Lord Stanton's Last Mistress. Lara Temple

of herself as she might, especially after being discovered huddled in that corner in her stockings. She flushed again at the memory and pushed it away. She had survived that meeting quite well, certainly better than anticipated. It was a relief that he made no connection between Miss James and his newspaper-reading nurse. And really, why should he? She had been negligible then and was negligible now.

      She glanced again in his direction. He stood with the King and Princess, his head bowed slightly towards Ari’s who was laughing at something he said, her silver-and-white fan clutched in her hands in a gesture Christina knew betokened excitement. They looked beautiful together, a perfect melding of north and south and at least outwardly it appeared the King might realise his ambition, but Christina couldn’t help being worried, and not merely because of the lingering damage to her own heart. Lord Stanton might be leagues beyond any of the men who came to pay court to Ari at Illiakos, but she didn’t know if he could make Ari happy. He might have changed, but she remembered bitterness and anger under the flirtatious charm five years ago that she doubted would have just disappeared. None of that was in evidence now, but there was something distant about him despite the charm of his smile and the appealing curiosity he had exhibited while talking with her in the library and which he was clearly exerting on Ari even now. Beyond that something else lay, but she had no idea what it was and it scared her a little.

      She drew herself up at that wholly ridiculous thought. He was merely an English diplomat whose only agenda was to secure a treaty with Illiakos. Fear had no place here.

      Lady Albinia gave a slight sigh and patted Christina’s arm as the butler entered to announce dinner.

      ‘Come along, child, we have a long evening ahead of us.’

      Christina followed her into the adjoining room. She was accustomed to splendour after years of the King insisting she accompany Ari to all state dinners, so when she entered the Stanton dining hall she was impressed, but not cowed. It could clearly accommodate several dozen people, but the central table had been shortened to fit their modest number and the elaborate silver epergne shaped like an eastern temple had been moved to a side table and replaced by a China bowl bursting with flowers. It was a peculiar touch amidst the sparkle of crystal and silver and gold-embossed dinnerware, both modest and lively. Christina thought the arrangement was not only tasteful but clever. It tied the group together in a warm intimacy and masked their antagonistic agendas.

      Lord Stanton was seated at one end of the table and the King at the other, flanked by the Austrian and Russian envoys. Christina noted this concession to the weaker parties as she took her seat between Ari, seated to Lord Stanton’s right, and the Russian Tsar’s envoy, Count Razumov.

      Again Christina felt her kinship with Lady Albinia. The older woman sat on Lord Stanton’s left, and as he listened to Ari’s happy chatter, she occupied herself with her food and a calm oversight of the servants who moved about, placing and removing covers with silent efficiency. Had Lady Albinia ever dreamt of being anything else but what she was? Of a family and home of her own? She had a pleasant face and she was not unintelligent. Had life just slipped past her while she tended her herbs and her brother’s family? She didn’t appear unhappy, but was that just resignation or true contentment?

      ‘...Miss James? Miss James!’

      Christina turned at the King’s peremptory use of her name. He was frowning and the envoys were staring at her in surprise and for one mad moment Christina wondered if she had committed some horrid social solecism, but could not for the life of her think of anything she had been doing other than meandering through her own less-than-optimistic thoughts.

      ‘The trade treaty with Naples, you remember, what year did we sign it?’

      Christina’s shoulders eased. The only social solecism was the King’s. Not that he cared it wasn’t acceptable to address anyone at the dinner table other than those directly seated by his sides.

      ‘Two years ago in May, your Majesty.’

      ‘Yes, that is right. Was that before or after I went to Rome?’

      ‘A month after your return, your Majesty.’

      ‘That’s right. That fellow came, the one with the big ears, what was his name, di Vicenti or something, yes?’

      ‘Signor di Vicenza, your Majesty.’ She angled her voice lower, but he merely grinned at her unspoken rebuke.

      ‘What have I said? He was very proud of his big ears, said they got that way from all those years keeping them to the ground.’

      Razumov and Von Haas laughed, and without thinking she turned towards Lord Stanton. He was smiling, but there was the same watchful look she noticed in the library and it struck her suddenly that by placing these three men side by side he was not making a gesture of goodwill but setting the stage to gauge their reactions to each other. He appeared relaxed, but she could see the echoes of the tension and intensity that had been so clear in the wounded man of six years ago.

      She looked down, her eyes snagging on his long fingers which were idly caressed the stem of his wine glass. With a spurt of alarm she realised she remembered his hands, even the feel of them on hers. They stopped suddenly and she raised her eyes, meeting his gaze. His eyes narrowed, the candlelight throwing gold shards in with the silver, but raising no warmth in them. Convention demanded she look away modestly and if she had been able to think she would have done so, but under his gaze she remembered just how seen she had felt, even under those veils. Seen by someone like her, vulnerable and in need, but holding his own need at bay with a ferocity she could never match. She remembered it perfectly—the knife-sharp intensity of his eyes, stripping away everything that kept her safe, forcing her to acknowledge that she had only one regret in her life and that it was that she had not grasped with both hands his impetuous offer that she join him six years ago. He would have regretted it—she was certain of that, and therefore so would she, but at least she would have had more to regret. It was too late, far too late, but it was still there, a slash in the very material of her life—deep and still bleeding.

      ‘You have spent many years on Illiakos, Miss James?’ The heavily accented question from the Russian envoy on her right startled her and she struggled to regain her composure.

      ‘I... Yes, your Excellency.’

      ‘Did the lovely Princess speak English before your arrival or does she owe her superb diction to you?’

      ‘She has a natural ear for music, which is useful for acquiring languages. Her French is just as flawless.’

      ‘Not only a lovely but talented young woman. King Darius is to be commended.’

      ‘Indeed. Your own English is flawless, your Excellency. Are you perhaps musical as well?’

      He smiled.

      ‘I was sent to an English school at a young age. As a younger son I was marked for a diplomatic life at birth.’

      ‘Ah.’

      ‘Yes, “ah”! I know the English quite well, which has proven useful over the years. They remind me of the Baltic Sea in winter—this perfect cover of ice, sparkling when the sun shines on it, that is your peoples’ dry wit, and underneath a chaos of currents that is the real moving force of everything. My father would take me fishing on the ice—the servants chop a hole through the deep cover and we cast our lines into the depths. I remember thinking as a boy that the water beneath looked like the twisting of souls in hell, viscous and luminescent.’

      Christina smiled at the descent into the darkly poetic, so typical of the Russians she had met in the King’s court. She could not determine if he was merely making conversation or in search of something. Whatever the case, she was grateful for the distraction.

      ‘That is a wondrous image, your Excellency, but I am not certain I find it complimentary to have my people compared to an ice-bound hellish chaos whose only redeeming feature is their dry wit.’

      His smile widened.

      ‘I say this with the greatest admiration, Miss James. The English capacity for self-restraint is legend. Take