Under the Jeweled Sky (17 page)

“Tea?” he shouted through the door. “We don't have time for tea! Just throw a dress on and hurry up about it.”

“Just give me a minute, would you?” She picked up her wristwatch from the bedside table. It took a moment for her eyes to register the time. “Oh
Lord!
”

Sophie was on her feet in seconds. She went quickly to the dressing table, sat at the stool and reached for her hairbrush before catching her reflection in the mirror. She could scarcely remember a time when she had looked such a fright, and cursed herself for having made such a schoolgirl error, accepting gin at eleven in the morning followed by wine with lunch, their glasses being topped up constantly by Vicky until she had absolutely no idea how much she had drunk. Tessa was obviously a hardened lush. Sophie would have to watch herself from now on. Lucien had every right to be furious with her. They had been here for less than a day, and already she had fallen at the first hurdle. Sophie grasped her brush and set about her hair determinedly with one hand while reaching for a lipstick with the other.

• • •

Lucien glanced anxiously out of the window as the car rushed rudely along the wide boulevards of New Delhi, the grand buildings floodlit beyond high walls and railings, the new city quite at odds with the chaos of the ancient parts and more reminiscent of a modern capital like Washington, DC. The driver thumped impatiently on the horn, clearing a path through the rickshaw
wallahs
and the wandering cows, who took little notice, before taking the final turn on to Rajpath. Rashtrapati Bhavan, the grand construction once known as Viceroy House, rose majestically out of the distance to greet them, set impressively on the crest of the hill, its vast dome dominating the vista, painting the very picture of imperial greatness.

They traveled in silence. Lucien hoped to God that this wasn't a sign of things to come. All Sophie had had to do was to supervise the unpacking and organize the servants. It was hardly a taxing task, and she would have had plenty of opportunity to rest and be ready in time. She knew damn well how important this kind of thing was, that they should make the very best impression on first presentation to the most senior members. Oh well. There was nothing to be gained in making a big thing out of it. It would only sour the evening. He turned to look at her. She was still upset. He could tell by the line of her mouth, pinched slightly at the corner as she concentrated her gaze out of the window. He shouldn't have shouted at her like that. It wasn't her fault that she had been pounced on the moment the car dropped her off. In fact, he should have predicted that something like that might happen. But where the hell had the servants been? Heads would have to roll. Lucien reached for Sophie's hand. He should have stayed with her rather than going straight to the embassy. Nobody would have minded, but he had been keen to make his presence felt as quickly as possible and to assert himself as a man who could travel all night and work all day without missing a beat.

“Sorry I was cross,” he whispered. Sophie turned to him, her face creased with disappointment. “Forgive me?”

“No,” she said. “It's me who's sorry. I can't believe I was so stupid.”

“You're not stupid. It was a perfectly natural situation to get yourself into, and you did absolutely the right thing in accepting her hospitality.”

“Now we're horribly late and it's all my fault.”

“Don't give it a second thought.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Nobody will have missed us, and even if they have, I'm sure we'll think of something to tell them. It's hardly a major international incident, is it, Mrs. Grainger?”

“No.” Sophie slid along the seat, pressing herself close to him. “But still, I should have known better. It was irresponsible of me.”

“Nonsense.” He winked at her mischievously. “You go ahead and be as irresponsible as you jolly well like.”

By the time they alighted and made their way up the enormous flight of steps, they were almost an hour late.

“Grainger!” A stout man with a sparse covering of white hair and a ruddy complexion made his way through the crowd to greet them. “We were all wondering where on earth you'd got to! You've missed the welcome speeches, which is no hardship. Same old, same old.”

“Do forgive us.” Lucien shook his hand warmly. “The driver took a wrong turn, and before we knew it, we were halfway to Timbuktu. Allow me to present my wife. Sophie?” He turned to her, all smiles. “Tony Hinchbrook, one of the seniors.”

“How do you do,” Sophie extended her hand.

“My dear Mrs. Grainger.” He placed a small suggestion of a kiss above her dress ring. “What an absolute vision you are.”

“Thank you.” She gave him her most charming smile, although he was clearly drunk and disguising it rather badly.

“I'd introduce you to my wife, but she seems to have disappeared into thin air.” He looked around halfheartedly. “She's probably with the rest of the DWs, huddled in a corner somewhere, plotting away. There's nothing quite like the scent of fresh blood to set tongues wagging.”

“I hope we won't be too bitter a disappointment,” Lucien said.

“I doubt that very much, Grainger.” Hinchbrook tapped his nose. “Let's just say your reputation precedes you.”

“And is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Who knows?” He smiled an impenetrable smile. “We shall just have to wait and see, won't we?”

A bearer arrived silently, offering flutes of champagne from a silver tray.

“Oh.” Sophie looked at it, then to her husband. “Do you think I might have a plain tonic water instead?” Lucien acted as though he had not heard her. Taking two glasses from the tray, he handed one to her.

“Is Appleton here yet?” he asked.

“Somewhere,” Tony Hinchbrook replied. “Although he's probably tied up with Gresham, one of our American colleagues. Everyone's a bit twitchy about the Kerala situation, especially the Yanks.”

At that moment a gong sounded, sending a deep, sonorous vibration through the reception hall.

“Too late,” Tony said. “Dinner is served. I hope you know where you're sitting.” He turned to Sophie, a twinkle in his eye. “People have been taken outside and shot for messing around with the seating plan.”

• • •

The banqueting hall opened up before them like a gilded cavern, the long table set with a hundred or more places, each laid with ruled precision, cutlery gleaming, glassware sparkling, vast candelabras shimmering dimly, setting the room aglow. Sophie held on to Lucien's arm and tried to ignore the way everyone seemed to be staring at them, whispers passing from lips to lips, heads turning, some openly looking her up and down. She remembered to smile and hoped it might give her an air of confidence. It was probably just as well that they had been late. If this was the DW's idea of making a newcomer feel welcome, heaven only knows what they would have done had they been able to give them a proper once-over at the reception. Probably asked her to open her mouth and checked her teeth.

“Grainger!” Lucien scanned the room at the sound of his name. “Over here!”

A tall, fair-haired man smiled broadly at them from the far end of the table, hand raised in recognition.

“Ah,” said Lucien. “That's Bevan. The man I was telling you about.”

“Of course,” said Sophie, hoping to gloss over the fact that she had absolutely no idea who Lucien was talking of. She had been bombarded with so many names that they had all blurred into one huge tangle. She didn't know who anybody was, or what they did, or who they were married to. She couldn't even remember the name of the man they had been speaking to just before the dinner gong sounded. Knowing her luck, she would probably end up seated next to him and would have to somehow avoid addressing him directly all evening.

“Bevan.” Lucien shook his hand. “My wife, Sophie.”

“How do you do,” Sophie said, trying to embed the name.

“James Bevan,” he said. “Jim.” Sophie nodded and shook his hand. “You must have had a long day.”

“Yes,” Sophie replied. “It has been rather.”

“Well don't let all this nonsense overwhelm you. It's just a bunch of friends having a spot of dinner, only much bigger and a lot less interesting.” He smiled at her and she couldn't help but notice how extraordinarily attractive he was. The name dropped into place. The man Tessa Wilde had mentioned to her that morning. “Grainger, you're over there.” He pointed to a particular seat. “Pole position, right next to the old man. He's obviously planning to bend your ear tonight.”

“Mrs. Grainger?” Sophie turned to find a heavyset woman loitering beside her. “Ros Appleton.” The woman extended a gloved hand. “David Appleton's wife. I've been looking out for you all evening.”

“How do you do,” Sophie said. “I'm afraid we got caught up in the traffic. Our driver took a wrong turn and—”

“You're along here with us.”

“Oh,” said Sophie, sliding her arm reluctantly from Lucien's.

“You really don't want to be stuck with the bigwigs when they start talking shop.”

Sophie glanced at Lucien, hoping for a swift rescue, but he was already occupied elsewhere, shaking hands with another man while the impossibly handsome Jim Bevan spoke earnestly in his ear.

“Come along!” She felt Rosamund Appleton's hand on her elbow, and before she knew it, she was being guided firmly away. “I've seated us with the Hinchbrooks and put you opposite General Hurst. British Army. He's visiting with his wife for a few days. Nice enough fellow, but rather frightful to look at, I'm afraid. Glass eye.”

• • •

Beneath the low drone of conversation from a hundred voices, Lucien took a moment to breathe in his surroundings: the fabulously ornate interior, the finery of the satin-gowned women and decorated men. This was what he had wanted all along, the reason he had joined the service. It could be a charmed existence for those talented enough to scale the heights, and now there was nothing to stop him from progressing just the way he had always intended. He smiled contentedly to himself and returned his undivided attention to David Appleton.

“You'll notice a few tight smiles hiding ruffled feathers,” Appleton said. “The general election didn't go quite to plan, but that's the Congress party for you. The Kerala situation has been a real boot in the backside. Nobody saw it coming. Perhaps if the Indians weren't so keen to get embroiled in silly personal squabbles, they might make better politicians.”

“What about Nehru?” Lucien asked. He had read everything he could get his hands on, of course, the piles of dispatches and classified documents, but it was always better to get a personal opinion directly from the horse's mouth.

“Nehru? Well, what would you expect? Tired, overworked, depressed. Who wouldn't be? He's a good man, no doubt about that, very charming too, but he's getting on now and I doubt he has the energy to assert himself as vigorously as he used to. Losing Kerala to the communists has been quite a blow, and it hasn't gone down at all well with the Americans.” Appleton puffed on his cigar. “But that's what happens when officials start feathering their own nests. The Indians, I mean, of course. They're all at it here. Corruption is rife, and not all voters are completely stupid, regardless of widely held attitudes to the contrary. At least Nehru had the good sense to publicly denounce the Congress party's faults, but what good is that without offering a viable alternative? The ordinary citizen of India doesn't care tuppence about politics. What he wants is food in his belly and a reliable water supply.”

“And how does all this affect us?”

“It doesn't,” David Appleton said with a relaxed smile. “It's none of our bloody business anymore, I'm very happy to say. There's no clear-cut long-term policy on anything, as far as most of us can make out. It would be downright laughable were it not such a delicate situation. Independence was different. Everybody wanted the same thing, but that was ten years ago. Now they're left with just one major political party who can't even agree on what to have for lunch.” He rolled the ash from his cigar thoughtfully. “Some of them are determined to see India built into a modern state with all the scientific and social benefits that come along with it, while the rest of them want it to remain a simple-minded nation of self-sufficient villages. And if central government can't sing the same tune, what hope for the rest of the country?”

“What about the socialists?”

“Oh, nobody's worried about them.” He sucked on his cigar. “They're a pretty feeble bunch. Nehru stole their political clothes long ago with his socialistic ideas for Indian society, so they haven't much to argue for, and not one of them has any flair for the practical side of politics. No, it's the communists who have everyone sitting up and taking notice. They're well organized and efficient, and they have plenty of money for campaigning, and we all know where that's coming from.”

“Russia?”

“Undoubtedly. And China. They're only too happy to fund the expansion of the communist agenda, although none of that's been officially verified, of course. That's what happens when you start shaking hands with the likes of Khrushchev and Bulganin. There are those among the Congress leaders who realize now that this was a very serious mistake. You would have thought that somebody might have had the good sense to think that one through, eh?”

“So what now?”

“Nothing.” Appleton shrugged. “The Congress leaders in Kerala can't even pull together a cohesive opposition. The communists are well and truly in, and I wouldn't like to hazard a guess as to how long it will take to get them out. You'll find a lot of that out here. Far too much hot air and not enough firm action. That's what this country needs. Strong, decisive leadership.”