’ If one of those interesting people was the man Robert sought …
Rob’s pulse pounded in his ears as he said, with studied casualness, ‘If someone unfamiliar with the land were to wish to know more about such pleasures …’
‘I believe that might be arranged,’ said Medmenham. ‘For a price.’
In the torchlight, his eyes gleamed as red as his ring. ‘There is always a
‘Have you been on the Continent?’ Medmenham enquired, his eyes roaming idly over the rest of the party. In the shifting light of the torches, Charlotte was shepherding her friend away across the clearing, towards a very large young man in a cravat patterned with pink carnations, who appeared to be attempting to cut down a tree with the blunt side of his saw. ‘I hear there are still bits of Italy that are habitable, despite Bonaparte’s best efforts.’
‘No,’ said Robert shortly. ‘I was in India.’
‘Ah.’ Medmenham looked him full in the face. ‘You must know Freddy, then. Lord Frederick Staines,’ he clarified.
Robert plastered on his best expression of worldly ennui. ‘I’m afraid I know him only by reputation.’
‘I needn’t ask what that is,’ said Medmenham, with casual scorn. ‘Freddy always was too dim to know which tit to nurse from.’
Robert raised an urbane eyebrow. ‘So you’re friends, then.’
Medmenham’s lips quirked in appreciation. ‘Old Freddy has his redeeming points.’
‘Such as?’
‘A talent for collecting … interesting people.’ A red ring glinted on Medmenham’s gloved hand as he lifted his handkerchief delicately to his nose. It looked, thought Robert, uncommonly like the ring he had noticed on Frobisher’s hand as well. ‘And a perpetually open purse.’
‘A useful person to know.’ What had seemed like mere scratches on Frobisher’s ring were more deeply etched on Medmenham’s. The incised lines took up the entire surface of the stone, curving in a series of overlapping curlicues. When seen right side up, the whole came together as a stylized flower that Robert recognised from thousands of temple carvings. One could scarcely go anywhere in India without seeing the representation of a lotus.
It was not, however, a flower generally favoured for pictorial purposes in England, at least not that he could ever recall. The only recollection he had of the lotus flower prior to India was classical in origin, the island of the Lotus Eaters in Homer’s Odyssey , where the inhabitants dreamt their days chewing on the opiate leaves of the lotus.
‘I shouldn’t think you would be wanting for blunt.’ Medmenham ran an appraising eye over the huge urns that towered along the roofline of the jutting wings of Girdings. ‘How many tenants do you have?’
Robert supposed he must have tenants, but it wasn’t an item with which he had acquainted himself. He had made a point of never taking any income from the estates that accident had tossed his way. They were not, as far as he was concerned, really his. But that certainly wasn’t something he was going to share with Medmenham.
Instead, he shrugged, like any other bored young man of the world. ‘Who keeps count?’
It was obviously the right answer. The lotus ring glinted in another lazy pass through the air. ‘Who, indeed. Leave that to the estate agents. That’s what they’re there for. Why drudge away when there are so many other pleasures to be had?’
‘Why, indeed,’ echoed Rob as the hazy outlines of a plan began to take shape. It couldn’t be coincidence that both Frobisher and Medmenham bore the same ring, or that Staines was reputed to collect ‘interesting people.’ If one of those interesting people was the man Robert sought …
Rob’s pulse pounded in his ears as he said, with studied casualness, ‘If someone unfamiliar with the land were to wish to know more about such pleasures …’
‘I believe that might be arranged,’ said Medmenham. ‘For a price.’
In the torchlight, his eyes gleamed as red as his ring. ‘There is always a
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