Culum bowed to another guest and another, and he noticed with relief that the line was thinning. He glanced shoreward, where a ribbon of lanterns guided the guests from their boats, and saw Longstaff’s cutter hit the beach. Longstaff, the archduke and the admiral were assisted ashore. Good, Culum thought. Not long now. Again his eyes strayed around the floor and this time came to rest on Manoelita de Vargas. She was watching him over the top of her fan. She was very beautiful—stark-white skin, dark eyes, a mantilla in her black hair. Culum smiled and made a slight bow. Manoelita’s eyes crinkled and she fluttered her fan and then turned away. Culum promised himself that he would have at least one dance with her.
He brushed some dust off his lapels, conscious that he was dressed in the latest English fashion, well in advance of most of the men tonight. His coat was sky-blue, with dark blue silk lapels, tight at the waist and flaring over his hips. Pale blue skin-tight trousers were tucked into soft black half boots. Hair curled over his ears and over his high, starched collar. Robb’s tailor had done a very good job, he thought. And so cheap! Why, on a hundred and fifty guineas a month he could afford dozens of superb suits and boots. Life was wonderful.
He bowed as another group of guests passed by, leaving in their wake the dankness of ancient sweat overlaid with perfume. Strange, he thought. Now he could smell other people and they did stink. He was amazed that he hadn’t noticed it before. Certainly he felt better, much better, since he had been having a daily bath and change of clothes. The Tai-Pan was right.
He looked at his father, who was deep in conversation with Morley Skinner. Culum was aware that people were watching him, and that his expression was antagonistic. As far as the guests were concerned, there was no sign that the hostility between father and son had lessened. In fact, it had deepened into cold politeness. Since the game had started, Culum had found it increasingly easier to carry out the deception in public. Be honest, Culum, he said to himself. You no longer idolize him. You still respect him—but he’s a heretic, adulterer, and dangerous influence. So you’re not pretending—you are cold. Cold and cautious.
“Come on, Culum laddie,” Robb whispered uneasily.
“What, Uncle?”
“Oh, nothing. Just that tonight’s a night to celebrate.”
“Yes, it is.” Culum read the troubled expression in Robb’s eyes but said nothing and turned back to greet other guests and to watch Mary and occasionally Manoelita. He decided he would not tell Robb what had happened between the Tai-Pan and himself on the mountain-top.
“You haven’t met my nephew Culum,” he heard Robb say. “Culum, this is Miss Tess Brock.”
Culum turned. His heart twisted, and he fell in love.
Tess was curtsying. The skirt of her dress was huge and billowing, white silk brocade over cascading petticoats that broke like froth from beneath the hem. Her waist seemed incredibly small below the swelling low-cut bodice. Her fair hair fell in soft ringlets on her bare shoulders. Culum saw that her eyes were blue, her lips inviting. And she was looking at him as he was looking at her.
“I’m honored to meet you,” he heard himself say in an unreal voice. “Perhaps you’d honor me with the first dance.”
“Thank you, Mr. Struan,” he heard her say, her voice bell-like, and she was gone.
Liza had been watching carefully. She had seen Culum’s expression and Tess’s response. Oh Lord, let it happen, make it happen, she thought as she followed Brock across the floor.
“I did na recognize little Tess, did you?” Struan was saying to Robb. He too had noticed the exchange between his son and the Brock girl, and his mind was churning with the advantages and dangers inherent in a Culum-Tess match. Good sweet Christ!
“No. Look at Brock. He’s busting with pride.”
“Aye.”
“And look at Mary. I’d never have thought that she could be so—so stunning either.”
“Aye.” Struan watched Mary a moment. The black dress enhanced the ethereal luminous pallor of her skin. Then he scrutinized Manoelita. Then Tess again. She was smiling at Culum, who was smiling back, as obliviously. Good God, he thought, Culum Struan and Tess Brock.
“Damn Shakespeare,” he said involuntarily.
“Eh, Dirk?”
“Nothing. I’d say Mary is in the race for the prize right enough.”
“She’s not in the same class, by God,” Quance said as he strolled past and winked. “Not with Manoelita de Vargas.”
“Or Shevaun, I’ll wager,” Struan said, “when she deigns to honor us with her presence.”
“Ah, the delectible Miss Tillman. I hear she’s only wearing pantaloons and gossamer. Nothing else! Great spheroids of Jupiter, eh?”
“Ah, Aristotle,” Jeff Cooper said, coming up to them. “Can I have a word with you? It’s about a painting commission.”
“God bless my beautiful soul! Really don’t understand what’s come over everyone,” Quance said suspiciously. “Nothing but commissions all day long.”
“We’ve suddenly realized the perfection of your work,” Cooper said quickly.
“And it’s about time, by God, and that’s the immortal truth. Me price is up. Fifty guineas.”
“Let’s discuss it over a champagne, eh?” Cooper winked surreptitiously to Struan over Quance’s head and steered the little man away.
Struan chuckled. He had spread the word to keep Quance occupied and away from wagging tongues—until the judging. And he had effectively marooned Maureen Quance aboard the small hulk by withdrawing all the longboats.
At that moment Longstaff and the archduke and the admiral came into the light.
There was a roll of drums and everyone stood as the bands played “God Save the Queen.” Next they played, haltingly, the Russian national anthem, and finally “Rule Britannia.” There was a round of applause.
“That was most thoughtful of you, Mr. Struan,” Zergeyev said.
“It’s our pleasure, Your Highness. We want you to feel at home.” Struan knew that all eyes were on the two of them, and he knew that he had chosen his clothes wisely.
In contrast to everyone else, he wore black, except for a small green ribbon which tied his long hair at the nape of his neck. “Perhaps you’d care to lead the first dance?”
“I would be honored. But I’m afraid I don’t know any ladies.” Zergeyev was wearing a brilliant Cossack uniform, the tunic draped elegantly on one shoulder, a dress sword at his jeweled belt. Two liveried servants were obsequiously in attendance.
“That’s easily remedied,” Struan said breezily. “Perhaps you’d care to choose. I’d be glad to make the formal introduction.”
“That would be very impolite of me. Perhaps you’d decide who might care to honor me.”
“And get my eyes scratched out? Very well.” He turned and began to cross the floor. Manoelita would be the best choice. That would greatly honor and please the Portuguese society on whom The Noble House and all the traders relied completely to supply clerks, bookkeepers, storesmen—all those who made the companies function. Mary Sinclair would be almost as good a choice, for she was strangely intriguing tonight and the most beautiful woman in the room. But nothing would be gained by choosing her, except Glessing’s support. Struan had noticed how Glessing was close in attendance on her. Since he had become harbor master his position of influence had increased. And he would be a very useful ally.
Struan saw Manoelita’s eyes widen and Mary Sinclair catch her breath as he headed in their direction. But he stopped in front of Brock.