And what is he thinking, I wonder? That I’m fast for coming here unaccompanied by a relative? Or is it that he recognizes my mixed parentage?
She dismissed the thought and held her head high. No doorman was going to intimidate her. After all, she was a professional, a physician, and an adult, and had every right to go anywhere she pleased, with anyone she pleased. If it was her Indian heritage that the doorman disapproved of, well, that was his problem and not hers unless she chose to make it so. He could disapprove all he liked, since he was not in a position to bar her from entry.
They stood in a foyer that had probably been decorated in the first years of Victoria’s reign or the last years of her father’s, and hadn’t been touched since. It featured the neoclassical motifs that had been popular then; the furniture was not burdened with draperies and flounces to hide its “limbs,” although the colors were more in keeping with the Victorians’ love of dark shades—the room had been papered in brocade of deep green, the Oriental carpet featured the same color, and the upholstery was a faded burgundy. There was a faint hint of old tobacco smoke in the air, and a great deal of dust. Peter Scott led Maya in through a door immediately to the right before she had much more time to look around.
This room had something of an air of disuse, but was furnished to more recent taste—the medievalism of the Pre-Raphaelite movement. The blue wallpaper, figured with peacocks and sinuous acanthus, supported a pair of Morris tapestries; the furnishings, upholstered in dark blue brocade, romantic in style and evocative of the great hall of an ancient castle, could only have come from the same workshop as the tapestries. The quaintly figured carpet, also blue, had a pattern of twining green vines. There was even a painting over the fireplace that Maya was willing to swear was by Millais. A massive sideboard stood beneath the tapestries. There were couches beneath the two windows overlooking the street, two chairs with curvaceous side tables, one on either side of the fireplace, and four dinner tables with four chairs each, none of which were occupied. Peter made a motion to Maya to indicate that she could take her seat anywhere, and reached for a tapestry bell pull beside the doorway, giving it a firm yank.
By the time they were both seated—which was no time at all—a uniformed waiter had appeared at the door, bearing a tray that held two glasses, a bottle of whiskey, a siphon of soda, and a second bottle of something straw-colored.
“Would you or your guest like to see a menu, Mr. Scott?” the waiter asked, deftly pouring Peter a whiskey and soda and setting it down in front of him. Maya held up her hand to prevent him from pouring her a glass of ratafia, since her nose identified the contents of the decanter as he unstoppered it.
“I should prefer a whiskey and soda myself, please,” she said firmly. “But I don’t believe that I need a menu. If you have a roast or a curry, I shall have that, with steamed vegetables and rice.”
The waiter raised an eyebrow; Peter’s lips twitched, but something of a smile escaped him. The waiter poured her whiskey and soda, and murmured, with more respect, “It’s lamb curry tonight, mum. Will that suit?”
“Admirably, thank you.” She granted him a smile, and he vanished, leaving the door half open, and prudently leaving the bottle and soda siphon behind.
“I think you frightened him,” Peter said, as she took her first sip and allowed the whiskey to burn its way down her throat. His eyes twinkled with suppressed amusement.
“What, because of this?” She raised her glass. “I rarely indulge, actually, but it has been a long day, and I am not going to be poured a glass of ratafia as if I were your maiden aunt!”
“Still, whiskey? And before dinner? I fear you have convinced him I’ve brought in a suffragette, and next you will be pulling out a cigar to smoke!” Peter was having a hard time concealing his mirth. “You will have quite shattered my reputation with the staff by the time dinner is over!”
She gazed at him penetratingly, then shrugged. “I am a suffragette, though I may not march in parades and carry banners. Or smoke cigars. I fear you may have mistaken me if you think differently. I am not the sort of woman of whom Marie Corelli would approve.”
“I shouldn’t care to be seen in the company of the sort of woman of whom Marie Corelli would approve,” said a strange voice at the door. A tall, thin, bare-headed blond with the face of a merry aesthete and a nervous manner leaned against the doorframe. Maya would have ventured to guess that he was quite ten years younger than Peter Scott, and perhaps more than that, but he saluted her companion with the further words, “Well, Twin, I understand you were looking for me?”
Peter sprang up, his expression one of open pleasure. “Almsley! Yes, I was! This is the young doctor I spoke to you about—Doctor Maya Witherspoon, may I introduce to you my friend Lord Peter Almsley?”
Lord Peter came forward, his hand extended; Maya swiveled in her chair and accepted it. She half expected him to kiss it in the Continental manner, but he just gave it a firm shake, with a mock suggestion of clicking his heels together.
“Might one ask what you meant by slighting Miss Corelli?” she asked, as he dropped into one of the armchairs. She had the impression of a high-strung greyhound pausing only long enough to see if it was truly wanted. “Not that I’m any great admirer of her work.”
“Only that Miss Corelli has damned dull ideas of what women should do with their lives—which makes for damned dull women,” Lord Peter said cheerfully. “Shall I join you, or would you twain prefer to condemn me to the outer hells of the member’s dining room to eat my crust in woeful solitude?”
“Join us, by all means!” Peter Scott exclaimed, when Maya nodded her agreement. Maya had been disposed to like this man before she had ever met him. Scott had told her something of this young lordling, the most important fact of which was that he was another Water Master. Now that she’d seen him, she decided that he was worth knowing, and worth counting as a friend. And it occurred to her if she was going to have to lock horns in combat with Simon Parkening, it would be no bad thing to have someone with Lord Peter’s money, title, and influence behind her.
Peter Scott rang for the waiter a second time; the man appeared, left a third whiskey glass, took Almsley’s order, and vanished again.
“I assume it isn’t pleasure that urges you to seek the company of my Twin, here,” Almsley said, taking over the conversation with a natural arrogance that was both slightly irritating and very charming. “Not,” he added, “that the company of a woman who was likely to incur the frowns of Marie Corelli isn’t exactly what he needs in his life, but your expression leads me to think that this is not a mere social call.”
Peter Scott actually blushed; Maya refused to allow this enchanting young rascal to get any kind of a rise in temper out of her. She had the notion that he was inclined to prick people at first in order to see what they were made of. “Actually, that is correct, it is not precisely a social call,” she replied. “Though if it had not been for certain inferences on the part of my patient, I wouldn’t have thought of consulting him—but I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me explain.”
She began the short tale of Simon Parkening and Paul Jenner, pausing only when the waiter entered with their meals, and taking it up again as soon as he left. She made her story as detailed as possible, so that she only just finished as the meal did. The waiter came and cleared away the remains, lighting the lamps and the gas fire, and set up liqueurs on the sideboard before he left. Peter poured himself a brandy and Maya accepted a liqueur in lieu of dessert, but Almsley retired to the sofa under the open window, lounging there with a cigarette, while Maya and Peter sat by the fire in the armchairs. By this time, the sun had set, and the street noises outside had subsided. Almsley’s cigarette smoke drifted out the open window into the blue dusk.